(This is the fifth installment of a series of posts describing my experiences of this past week. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
After some brief, but quite restful sleep, I awake very early on Saturday morning. Using my little flashlight, the same flashlight that I bought near Mexico City, I quietly check my watch so as not to disturb the others. When I realize it is only 4:00 a.m., I make an effort to return to dreamland, but the little doubts and fears that were hiding in the shadows are now beginning to grapple for my attention once again.
While in this fear-filled space I begin to mentally and physically re-live the trauma of the prior evening. My body tenses up, and I feel my heart begin to race as I observe my rapid breathing. Peace of mind can be such a fleeting goal when I allow fear to sink its teeth into my soul.
With intense focus, I immerse myself in meditation, reminding myself of the difference between pain and suffering. In my mind, I replay José Manuel’s words telling me that I will be OK. I focus on my breath, consciously breathing in and out, slowly and deeply. While concentrating on deep loving thoughts and feelings, I remind myself that everything happens for a reason, reassuring my heart that beautiful growth will come from this experience. I also remind myself that this mortal body does not define who I really am.
“Attitude and perception are everything.” I ponder silently. “The physical damage to my body is already inflicted. It is a fact that I have a potentially painful and tedious healing process ahead of me, but I need not approach it with an attitude of suffering. I can pass through this journey with a peaceful attitude of unconditional love.”
Still afraid to remove the bandage to take a look, I reach down and gently place my fingers over the area where the burn took place just twelve short hours earlier. The area is bouncy and squishy. Immediately I feel great relief as I realize that a huge blister covers the area of my burn. The presence of such a blister comforts me as I realize that my wounds may not be as severe as I had worried. Yet I am still queasy about the thought of looking under the bandages. No, I am not quite ready yet for that visual trauma.
By the time my alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m., I have successfully re-centered myself in a beautiful, calm, energetic, confident, and peaceful state. Surrendering to the promptings in my heart, I go against all common-sense logic and decide that yes, today I will go to Chichen Itza with the group, I will carefully march through the ruins dressed in white, and maybe, just maybe, I will even be blessed by some personal time with Bartolomé.
Carefully I slide my feet out of bed into my waiting flip-flops below. These soft, squishy Crocs are very comfortable. I can stand and walk on them without putting any direct stress onto my skin around the burn area. As I take a few practice steps, I realize that if I walk with a slight limp, putting my weight on the front and outside edge of my foot, I can easily move around without pressuring the blister in any way.
For the fourth day in a row, I slip into my sweetly scented white dress, which is now close to being able to stand up all by itself. A few minutes later, Osiri, Antonia, and I are walking down the dirt path headed toward the Cocina Maya. Experiencing only minimal pain, I am very encouraged by my ability to walk. My heart peacefully cheers me on, continually letting me know that I am doing the right thing.
As I sit down for a few bites of polcanes for breakfast, many people who I do not even know come up to express their deep love as they ask how I am feeling this morning. I sense a much deeper connection forming with everyone else in our group. For a few moments I reflect on the many warm hugs I received last night right before Antonia helped me walk to the bicycle taxi. Several woman, I’m not even sure who they were, had come up to me and wrapped their arms tightly around me, hanging on for minutes, telling me over and over again just how much they loved me.
Yes, even if no other treasures manifest themselves, these deep loving connections are treasure enough for me.
Chichen Itza
There are fifteen in our group that need outside transportation, and for the low cost of one hundred pesos ($8 US) each, Jesus Fabian has conveniently arranged for a single fifteen passenger taxi/van to shuttle us for the day. As twelve people seem to completely fill up the van, the taxi driver protests and insists that it is indeed a fifteen passenger van. One extra person must squeeze onto each bench seat. Because of my foot, Antonia insists that I ride in the passenger window seat up front—which is not all that comfortable when two other small women climb up and squeeze in between me and the driver.
But hey, it was only an hour and fifteen minute ride to Chichen Itza, and I was quite grateful to have transportation, especially for only $4 US each way.
I am pleasantly amazed when we arrive at Chichen Itza ten minutes ahead of schedule. We have plans to meet Bartolomé at 9:00 a.m. in the parking lot by the main entrance. While standing around near the entrance gates, Antonia approaches Bartolomé, tells him about my foot, and asks if he might be able to look at it today.
“Yes,” he replies, “later … after we are done here.”
Bartolomé then nods his head from side to side, indicating his disapproval as he continues, “They should never have used heat to remove your tick, because heat increases the risk of the tick spreading its toxins.”
I do not fully understand everything Bartolomé says, but I do comprehend enough for my stomach to crinkle up in a knot once again, momentarily releasing my imagination to run wild, sending a jolt of short-term panic through my mind.
“Is he saying the tick was poisonous, and that the heat made the poison worse?” I silently ask myself. I don’t quite know how to word the question, and am not sure that I want to know the answer anyway. However, the thought lingers in my mind throughout the day.
Subsequent internet research confirms Bartolomé’s words. Heat actually encourages the tick to regurgitate its stomach contents into the skin prior to removal, greatly increasing the risk of spreading germs and tick-carried diseases. The preferred method is to remove the tick using tweezers carefully placed between the head and the skin.
A few minutes later, after having a short conversation with Antonia, I manage to re-center myself into a peaceful and loving state of mind, realizing that if there were serious cause for concern, Bartolomé would have said so.
By the time we actually enter the ruins at 9:45 a.m., our group has grown to the impressive size of almost one hundred people, mostly (but not all) dressed at least partially in white.
As we begin our silent walk through what is considered by many to be one of the seven wonders of the world, excited anticipation radiates from my heart. Many tourists pause to take photos of our group as we reverently walk by in single file.
As we continue forward, the incredible Temple of Kukulkan (the Mayan name for Quetzalcoatl) comes into view. Many people call this same structure by the name “El Castillo”. This huge and famous pyramid dominates the surrounding area of Chichen Itza, which was at the peak of prominence between 600-1000 AD.
As in Ek’Balam, we are not on a traditional guided tour for tourists. Bartolomé walks right past most of the prominent structures as we continue to follow in his footsteps. Soon we stop and gather around an old square column with seven levels of carvings that wrap around on all four sides. At considerable length, Bartolomé discusses the deep meaning and symbolism of the carvings on this towering rock. I only wish I understood him better.
We continue this pattern of occasionally stopping as Bartolomé delves into the spiritual meanings of several structures, pointing out the abundant numerology involved in the numbers of columns, and the number of rocks used to create a column, etc…
Our three hour caminata—much of which takes place under a blazing hot sun—is fascinating and energizing. As I hobble along, being careful to protect the inside edges of my left foot, I am amazed by how much strength I have, and how little pain I feel.
Soon we pause in front of the great Temple of Kukulkan. After Bartolomé declares our walk to be complete, we stand in the energy of this towering pyramid, taking advantage of one last photo opportunity.
Needle Therapy
We have moved to the grounds of a beautiful old hotel, a few kilometers away, near the borders of Old Chichen—an area where tourists have not been allowed for many years. Bartolomé knows these people, and has arranged for us to meet in the nearby woods—just a few hundred yards down a path that leads into the wilds of the jungle.
After an hour and a half lunch break, as we are preparing to begin our walk into the woods, I make eye contact with Antonia and ask, “Do you understand when Bartolomé plans to look at my foot?”
She boldly walks right up to him and asks. Bartolomé turns, looks lovingly at me, and says “Yes, we can take a quick look right now.”
Uneasy anticipation flutters through my consciousness as I sit down on a low wall, grab my camera, and begin to gradually unwind the dirty elastic bandage. This is the first time that I (or anyone else) will see the burn since last night, and I am filled with butterflies regarding what I am about to see.
Sweet little Sergio comes over and holds my hand throughout the entire process. I squeeze his hand tightly, feeling a deep sense of gratitude for his powerful loving gesture.
As the last piece of elastic bandage is unwound, I see a huge blister, more than two inches across, sticking out at least an inch away from my skin. The blister is filled with dark cloudy yellow fluid. A portion of Sergio’s white cream has hardened and loosely sits on top of the blister. The most surprising thing I see is the large almond-like nut sitting on top of my foot. I had not actually been aware of its presence before this moment.
As I look into Bartolomé’s eyes, I see a look of concern.
“The yellow water must be let out,” he begins, “It is infected from the toxins of the tick, and we should get it out right now.”
In the background I hear a young child say “Eeeeuuuuwww.” I look up and realize that I have an audience of about thirty people, standing around observing and snapping photos. I jokingly comment that they have all become tourists and I am now the spectacle.
Bartolomé asks someone for a cigarette lighter and then queries if anyone has a needle. Antonia disappears into the hotel, asks for help from the staff, and quickly returns with a long shiny sewing needle.
After using the flame to carefully sterilize the needle, Bartolomé gently begins. As he pokes the needle into one side of the blister, a tiny stream of yellow fluid squirts out into a clump of Kleenex held in Bartolomé’s hand. Almost immediately however, the fluid stops flowing. Again and again he pokes the blister in the same place, carefully coaxing all of the fluids to drain while maintaining the integrity of my now very white and wrinkled skin.
As Bartolomé drains my blister, the logical side of me is slightly concerned as to whether or not this is the proper thing to be doing—yet my feelings peacefully encourage me to submit to Bartolomé’s treatment. I feel deeply grateful for the opportunity of having a prominent Mayan Shaman personally perform such a loving and compassionate service.
A part of me even smiles as I think, “Hey, how many people can say that a Mayan Shaman has lanced a huge blister on their foot?”
Subsequent research confirms that draining infected fluids is indeed the medically correct treatment—Bartolomé was right on both counts.
Once the messy task is complete, Bartolomé indicates that it is time to re-bandage the wound. Having no clean compresses of any kind, I pile a stack of clean white Kleenex over the blister and carefully re-wrap the ace bandage around my foot.
“That will simply have to suffice.” I tell myself, knowing that tomorrow I can seek out more appropriate bandages.
Before beginning our walk into the jungle, I ask Bartolomé what I should do next with my foot.
“You will be OK,” he confidently reassures me, “but you should see a Doctor to care for your skin.”
This is exactly what I hoped he would say. I too feel a deep sense of confidence that I will indeed be OK, but I recognize that the damage to my skin is definitely serious enough to seek medical assistance.
Dancing With Energy
A sacred young Ceiba (sable) tree stands in a beautiful jungle clearing surrounded by a ring of rocks. The green trunk, perhaps four inches in diameter, is covered by sharp thorns, looking very much like the thorns of a large rose bush. The tree’s canopy of leaves towers some fifteen to twenty feet above.
Gloria is busy multitasking, switching her attention between the hot coals of the salmador that she just lit, and the task of building a small alter around the base of this sacred tree. The same two dancers from yesterday are behind some bushes putting on their dance costumes. Sixty or seventy people are gathered in a large circular area, waiting for the festivities to begin.
Carlos, Tina, and Rosa (Eduardo’s friends from Playa Del Carmen) are here. We exchanged huge hugs earlier in the day when we first reconnected. The reunion feels like a rejoining of old friends, even though we just met barely two weeks ago.
As I sit on some plastic bags that I brought with me in my backpack, I have absolutely no intentions to dance—but of course I need to live in the moment, and who can predict what the next moment will bring.
Gloria finishes adding copal to her salmador, and begins making her rounds. When she comes close to me, I stand up and ask her to bless my foot with her sacred incense. With Antonia’s help, I stand on one foot, holding my left foot out in front of me while Gloria skillfully moves the salmador in circles under and around my foot.
Soon, Bartolomé stands and begins speaking. Not far into his speech, he looks in my direction and says a few unexpected words about me.
“We have a sister in our midst who is suffering from a severe burn,” he begins.
After a few more sentences, which sounded beautiful, but which I do not totally understand, Bartolomé concludes with (referring to me), “… and this experience is a great test of her ability to love.”
“What a beautiful thing for him to say!” I ponder as I glow with love inside. “He is so right on. Everything about this experience has been an incredible lesson in learning to love everyone and everything.”
As Bartolomé shifts to other topics, I feel deeply honored by this spiritually devoted man’s thoughtful inspired words.
Soon the conch shells begin sounding as we once again do our customary honoring of the compass directions. Then the drums and flutes join in and we are off to the dances. Ten minutes later I am on me feet, gently and slowly moving with the music. I make no effort to keep up with the aggressive dance steps, but nevertheless, I am baby-stepping, feeling the energy of the experience just the same. I do not sit down for the rest of the evening. The energy of standing and moving is far too addictive.
Every time I look to the right, I unfailingly make eye contact with a beautiful woman named Laura. I don’t have a clue as to the nature of this synchronistic connection between us, but each time our eyes meet we both break into a huge joyful grin, filled with an undeniable bond of unconditional love. We continue to make frequent glances in each other’s direction, and every single time, without fail, we break out in huge contagious smiles.
My heart swells with joy and love. After nearly ninety minutes of energetic movement, the ceremony and ritual quickly become our focus again as Bartolomé grabs a large bundle of leaves, moistens them in a bowl, and begins to bless some of the musicians. As he begins, several others line up on the ground in a semicircle, awaiting their turn to be blessed. Not wanting to be left out, I hobble over to the end of the semicircle with my little hand rattle and kneel down on the ground.
Soon, Bartolomé is splashing the wet leaves on my head and shoulders. Then he repeatedly does the same with the small hand rattle that is cradled in my upturned palms. As he moves on, I return to my feet, feeling deeply honored to have a small instrument that has been blessed by a Shaman.
Bartolomé continues until everyone in the group has been blessed. Then he branches out and circles the entire area around us, continuing to moisten his leaves and splash the drops in an area more than one hundred feet in diameter.
As Bartolomé completes his task, he returns to the circle, speaks a few more loving words of wisdom, and then pronounces the evening ceremony as being complete. By now, darkness is setting in, but no one seems to be worried.
I join a line of people who are taking turns thanking and hugging Bartolomé. When my opportunity arrives, I grab his hand, give him a warm hug, and then begin speaking.
“I want to thank you with all my heart,” I begin, “for everything you have taught us this week. I am filled with gratitude and love for all the time you have spent with us, for everything you have done for us, and especially for the help you have given me.”
I am not especially pleased with my words. I want to say so much more, but my language deficiencies limit my choice of vocabulary.
Not expecting him to say much back to me, I am surprised when he speaks for almost a minute. How I wish I could record his words. While I do not fully understand everything he says, I am deeply aware that he is giving me a special blessing, as well as telling me what a strong and loving woman that I am.
I give him one more grateful hug, before moving on to my next task—finding Antonia in the darkness and resuming our homeward trek.
We are back at the Cocina Maya by around 8:30 p.m., and a bowl of Escobeche chicken never tasted so good.
And Then There Were Four
As Antonia and I stroll back to our cabin, I have every intention of taking a much needed shower and then going to bed as quickly as possible. I desperately needed a shower last night, but did not dare get my bandages wet. Tonight, the water is warm, soothing, relaxing, and energizing.
After putting on my pajamas, I crawl on top my bed and pull down the walls of my mosquito net—but my body is not ready to sleep.
Over and over again, I put the netting back up so that I can have another short conversation with Antonia.
“Brenda, did Gloria talk to you about her room?” Antonia asks.
“Yes,” I respond, “She talked to me earlier today. I told her that I would love for her to join us.”
Gloria, who is all alone in her cabin next door, had cornered me earlier in the day to see how I would feel about her sleeping with us. I am thrilled to have such a loving woman join with us in our humble cabin.
Then the conversation takes a different twist.
“Why do you call people ‘Abuela and Abuelo’ (grandmother and grandfather)?” I ask Antonia. “Does the title simply mean they have grandchildren, or does it mean something more, something different?”
I soon learn that these terms are a title of position and respect within their spiritual traditions. It has nothing to do with the fact that they may or may not have grandchildren.
I reply to Antonia that in English, the Native Americans refer to their respected leaders as “Elders.”
“You mean like the Elders in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints?” She asks.
“No,” I giggle, “that is the same word, but means something totally different.”
Then I begin to ask her about various people to whom I have become close over the course of the week. It is during this conversation that I learn that Abuelo José Manuel is an Olmec Shaman, that Abuelo Delfino is a Zapotec healer, and that Gloria is an Abuela from the Aztec traditions.
I am fascinated by the conversation. I am learning so much. Soon Osiri knocks on the door. After he enters, we start talking about Mayan and Aztec calendars. He says that Gloria will be here soon, and she is going to look up our birthday/birth year in the Aztec calendar.
One thing leads to another as Gloria soon joins us. As she starts with Osiri, I am shocked to learn that he is 27 years old (exactly half my age), and shares my same exact birthday, March 10. My intuition sees this as more than a powerful synchronicity.
Next, Gloria gather’s my personal information, does her magic with her little calendar tools, and begins to tell me about myself. I am fascinated, but exhausted. Our giggling and nonstop talking has taken us till 1:00 a.m., and my body is crying out for some sleep.
While the other three continue quietly talking, I excuse myself, pull down the mosquito nets one last time, and am soon dancing with my dreams.
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved