(Note: This is a continuation of yesterday’s post.)
The waiting game begins. Remembering how Eduardo told us not to wear any metal jewelry in my first Temazcal, I remove my watch and necklace, stowing them safely away in my tent. I am anxious to begin. The fire burns hot, the pile of large rocks at its base seems to glow a slight orange.
After what seems like forever, I watch as Sylvia and her spiritual sisters crawl on hands and knees, disappearing into the small domed enclosure. Soon, Luiz walks over to the fire. Using a tool that looks like a cross between a pitchfork and a large claw, Luiz shifts and stirs the coals, removes a single glowing rock, and walks carefully toward the Temazcal. He calls out the words “Hot Rock” and someone inside grabs the pitchfork as it momentarily disappears through the tiny door. Seconds later, the pitchfork reappears, minus the rock.
Luiz repeats the process four more times, until a total of five scalding hot rocks have been sequestered inside the Temazcal. Next, a five gallon bucket of water is handed through the doorway, following which the olive-green canvas is lowered, completely covering the entrance.
After what feels like half an hour or longer, Luiz responds to a call from inside the Temazcal. I expect to see Luiz retrieve more rocks, or perhaps to see the women emerge—but neither of my expectations is correct. With my watch put away, I can only speculate, but I continue to watch for what feels like another two hours. After a while, I retrieve my Journal, utilizing the time to record thoughts and feelings. My imagination dances with speculation about the conversations taking place inside—the tears and the laughter as old friends reunite in soul-connecting celebration.
Then it happens. Several women emerge from the opening, I notice as others waiting around me rise to their feet, and my heart skips a beat or two.
“Am I ready for this?” I silently ask myself.
Glancing at someone nearby, I reverently ask, “Is it time for the rest of us to enter?”
She smiles and nods her head in a loving gesture, while mouthing the word “Yes.”
I line up in the middle of a large group, watching those in front of me lower to their knees. One by one we squeeze through the tiny opening. Veering to our left, we crawl in a clockwise direction, filling in all the empty spaces around the small dirt pit already containing five rocks that are now quite cool. I end up taking a position a little more than a third of the way around the circle, sitting cross-legged with my back rubbing against the wooden branches behind me.
As I adjust my legs, trying to find some comfort, others continue to crawl through the opening. With the outer circle already filled, we shift and squeeze, trying to make room for the others. I end up sitting on a small uneven root, one side of the ground being several inches higher than the other—several people form a small row in front of us, making it impossible to stretch out my legs.
“This is extremely uncomfortable!” I ponder silently. But then I remind myself, “A little discomfort and fear are not going to prevent me from enjoying this incredible opportunity … I can do this … my excitement and wonder are too great for me to back out now.”
Before the first rocks are brought in, Sylvia assures everyone. “This is not a test of suffering and pain.” She begins. “If at any time you need the door opened, or you need to leave, please say so.”
I hear Sylvia’s words, but silently commit to myself “I will not be the weak one that asks for relief.”
“Why oh why am I sometimes so damn stubborn and proud?” is my next quiet thought.
Soon, a pitchfork containing a hot rock is passed through the door, and Luiz, who is now on the inside, receives the handoff. Grabbing the pitchfork handle, he carefully turns it over, allowing the glowing rock to fall securely into an available spot in the center. I don’t count, but several more rocks are similarly brought in. After each rock is in place, one of the women opposite me rubs it with a piece of copal, causing a thick fragrant white smoke to be emitted.
Soon the canvas door is lowered and the cramped quarters are now empty of any light. I see nothing as black darkness envelopes me. Sylvia begins talking as I hear water sizzling on the rocks just a few away. Within seconds, I feel the hot steam on my face. Just a minute later, the heat is so intense that I am greatly relieved when a woman to my right asks for the door to be partially opened.
As light once again enters my awareness, the heat subsides slightly to a level that I can more easily tolerate. Gratitude floods through me, along with a sense of satisfaction that I was not the weak one.
Again, I ask myself “What is this pride all about?”
Partway through this first phase, the door is again closed, but the intense heat seems to be more tolerable; it is not quite as strong as it had been.
Soon it is time for phase two. First, the door is opened for a few minutes to allow for some cooling. Very soon, a new series of scalding rocks is brought in, one by one. This time, I notice that Abuelita is sprinkling some type of juniper twigs onto each rock as it is placed in the small pit. The dry leaves momentarily crackle and glow orange as they give off an intense unpleasant smoke—so pungent that my eyes hurt and I struggle for breath.
“Why is she doing that?” I ask myself. “Doesn’t she know how unpleasant that is for the rest of us?”
During this phase, the heat feels even stronger—so intense in fact that I have to lie down—placing my face as close to the cooler ground as possible. A sweet lady slightly in front and to my right asks, “Brenda, are you OK?”
“Yes, I am fine.” I reply weakly—not totally believing my own response.
Soon, I feel water sprinkling on me as this dear sweet lady repeatedly dips a small juniper branch into the five-gallon bucket of water and splashes it roughly on my head and shoulders.
“You don’t need to do that.” I think silently—while at the same time tears of gratitude began to form in my eyes as I feel her genuine love and concern.
Deep feelings of relief flow through my heart when I hear someone else ask for the door to be opened—again providing me some desperately needed rest from the intense heat.
“Surely, we are almost done in here.” I quietly wonder. “It feels like we have been in here for more than an hour. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
Soon, cups filled with refreshing water are being passed around, as someone hands them through the door from the outside. My ration of water rapidly disappears down my throat. As I notice others passing their cup back outside for more, I also follow suit, doing this as many times as I dare. After about five cups I decide I have had enough for now.
My heart sinks as more steaming rocks are passed through the door. I am not sure I can handle any more. This time I observe a grandfatherly type gentleman sprinkling dried juniper-like twigs onto the rocks. As the twigs crackle and glow orange I begin to realize that this is part of the ritual. During each phase, a different elder applies various herbs to the hot rocks, creating a fragrant smoke that seems to saturate every pour of my body.
Very soon I hear water sizzling on the rocks and the heat is almost immediately unbearable. As I jockey for position on the floor, I realize that most everyone around me is also lying down.
Repeatedly, I hear the softly spoken question, “Brenda, are you OK.” And I give the same weak answer, “Yes, I am OK.”
My little angel who is watching over my wellbeing continues to splash water on me from time to time. Tears of gratitude run down my cheeks each time I feel the water sprinkle on my head. Not wanting anyone else to see, I quickly wipe the tears away, blending them in with the sweat that is streaming everywhere.
My pride takes a back seat as I realized that I am drenched in sweat, squeezed in between three other people, two male and one female. Personal space seems to have no meaning here—we are all in this together—all here for each other.
Intense gratitude again flows through my veins as the door is finally opened. Phase three is finally over.
“Surely we don’t have time for phase four.” I silently cross my fingers and hope.
After a brief respite from the heat, more scalding hot stones are again placed in the center, the door again darkens, and the boiling steam again permeates everything around me. By now, I have surrendered and simply lay calmly on the ground.
“I have survived three rounds … I can make it one more.” I reassure myself.
This fourth phase seems to be lasting longer than the others. My entire attention is focused on breathing, relaxing, and being present with the experience. Somehow, there is no outside world—only here, right now. Gone are all thoughts about past and future. This present moment is all there is.
Quick Change
A feeling of desperate eagerness surges through my thoughts as the door opens for the final time. People to my left begin to crawl clockwise, one by one exiting through the tiny door. As my turn arrives, intense relief floods my senses as I feel the cool outside air gently grace my hot moist skin.
Standing up, I glance about me. The sun has almost disappeared; the skies are still light, but beginning to fade.
“How long were we in there?” I ponder with wonder. It must have been at least two hours—or even longer.
Looking back towards Regina’s home, I realize that a whole new group of people have arrived. Unfamiliar faces are standing around on the lawn, chatting and visiting. I recognize a few of them from Sunday.
I head straight for my tent, quickly closing the zipper behind me. My skirt and tank top are literally dripping—as wet as if I had jumped into a swimming pool. I remove them and dry myself with a small towel, quickly changing into my ankle-length white dress.
Grabbing a small hand mirror in my suitcase, I begin to slap on a quick application of eye liner, and lipstick. My nose, cheeks, and forehead glow a bright red—which I quickly cover with a few dabs of foundation and powder.
As I glance at the reflection of my hair, I realize I am staring at a lost cause. After a quick towel dry, I grab a brush and hurriedly remove all the tangles—then I simply straighten my bangs and brush my wet locks back behind my ears.
After a quick restroom break, I smile when a kind woman says “Wow, you look very pretty.”
My heart is so filled with love that I actually believe her—even though there is no doubt that I am in desperate need of a shower.
Realizing that time is very short, and the evening’s activities will soon begin, I rush across the street to the kitchen tree. I grab a small plastic bowl and Tina fills it up with a mystery soup. Not stopping to ask questions, I simply gobble down every bite.
All Night Celebration
My mind is filled with curiosity as I wonder about the all-night “Veloration” ceremony that is about to begin. As it turns out, I don’t have long to wait.
I quickly join a group of about seventy to eighty people that begins to assemble in a large circle around the Temazcal and fire pit area. A woman named Maria takes charge, leading us in the now familiar honoring of the four directions and four elements. Conch shells begin to sound loudly as the drums begin a steady rhythm.
With Sol and her wheelchair leading the way, the circle begins to unwind and follow her in single file. The young man in front of me reaches down and grabs one of a stack of buffalo-skin drums, and I quickly follow suit. I am eager to participate fully, and having a drum to play will help keep me awake and alert. I anticipate a long and tiring night.
For two blocks we march to the rumbling beat of drums and the penetrating call of conch shell horns. As we round the corner to the small church, I see another large tourist-class bus parked on the street. A group of thirteen women, dressed in white, are standing in a large circle on the church lawn. In front of each woman sits a large basked filled to the brim with unknown treasures, covered with colorful scarves.
Still beating on my drum, I follow the group into the tiny Catholic chapel. The structure has the look and feel of being several hundred years old. On each side of a narrow aisle are perhaps eight to ten rows of small benches, each barely wide enough to tightly squeeze in four people. The chapel soon fills up, with many people standing in the rear. I have a cramped seat about four rows back, up against the right wall.
Maria stands at the podium, makes a few opening remarks, and then asks sweet little Sol if she has anything to say. With her wheelchair parked in front of the chapel, Sol gives another heartfelt speech about her ancestors, and the importance of these spiritual traditions.
Bless her sweet heart, Sol seems to ramble on and on. I catch the loving smiles of Maria and Sylvia as I observe them showing their devoted respect to Sol.
Soon, the celebration begins. Taking turns, many different people lead us in a widely varying selection of Mexican folk songs, spiritual songs, fun songs, and serious songs. All the while, I join in with the solid and consistent boom, boom, booming of eight or ten loudly beating drums along with a variety of miscellaneous percussion instruments. Periodically, conch shells, and flutes join the loud mix. Still not having my watch, I have no idea how much time passes. Somehow, I realize that not having a watch makes the time factor seem less important.
During the singing, I watch as a series of ceremonies begins to unfold. I do not understand the symbolism of any of them, which simply adds to my wonder.
First, the thirteen women from outside file slowly into the chapel. One by one, each places their basket behind a large alter at the front of the church.
A while later, in the midst of the loud jubilant singing, Several woman walk to the front carrying many large bundles of long-stemmed red and white carnations.
In the meantime, I notice that lines are forming in the front as two spiritual leaders are performing energy cleansing ceremonies using their goblets filled with smoking copal incense. I soon place my drum on the bench and make my way to the front, eager to have my turn being ceremoniously bathed in the white sweet-smelling smoke.
While in front, I notice that a group of four or five women are seated with the hundreds of carnations, methodically cutting off the stems of each one.
The jubilant folk songs continue; the rhythmic beating becomes almost hypnotic. I can only assume that several hours have passed, but have no way to know for sure.
Antonio, standing in front, points at me and catches my eye, motioning for me to come up front. I try to motion to him “No, I have already been up there.”
He comes close, telling me “Brenda, you need to go up again.”
As I reach the podium, I kneel before a woman who blesses a red carnation, lovingly places it in my hand, and motions for me to add it to a pattern on the floor. Looking down, I see an elaborate swirl of red and white carnations carefully arranged on the floor.
“That is beautiful.” I think to myself, still not understanding the symbolism.
At what feels to be around 11:00 p.m., Maria introduces a few of the attendees and asks them to share a few words. The first is a spiritual leader from Teotihuacan—where I visited the incredible pyramids on Monday. He and a couple of others share a few brief remarks—most of which passes through the language centers of my brain as mere gibberish. As these speakers finish, and before the next songs begin, I notice Antonio and Maria whispering to each other. Antonio has a huge grin on his face as Maria approaches me.
“Brenda,” she begins, “we were wondering if you would speak to the group—perhaps share a few words about who you are, why you are here—and maybe share a spiritual experience or something.”
“No” I plead.
“Please, please, please.” She asks.
“No, no, no,” I respond. “I don’t speak Spanish well enough. I have nothing important to say.”
After a one minute exchange, Maria still begging me to speak, and me consistently insisting on ‘no’, Maria gives up and accepts my answer.
Sitting in silence, the internal conversation/debate begins.
“Why did you say no?” my heart demands. “You know you have to take this opportunity … you know that this is a chance to make more connections … and to strengthen your courage.”
“I can’t do that,” my head argues back. “I am an outsider, I don’t speak well, I have nothing to say, I will make a fool of myself.”
“Just do it.” My heart demands.
I finally realize that “If I don’t speak, I will miss an incredible growth opportunity … I have to do it … my heart will not let me do otherwise.”
Before I can approach Maria, the songs resume. Several times the crowd hushes to a whisper as beautiful Sol sings a few verses by herself.
Around 12:30 a.m., Maria introduces a short thirty minute break. “There are tamales and water in the next room.” She announces.
Walking up to Maria, with Sylvia listening, I hesitatingly tell her, “If you still want me to talk, I will do it.”
Both Sylvia and Maria smile in gratitude.
During the break, I walk back to Regina’s house to use the restroom. I am surprised to see that the small home has been turned into a religious shrine, with candles, incense, and flowers—and that there are fifteen or twenty people participating in their own separate ceremonies.
Before returning to the church, I retrieve my camera from my tent. All evening, I have observed many others snapping photos and capturing videos. Previously under the impression that taking photos would be inappropriate, I am now eager to preserve a few images of my own.
As the celebration of songs resumes, I wonder to myself if or when Maria will ask me up to speak. I begin to visualize a short speech, practicing what I will say, which verbs to use, and how to conjugate them.
The songs continue, the conch shells, flutes, rattles and drums play on. By now, many people are on their feet, swaying to the music in an effort to remain awake. I repeatedly catch myself beginning to drift off into dreamland—only to pull myself back to consciousness.
Finally, at around 2:30 a.m., Maria stands back in front of the group. A long ceremony has just ended—a ceremony in which people from the crowd took turns going up front and offering a short prayer. My ears perk up when I hear my name mentioned in a short introduction.
Holding my breath, I walk to the front of the chapel, climb three steps to the center of the stage area, and begin. In less then five minutes, putting my best Spanish forward, I introduce myself, telling them where I am from. Then I summarize the past couple years of my life, describing my spiritual journey and several key events that have guided me to end up in Mexico—including a brief mention of my powerful vivid dream in April. I continue by briefly describing how I met Eduardo in Cozumel, how he shared Regina’s story with me and encouraged me to attend tonight’s commemoration.
Finishing off my speech, I stand with my hands on my heart, looking lovingly into the crowd, thanking everyone from the bottom of my heart, sharing my deep love and gratitude, expressing my profound desire and wish that everyone in the world could be here to experience such incredible love, peace, and joy.
As I return to my seat, I am glowing with love. I have no idea how my words affect others, but the act of having said them is a deeply powerful event for me.
After making another mid-morning restroom break, I slip by my tent to grab my watch. I discover that the time is 3:00 a.m..
“How will I make it another three hours?” I ask myself, knowing that there is no way I am leaving the festivities now.
I begin to realize that wearing my watch feels like a curse. Watched minutes seem to tick by ever so slowly as I occasionally lay my head against the wall to rest. Sometimes my head jerks and I bounce back to a state of alertness. Standing up, I sway back and forth with the songs in an attempt to keep my sleepy body moving.
Around 4:00 a.m., the group from Regina’s house returns to join us, and the chapel is again full. Soon, I notice another ritual beginning to unfold.
The women in the front of the room begin to take the carnations from the floor, arranging and tying them to two separate eighteen inch long sticks. Carefully attaching the carnations in circles around the sticks, two cylindrical flower arrangements begin to take shape, each being perhaps six to eight inches in diameter. The finished products remind me of cylindrical sofa pillows.
Soon, the crowd of people begins to line up, and two native Americans, one male and one female, begin some type of energy cleansing ceremony using the cylindrical rod of flowers. Prayerfully and reverently, these two place the arrangements on the top of the head, the forehead, the back of the head, the neck, etc. Then the flowers are gently placed on the arms, hands, back, legs, ankles, just about everywhere—all with deep spiritual devotion.
As the line begins to thin, I take my place at the end—excited for my turn—eager to experience everything.
By the time 6:00 a.m. approaches, I am exhausted. If I never hear another drum beat, I will be happy. The sound of conch shells no longer sends delightful energy through my spine.
My body desperately wants to sleep.
My head is stuck in analysis mode, trying to figure out the various ceremonies.
My heart is alive, radiating with love and joy.
While I may not fully relate to the actual ceremonies themselves, I am one with the deep love, devotion, and spiritual union of these incredible people. As I look around the room, I see God everywhere, in every set of beautiful eyes. Every song and dance, every joyful glance, fills my heart with richly overflowing peace and love.
At precisely 6:00 a.m., thirteen ladies return to the front of the church, retrieving their beautifully decorated baskets. We all line up and begin to leave the church, still singing, beating drums, and blowing on conch shells. After a two-block dance back to Regina’s home, we circle around the large camp fire, the same one used for the Temazcal, a fire which has burned brightly all night long. For the next ninety minutes the songs and dancing continue as we repeatedly circle around the fire, eagerly awaiting the sunrise.
Gradually the skies begin to glow, the stars begin to fade. Finally, as the last twinkling stars disappear into the ever brightening heavens, the singing comes to an end and people begin to scatter.
As I reflect on this beautiful experience, my thoughts are drawn to a quote that my dear friend Trish sent to me early last week.
“The Divine in You is the Divine in Me.
…is the Divine in him.
…is the Divine in her
We are All One.”
-Archangel Michael
Sleepy Goodbyes
According to the emailed agenda, our activities are over. It is 7:30 a.m. on Friday, October 2nd—forty one years to the day since Regina was killed in the Plaza De Las Tres Culturas at Tlatelolco. Something tells me that many people will continue to hang around Regina’s home—visiting, packing, and cleaning for hours to come—but I am eager to return to my hotel in Mexico City.
After quickly packing up my sleeping bag and air mattress, I grab them in my arms and seek out Sylvia. “I want to give these to you so people can use them in future years.” I tell her.
Then I give her a huge embrace, thanking her from the bottom of my heart for welcoming me so lovingly into her beautiful community. Our hug endures for more than a minute. Neither of us wants to let go.
“Dear sweet Brenda, you are welcome at any and all of our activities.” She lovingly responds. As I look into her eyes, I feel as if I can see deeply into her soul.
I set out in search of my friend “Pera”—the one who brought the second bus from Monterey. I discover her and some friends doing one last circle ceremony in front of the church.
“Do you think you could drop me off near a subway station in Mexico City?” I ask. Twenty minutes later, I am comfortably seated at the rear of her bus as we pull out of Regina’s beautiful little village. Only minutes later, the gentle vibration of the bus has me falling into a near-zombie state.
Around 11:00 a.m., as we drive through the eastern edge of Mexico City, the driver pulls over and Pera calls out to me “Brenda, this is your stop.”
After a quick goodbye hug, I soon find myself winding on foot through a maze of streets, asking everyone I encounter for help in finding the subway station. Ten minutes later I succeed, walking at last into a tunnel below.
After checking in at my hotel and grabbing some lunch, I settle in for a four hour nap. Then, after another quick dinner break, I again retire for an additional twelve hours. In no uncertain terms, my body lets me know that “Now is the time for some rest.”
Around 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I drag my tired bones out of bed and begin my morning race—shower, packing, breakfast, and checking out of my hotel. At 8:30 a.m., I walk one last time to the Zocalo, briefly saying goodbye to the plaza, the Catedral, and the Palacio Nacional, before disappearing into the tunnels below.
Thirty minutes and four train connections later, I exit my subway station feeling quite proud of myself. Eight days earlier, I paid ten dollars for a cab ride from the airport to my hotel. Today, I paid only sixteen cents to get back to the airport. What a difference a week, a little experience, and a tremendous boost of confidence can make.
Well, actually, make that thirty-two cents. I get off the subway station through the wrong exit. With a lot of walking and a little help from strangers, I learn that I have to go back into the subway and pay another sixteen cent fare to cross under the street. I guess I am still learning.
Oops. Once I reach the airport, I walk several hundred yards only to find out that I am in ‘Terminal 1’ and my plane leaves from ‘Terminal 2’. After forty-five minutes of sweating, walking, and a free bus ride, I finally arrive at the correct terminal.
But hey, I still manage to connect with my flight having plenty of time to spare. Even still, I think perhaps next time I might take a cab.
The Adventure Continues
Ten or fifteen minutes after takeoff, I glance out to the valleys below—only to be blown away with an unexpected treat. There out my window, is a spectacular aerial view of the two 17,000 foot volcanoes. For fifteen minutes I absorb every possible angle—first looking from the northwest, then from due north, then from the northeast.
“What a spectacular ending to a beautiful growth-filled trip.” I think to myself.
My plane lands in Cancun at 1:00 p.m., two hours before the time I had mistakenly given to Rafael. Deciding not to stress Rafael, I take time for a delightful lunch before beginning some writing on my laptop.
I call Rafael at 2:15 p.m. to let him know I am on the ground. He is running late. “I’ll call you when I leave Playa Del Carmen.” He says.
A couple of calls later, Rafael finally picks me up at 4:30 p.m.. Not feeling inconvenienced in the least, I use the extra time to begin writing about my adventures; the words freely flow.
As I finally climb into Rafael’s car, I look back and notice that his beautiful son is sound asleep in the back seat.
“I think we have time to go talk to my Maestro (Teacher) before class starts if you want to do that.” Rafael tells me.
Eagerly, I reply, “Yes, I would love to.”
Soon, Rafael parks in front of the now-familiar home. “Just a minute,” Rafael begins, “I will go ask if he has time to talk.”
A few minutes later, Rafael, his son, and I are seated in plastic lawn chair’s in the Maestro’s classroom area, waiting for him to join us for some personal discussion.
A certain part of me is hoping to ask questions, asking Rafael’s Maestro if he has any spiritual insights or messages for me, especially after he told Rafael two weeks ago that I have an important mission to fulfill in the world. However, a little feeling inside says, “Just listen to what this man has to say … let the conversation unfold as it will.”
The conversation begins with Rafael and his Maestro making small talk, but soon Rafael puts the focus onto me. Without asking if I have any questions, the Maestro begins sharing his spiritual teachings with me. Everything he shares resonates deeply with my own soul. It is as if he is teaching me principals from “A Course In Miracles”—only with slightly different packaging.
Periodically, I glance at Rafael, asking him to translate—but for the most part I directly understand the majority of what the Maestro says. Frequently, I acknowledge to the Maestro that I deeply believe his teachings—that the truth he speaks sings to my own soul.
The question and answer phase never happens. Something interrupts us, the Maestro has other preparations to make, and soon, Rafael, his son, and I zoom off for a quick bite to eat before the evening class and meditation is scheduled to begin.
Unexpected Disclosure
As the evening activities begin, Maestro’s lesson unfolds beautifully. He talks about how each one of us is divine. As direct creations of God, we ourselves are Gods—only we have forgotten that fact. Our task here on this earth is to wake up and remember who we really are.
Halfway through the lesson, the Maestro drops a bombshell.
“Next week will be our last class.” Maestro begins. “I feel called to go off on my own journey, following my own personal path of spiritual growth. I do not know when I will be back. It may be a month or two; it may be a year or longer. When the time is right I will return. When I am ready, I will contact you to resume classes.”
I glance over at Rafael. A sad, depressed look consumes his countenance. Rafael has been coming every week for four years. He has a deep passionate love for this man, his weekly classes, and his meditation ceremonies.
A feeling of rich peace consumes me. I know in my heart that Rafael will be all right. These types of growth experiences, while they often come as a shock, bring incredible opportunities as they open our minds to new experience, new growth, and new possibilities.
As we enter our meditation period, I am overwhelmed with incredible peace and relaxation. Forty minutes seems like five, and the meditation begins to wind down—it is too short—I don’t want it to end. Even as the Maestro resumes talking, my eyes remain shut—my heart longs to stay in this state of peaceful rest.
A Glimpse Of The Past
Pardon the interruption here, but I need to interject an experience from eighteen months ago. It was my birthday in March of 2008. I was back in Utah, buried in the task of writing a book about my life story. As I dug through old memory vaults of the past, attempting to resurrect emotions long since forgotten, the difficult burden weighed heavily on my soul.
A series of seeming “coincidences” led me to schedule an appointment with a lady named Trish. From what I heard, she was very clairvoyant, very connected to the loving energies of the universe.
“What can it hurt?” I told myself. I was slightly skeptical, but my little internal Jedi Master voices pushed me forward.
The experience was profound—life changing. Somehow, everything she shared with me resonated deeply with my soul, as if she were my own personal guide—and her hints and clues to my future have been incredibly accurate, amazingly so.
I have returned to visit with Trish several times, and have never been disappointed. Feeling a tight bond, we have since become friends. In some ways, my path today is a direct result of her helping me find the courage to listen to my own heart—to tune in more closely to my own personal spiritual guides—the ones that speak to me from within.
One experience from that first visit with Trish stands out today. Three months had passed since I first came to meet Rafael. My heart had never ceased feeling a strong instinctual pull to return to Cozumel—to meet Rafael’s Medicine Man—but circumstances did not seem to be working out. Rafael was not answering my emails, and I was buried in homework, writing, and preparing to enter my one-year internship.
“Will I ever get the chance to return to Cozumel and meet this Medicine Man?” I asked Trish. I expressed a fear that Rafael would move before I could find him.
“Yes, I think it is still going to happen,” she began, “but first you need to practice personally connecting with the universe at a much deeper level. It may not happen for many months but I definitely feel the opportunity occurring should you choose to follow that path. When the time is right, you will know it.”
After asking me if I knew the Medicine Man’s name, with me answering ‘No’, Trish continued: “I can feel him. He feels like he sits in the mountains … and I’m not talking mountains like these (Utah) … I’m talking like Andes mountains.”
When I pointed out to Trish that Cozumel is flat and low, she insisted “I can see the water, and then all of a sudden he is sitting right on top of a humongous mountain … he is definitely an enlightened being … lets just suffice it at that.”
An Amazing Ending
Rafael leans over and asks if I am OK with staying a little longer. Then everyone sits in silence while I observe one young man who is sitting right next to Rafael begin to write furiously in his notebook. He writes nonstop, as fast as he possibly can—single spaced, cursive writing, filling perhaps twelve notebook pages from top to bottom.
Rafael later tells me on the way home that every week, after the meditation, this young man, who happens to be the Maestro’s son, channels a message which is then scribed and read to the group.
Finally, as this handsome young man puts down his pen, he picks up a tape recorder and begins to read the words that have flowed through his pen.
As he speaks them, the vast majority of this young man’s words escape my language understanding—but two things jump clearly into my consciousness.
The first thing is that this young man’s channeled message repeatedly refers to his Teacher by the name “Maestro Hercules.”
The second thing causes my heart to skip a few beats, sending shivers through my entire body—shivers that confirm a powerful and personal message to my soul. The feeling is one of “strong heart knowing”—a feeling with which I am intimately familiar.
Four or five times, toward the end of his reading, the young man’s words repeat messages with phrases such as “Maestro Hercules sits on the top of mountains” and “Maestro Hercules resides on the top of very tall mountains.”
My mind flashes back to my long-ago conversations with Trish—puzzling conversations that suddenly make powerful sense. My heart tells me that this is the universe’s unique way of reinforcing my own personal journey—letting me know that yes, I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am indeed supposed to be doing—and yes, this man is indeed very enlightened.
Then another unexpected statement comes from the Maestro’s lips. “I am feeling a strong prompting that TONIGHT, not next week, is our last class. There will be no class next week.”
Rafael soon stands up and announces to the group that the three of us need to be going.
Meanwhile, for over twenty minutes I have been participating in a silent internal debate of “Should I still ask the Maestro if he has any personal messages for me?”
My head keeps saying “Yes, ask him … you know you want to.”
My heart repeatedly counters with “No—at this point, all of the wisdom and inspiration I need will flow directly through me—I do not need to ask him.”
I choose to listen to my heart as I approach the Maestro. Putting my arms on his shoulders, I look in his eyes and tell him, “It has been a great pleasure. Thank you from the depths of my heart for the opportunity to meet you.”
Next, I give him a huge bear hug—and he hugs back just as tightly. After hanging on for over thirty seconds, we simultaneously release our arms, I again look in his eyes, and see the hint of a few budding tears.
Later, as we drive away, Rafael comments, “Wow Brenda, he really connected with you as you were saying goodbye.”
All the way back to Playa Del Carmen, conversation with Rafael is beautiful, vibrant, and deeply spiritual. We discuss feelings, insights, meditation experiences, and yes, of course we talk about the Maestro and what happened tonight.
As we pull into Playa Del Carmen, we are already fifteen minutes past the time when the final ferry leaves for Cozumel. At my request, Rafael drops me off at a local inexpensive hotel where I spend a quiet night in peaceful reflection.
Gratitude fills my heart as I ponder the evening’s events. For almost twenty-two months, my heart has yearned for the opportunity to return to Cozumel—to meet this spiritual man.
If I had reconnected with Rafael even two weeks sooner, I would most likely have missed connecting with Eduardo—in turn missing out on my incredible adventure to Mexico City.
If I had found Rafael just two weeks later, I would have missed the opportunity to meet the Medicine Man—Rafael’s Maestro.
Coincidence? I think not. To me, it feels like divinely inspired perfect timing.
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved