I strolled out to the hammocks early yesterday morning, fully intending to spend a relaxed day engaged in pensive and meditative writing. But once I was stretched out in the morning sun, my mind would simply not focus. Instead, the delightful warmth of the sun’s radiant energy demanded that I first enjoy a short nap. Soon, the whole day rapidly melted away as other activities continued to take precedence—a late morning visit to the dentist, an afternoon bicycle ride, grocery shopping, and a late evening trip to my doctor. Many things were accomplished in my busy day, except for the fact that not a single word was written.
Today I begin the process all over again, but this time I am convinced that my efforts will be more successful.
Bobby, one of my little Chihuahua friends, is stretched out on the warm gravel just a few feet to my left. The bright morning sun peeks through the leaves of the large umbrella-like tree directly overhead. I have the distinct impression that the leaves are thinner than they were a month ago, thus allowing more sun to slip through. This raises the question: “Does this tree lose its leaves in the winter?”
A quick glance around me reveals that most surrounding trees and shrubs are still as full and lusciously green as ever. But many of the large oval-shaped leaves of this particular tree have transformed, changing to a bright reddish-brown. As a slight breeze blows overhead, several leaves escape the branches above and gently drift to the ground below. One lands on Bobby’s head. As he briefly looks up, the large leaf slips to the ground. Bobby quickly returns to his puppy-dog nap, using the leaf as a small pillow.
Dental Escapades
Friday morning, as I browsed the aisles of the local Soriana grocery store, I stumbled across a tempting bag containing twenty large individually-wrapped tootsie rolls. My craving for familiar childhood chocolate overwhelmed me, and soon the tasty treats were riding home with me on my bicycle, sharing space with other food items in one of two plastic bags suspended from my handle bars as I maneuvered my way through traffic along the narrow one-way roads.
That evening, I found myself sequestered in my room, secretly chewing away on my new prized possessions. Attempting to ration my consumption, I limited my Friday evening intake to a mere five of the three-inch-long, one-half-inch-diameter chewy delights. (In case you can’t tell, I have been yearning for chocolate in a big way lately.)
By Saturday afternoon, however, the word “rationing” completely slipped away from my vocabulary as I repeatedly gorged down more and more of my precious stash of chocolate. While lying on my bed and watching an episode of “Lost” on television, I passionately began gobbling down my second-to-last tootsie roll. Suddenly, I stopped mid-chew as I felt a strange sensation in the lower right rear of my mouth.
Sure enough, as I explored with the tip of my tongue, a slight gap revealed itself—a hole in the same tooth that had been patched up just a little over a month ago. Soon, I discovered the missing chunk of resin huddled away in part of my still un-chewed chocolate.
A quick look in the mirror revealed that a tiny bit more of my filling had been broken off along with the same chunk of dental resin that the dentist added last month—but there was no pain, no immediate threat, only an attention-getting sharp roughness. Surely I could wait until the dentist office reopens on Monday.
Yesterday, as I leaned back in the reclining dental chair, I was quite proud of myself for going all by my lonesome. My broken-tooth vocabulary has improved considerably since my last visit, and I was able to function just fine—other than for the fact that I did not recognize the words for “rinse” and “spit”. Luckily, the dentist knew those English words himself—but only used then on me after I stared blankly at his earlier requests in Spanish.
With no need for Novocain injections, my “dentist-away-from-home” drilled out part of my old filling (not sure how much) and replaced the area with a larger supply of tooth-like white resin. Twenty minutes later I was good to go.
“You need a new crown after you return home.” The dentist told me. “What I am doing today is only temporary—but it stronger than before and should last until you get home.”
“How much do I owe you today?” I asked.
“Nothing” he replied with a smile.
I too formed a broad happy smile as I said goodbye to the generous dentist and headed for my trusty bicycle.
Silly Medical Fears
Yesterday completed exactly eight weeks since my first fear-filled visit to a doctor here in Valladolid—the visit where Dr. Jose calmly reassured me that I only had second degree burns and that all would be well in two, or perhaps three weeks.
I laugh at myself as I look back at how frightened and panic-filled I had been in those early weeks after my burn in the jungle. My growth experiences of these eight weeks have been powerful in teaching me to trust my feelings and intuitions, especially when such inner guidance totally contradicts worldly logic. I am beginning to recognize the joy and peace of simply allowing the universe to flow through me rather than trying to be in control of events, schedules, and outcomes. I am finding treasures in every experience, no matter what the external appearance may be.
Last night, Dr. Gomez and I had another delightful visit as he once again changed my bandages on our twice-weekly schedule. I had needed to wait for nearly an hour while Dr. Gomez first applied an emergency cast to the leg of a middle-aged French woman who fell on the sidewalk by her hotel—less than an hour after her arrival here in Valladolid.
As our conversation about foreigners in Valladolid progressed, Dr. Gomez smiled when he told me, “Brenda, I’m trying to word this in a way that will not offend you—but my experience is that my most difficult patients have been from the United States. Most lack confidence and do not have trust in me or in my medical abilities. Burns and open flesh wounds are very common and easily treated. I see and successfully treat wounds such as yours almost every day—yet most visitors from the U.S. are afraid.”
“What is interesting, though,” Dr. Gomez continued, “is that many of my American patients end up becoming my friends.”
“I have to admit that I myself was very frightened at first.” I confessed to him. “But now, I have full confidence in your abilities. I’m so glad that I remained in Valladolid to be treated … and yes, I do consider you to be my friend.”
Just last week, Dr. Gomez spent seven days volunteering with several doctors from the United States. Every year at this time, this same group of orthopedic surgeons fly to Valladolid, spending long days volunteering their time by performing operations such as hip and knee replacements—assisting local Yucatan residents who could not otherwise afford such life changing assistance.
As I reflect on my own emotional rollercoaster ride, I am thrilled and grateful that I found the faith to trust my intuition—to trust in Dr. Gomez’s skills as both an orthopedic surgeon and as a trauma specialist.
As I left Dr. Gomez’s office around 9:00 p.m. last night, I am very encouraged by the status of my wounds. The ring of scabs (underneath which is growing new scar tissue) has reduced to about one-and-one-quarter inches by three-fourths of an inch. The still raw and open oval-shaped center area (still having no skin or scabs) has now reduced to about three-fourths of an inch wide by less than three-eights of an inch tall.
While my tissue is not healing quite as fast as Dr. Gomez predicted two weeks ago, the progress is very positive and consistent. Within another week or two, the center area should be fully filled in with scabby, growing skin, while the outer dimensions of the scabby area should be greatly reduced.
Eager To Ride
While in his office, I neglected to tell Dr. Gomez that I have started pushing myself with a little exercise—probably more so than he would approve of if he were to know.
Eight weeks is a long time to sit around with limited physical activity. My cooped-up body has been crying out for an opportunity to do some exploring—to feel the cool breezes blowing into my face as the ever-changing landscape passes beneath my feet.
Just over a week ago, in the middle of a lazy overcast afternoon, I succumbed to my desires as I hopped onto my bicycle and set out on a trial adventure. After having rested for so many weeks, I was eager to discover just what my physical limits might be.
Pedaling southbound, I left the city and followed a bicycle path that parallels what began as an unfamiliar highway—a busy two lane paved road that cuts through the ever-present wild jungles of the Yucatan. Knowing that I could turn around at any time, I pressed forward until I arrived at Chichimila (pronounced Chee-chee-Me-luh)—a small town located about seven kilometers south of Valladolid.
As I explored a few streets, I was impressed by the virtual absence of any footprints of tourist influence. Most of the side streets were earthen, lined with a wide variety of very humble habitations. What struck me as even more remarkable was the warmth and friendliness of the local people. Most everywhere that I ventured, I was greeted by warm, smiling, genuinely-happy faces—joyfully looking into my eyes and wishing me “Buenas tardes. (Good afternoon)” as I passed by.
Recognizing that I had pushed myself too far, too fast, I soon commenced my return journey. I would have loved more time to explore, but my bandaged left foot was already beginning to throb and ache—even before the seven kilometer ride home.
Yesterday (Monday), around mid-afternoon, I set off for a quick ride to the grocery store. As my flip-flop-clad feet connected with the pedals, however, my plans changed. The warm afternoon air blowing gently through my hair was too much to resist. Soon I found myself on the open highway headed toward the Cenotes at Dzitnup—the same underground wonders that I visited during my first four days in Valladolid—the same place where I unexpectedly stumbled upon a Mayan water ceremony—the same place where I had meditated while thousands of tickling little fish nibbled away on my skin.
As before, yesterday’s ride was on a trial basis, testing my limits. I had intentions to return home at the first sign of fatigue. But my heart had other plans. As I reached the Cenotes, curiosity pushed me forward into uncharted territory—toward the small village of Dzitnup—the same place where my little friend Maria Esther resides.
If you remember, Maria Esther is the sweet little four-foot-something Mayan grandma that I met in the bazaar during my first few days in Valladolid. Since then I have engaged her in several short friendly conversations as she makes her rounds through the food courts attempting to sell handkerchiefs and other embroidered crafts.
To my surprise, I recognized a familiar face as I neared the town of Dzitnup. One of Maria Esther’s friends—another little Mayan lady—was walking along the bicycle path right towards me. She greeted me with a big grin, telling me that her village is very near.
Soon, I was breezing into the small town of Dzitnup. The main road was torn up with what appeared to be a construction project to install new pipes. Piles of dirt spilled over onto the only asphalt road in town, covering it with a layer of reddish-brown soil.
As I neared a small park in the center of the village, I noticed a sign that pointed left. The name “Chichimila” was printed in large block letters just above the arrow. The afternoon sun was already low, leaving me with a limited ration of sunlight, but my intuition pushed me onward.
Seeing two young boys sitting on a low wall, I rode up and asked them my pressing question. “Can you tell me how far it is to Chichimila?”
When the answer was only two kilometers, I immediately knew what I would be doing next. I was not sure what the road would be like, but there was no doubt in my mind that I was about to find out.
The small one-lane paved road cut through the mostly pristine jungle, surrounded on both sides by thick lush green vegetation. The narrow road was generally straight and smooth, but was far from flat. An almost continuous series of slight ups and downs kept the journey ever more interesting. After completing each slight climb I thoroughly enjoyed the effortless coasting down to the next low before beginning the process anew. Yes, the Yucatan is very flat, but these slight rolling variations in elevation—perhaps ten feet from high to low—were much more frequent than I had imagined.
Through these remote surroundings, I passed several local people on foot, pedaled past a few developed fields, and even coasted by one cow (behind a fence)—but something was conspicuously missing. My curiosity was peaked over the fact that I witnessed no signs of any vehicle traffic whatsoever.
After fifteen minutes of delightful isolated adventure, the narrow road finally returned to civilization, joining up with the main highway right at the center of what was now familiar territory—the small town of Chichimila.
As I began the final leg of my now-homebound journey, sore muscles began to make their presence felt. As my almost ten-mile circular journey concluded back at my hostel in Valladolid, I was extremely grateful for the opportunity to rest—but also filled with gratitude for the opportunity to ride, and the opportunity to explore.
Last night, during my conversations with Dr. Gomez, I conveniently “forgot” to share with him any details regarding my recent treks. What he does not know will not hurt him.
Filling My Cup With Love
While living in Mexico, I have had an interesting love-hate relationship with television.
Throughout what now feels like past lifetimes, television has often served me as a means of escaping full-fledged depression. During many excruciating years of feeling trapped by gender confusion, television became a refuge, a place to hide from emotional pain, a fantasy world where I could feel safe and somewhat normal. Yes, during those difficult years, television served me well, keeping me alive and partially connected with the larger world around me.
But television also served as a source of additional depression, especially when viewing reached excessive levels. Self-imposed judgment caused me to feel intense guilt, even self-hatred for the many hours seemingly wasted in front of the TV—hours that could have and should have been used for more productive endeavors.
I made a long-overdue loving peaceful truce with television over five years ago. In that agreement with myself, I found a happy medium in which I began to allow myself to enjoy frequent healthy escapes of television downtime while still maintaining a healthy balance with the rest of my life.
But even today, television viewing time has a way of triggering feelings of past, suppressed, unhealed guilt.
Throughout my time in Cozumel, I frequently allowed myself the luxury of a relaxed evening in front of the television. English TV shows with Spanish subtitles provided an excellent and educational diversion—and yes, my Spanish language skills consistently grew as a result of those laid-back evenings.
Yet the past guilt continued to haunt me. Voices like “I should be meditating” or “I should be reading a book, or pursuing a spiritual experience” were frequent visitors whispering loudly inside my head.
Here in Valladolid, I have my own personal television in my private room. During my extended physical recovery, this television has often proved to be a grateful diversion. At times, when my body has been unusually stressed and tired, I have allowed myself to watch considerably more television than normal. My brain was often so fried with physical exhaustion that I felt incapable of doing anything that required more effort than a button push on a remote control unit.
But again, past self-hatred and judgment have attempted to sink their claws into my psyche, demanding that I feel guilty and depressed over my lack of focus—over my wasting of precious time in such a seemingly mind-numbing activity.
Yesterday morning, I awoke at 5:00 a.m. with my mind rapidly overflowing with insights and healing ideas. Rather than attempting a return to sleep, I sat up in bed, allowing myself to engage in two hours of quiet, deeply energizing meditation. Throughout that meditation, my inspired focus continuously flowed around the topic of self-judgment.
I have always loved a recurring theme in “A Course In Miracles” that teaches that love is “all there is.” The opposite of love is merely the absence of love. When love is absent, that is when fear, judgment, hatred, and all other similar emotions arise.
Years of powerful and deeply inspiring personal experiences have taught me that when I am fully immersed in a state of absolute unconditional love, nothing else in this self-projected world matters. In this divinely peaceful state, fear and judgment literally cannot coexist. This state of pure unconditional love creates such an amazing joyful and peaceful connection with the infinite that thoughts of failure seems impossible, totally absurd, and even humorous. Such a peaceful state also brings with it the ability to love and accept everything exactly as it is, right here, right now, in this moment.
While in deep meditation, it became clear to me that “a lack of love” is the obvious source of my continued television guilt—and the obvious source of the other judgmental feelings that began to plague me a few weeks ago. Clearly I have been withholding love, losing sight of the pure and divine connection to the infinite that runs through us all.
Next, my meditation reminded me of the powerful message of the “Law of Attraction.” The world is a mirror. The energy that I bring to a situation is the very energy that will be reflected back to me. When I approach the world with pure unconditional love, all I see is a loving world (no matter what appears to be happening). When I approach the world with fear, I find countless reasons to be fearful hiding around every corner.
Thus, if I judge something as being bad or wrong, my increased focus actually perpetuates the existence of what I judge. The mere act of judging my television watching is what turns television into a guilt-ridden problem. The more I struggle with the seeming addiction, the more television becomes a self-defeating problem.
Believing that something “should be different” creates conflict, accompanied by such emotions as sadness, anger, despair, and depression. In contrast, learning to “BE” love in every situation is what brings joy and peace.
As I process through these meditation insights, “The Work” of Byron Katie comes to mind. In her book titled “Loving What Is”, Byron Katie outlines a simple, but profound method of shifting one’s perceptions—but in order for her simple process to be successful, one has to first be willing to look genuinely and deeply within, recognizing the truth of the concept that we alone are the sole projectors of our personal reality.
Byron Katie’s teachings are so simple. Outside events do not make us suffer—it is our belief about those events that causes our suffering.
At first I vehemently resisted the concept of “loving what is”.
“What about all of the abhorrent evil in the world?” I asked myself. “How can I love that?”
I finally realized that the secret is not in loving a perceived evil—the secret is in simply learning to “BE” unconditional love.
The more I approach life from a state of unconditional love, the more my perceptions of evil simply dissolve and melt away. A godlike love does not see the evil, because pure love cannot judge.
A year ago, my dear friend Trish taught me a simple yet powerful metaphorical example of this concept.
Trish asked me the question:
“Brenda, suppose that you have a glass of clear water and you add a few drops of red food coloring into that water. If you want to make the water clear again, but you cannot dump the water out and you cannot use chemistry tricks, what do you do? How would you accomplish the task?”
When I exhibited a blank stare, Trish quickly provided me with the simple answer.
“You simply continue pouring clear water into the glass until the last of the red-tinted water flushes out. Eventually the glass will return to a clean, pure state.”
The lesson for me was so powerful and obvious. Attempts to remove the dye would be futile—an utter waste of time. But the simple act of adding more clear water eventually achieves the goal.
This example can be so easily applied in our lives.
If our life is filled with judgment, fear, hate, anger, and jealousy, we don’t achieve unconditional love by spending all of our energy focusing on removing the judgment, fear, hate, anger, and jealousy from our perceptual existence.
On the contrary, we achieve unconditional love by practicing the art of being unconditional love, by filling our life with loving experiences and perceptions. As we do so, our life will become so clear that there will no longer be room for anything that is not love. Continuously filling our cup with love will eventually leave it filled with nothing but love itself.
In my own situation, I will never achieve advanced love by trying to solve the problem of self-imposed guilt regarding my television watching. Trying to stop watching television creates a needless self-defeating cycle of struggle. This struggle is akin to trying to use tweezers to remove the red dye from my water glass.
But the opposite is true. As I pour more love and forgiveness into my life, judgment and guilt regarding television will simply not matter. My life will be so occupied with clear flowing love that there will be no desire to engage in activities that distract me from that joy and peace. Likewise, there will be no room for guilt or judgment.
Today I find myself on an amazing adventure—an opportunity given to me by the universe—an incredible journey of self discovery. I am so grateful for the insights that continue to flow my way each time that I center myself and return to a focus on simply being love.
Sing Your Own Special Song
Prior to coming to Mexico, I can honestly say that I had never watched a single episode of the television series “Lost”. Several times I had briefly watched a five or ten minute segment before quickly switching channels. Something about the show did not resonate with me.
While in Cozumel, one of the English channels was showing frequent rerun episodes of “Lost” with Spanish subtitles. After watching several episodes, I quickly became addicted. The metaphysical energy of the show fascinated me—the mysterious energies, the unexplained synchronicities, the time travel, the guidance through dreams, the flashbacks, the seeming random nature of events that all seemed to happen for a reason.
This past Saturday, I allowed myself the guilt-free indulgence of watching an all day marathon of “Lost” reruns—the first twelve episodes of season two. At the start of one particular episode, a familiar song rang loudly over the loudspeakers in the “pod”. This is a song I used to love as a teenager—but as usual, I cannot say that I ever really listened to the words. This time I did listen, and the words were fascinating.
The inspiring words are quite self explanatory, describing my own beliefs regarding how we each need to find our own special internal music—we each need to live our own unique life in a way that is true to the beautiful energy that flows through our own soul.
I would like to close by sharing the words of this inspiring song. You are probably quite familiar with the tune.
Make Your Own Kind Of Music
Performed by: Momma Cass Elliot
Written by: Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil
Nobody can tell ya
There’s only one song worth singin’
They may try and sell ya
‘Cause it hangs them up
To see someone like you
But you’ve gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along
You’re gonna be knowin’
The loneliest kind of lonely
It may be rough goin’
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do
But you’ve gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along
So if you cannot take my hand
And if you must be goin’
I will understand
You’ve gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along
While I love this song, I would like to add my own perspective to the second verse.
Conventional wisdom might have us believe that singing our own special song and making our own kind of music automatically results in a life that is “lonely” and “rough going”.
But I can honestly say that my personal experience is exactly the opposite. The more I learn to break from the world to play my own unique music, to connect with my true divinity and oneness—the less lonely and more connected I actually feel. My life seems to simply flow from one synchronicity to the next.
My life is abundant with joy, peace, and love.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved