(This is the fifth installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
Sunday night turns out to be bone-chilling cold, as the nighttime skies have no blanketing cloud cover to insulate the mountain valley.
And then there are the amazing stars. For the first time in over a week, I can see stars. Oh, how incredibly beautiful they are as they twinkle and shimmer in the black sky above, free from the haze of surrounding ambient lights. Particularly sharp is the belted constellation of Orion, brilliantly gleaming in the starry skies directly above.
But something else has also seemed to join me in the last night or two. Little bugs, from some unknown planet, have landed on my lower legs, planting their flags of discovery into my soft warm flesh. Perhaps the cold on their own home planet drives them to find a new world under warm blankets. The only thing I know for certain is that for two nights now, my lower legs seem to be gradually filling up with little red itchy spots that begin as a small white donut with a red spot in the middle, and then gradually morph into the shape of a tight insanely-itchy pimple.
Mosquitoes no longer seem to bother me. It appears that I may be growing immune to them. On occasion, when I do get bitten, the itchy swelling recedes in less than thirty minutes. But starting on Saturday, I also begin to notice that teensy-tiny black flies have begun landing on my legs during the day. As soon as I notice them and shoo them away, a small bright-red drop of blood is conspicuously left behind on my now itching leg.
Between these daytime mini-vampires and my nighttime planetary explorers, my lower legs, and even forearms, are beginning to look like I have come down with a mild case of chicken pox.
But with a smile on my face, I remain mostly peaceful, using mind discipline to remain in the moment. Reassuring myself that, “This body does not define me. The itching is nothing more than an electrical signal from the physical cells of my leg transmitted to the physical cells of my brain.”
“My body is just fine,” I continually reassure myself.
With gratitude, I lovingly thank the nerve cells for doing their job, for relaying the itch message to my awareness. Then I meditatively reassure those same cells that all is well with my leg, that they can take a break, and that I will now take it from here.
For the most part this meditative relaxation works, but then there are the times—usually right before bed—where my hands suddenly lose control and I am frantically scratching down to the bones with fingertips and fingernails, up and down, all around every square inch of my lower legs and forearms.
Once my entirely-satisfying physical temper tantrum is over, I pop another antihistamine and return to my mind controlling meditations.
I cannot help but wonder in the back of my mind if all this itching might be karma coming back to get me for my having repeatedly and meanly chased that poor little itching dog away from the guesthouse entrance. I so want to love that homely little dog, but cannot bring myself to allow him within twenty feet of my doorway.
On a more positive note, the sleep-reducing effects of early morning roosters are now greatly reduced due to the fact that I have once again begun wearing earplugs to bed.
But as much as my comments may sound like playful complaining, I continue to literally love this beautiful village of Santa Elena. Love flows constantly through my veins, and joy shines forth from my eyes.
Moments of Vanity
Monday morning is so quiet and peaceful. After a quick meal of eggs and tortillas at Teodora’s, my soul pushes me to simply enjoy a quiet and relaxing morning at the guest house, enjoying the mystical views, inhaling the fresh mountain air, listening to the quaint sounds of village life—even if many of those sounds happen to include roosters randomly crowing loudly—some originating less than ten feet away.
After about an hour of pure bliss, I glance at my toenails.
“Those could use a new coating of polish.” I tell myself.
Soon, I am filing, and smoothing, preparing my fading toes for a brand-new two-layer coat of “I’m not really a waitress.”
For anyone not aware of the culturally-unique names of OPI nail polish, Yes, “I’m not really a waitress” is actually a nail polish color. It just happens to be the most beautiful color of dark reddish-brown polish on the market (well at least it has my vote).
After having been deprived for three months while In Valladolid, I dug through my stored suitcases while in Cozumel, and secretly stowed away my nail supplies for future moments such as this one.
Minutes later, I have pink sponges stuffed between my toes. You know the kind, the ones that are the width of your foot, with five little puffy things that stick up pushing your toes apart.
As about half of my toes are proudly displaying their brilliant new protective coating, I spy three handsome young adult machete-carrying men approaching the guesthouse. Two of them are Filimon and Jeremiah, a couple of Dionicio’s older sons. I have never officially met the other young man.
A quick wave of brief embarrassment floods through my body as I can only imagine what my vanity must look like to them.
I greet them with a giggle on my slightly mortified face, apologizing for my inability to stand, pointing to my half painted nails with an awkward look in my eyes.
But I know they will understand. “Surely, some of their female friends must wear some type of polish.” I whisper silently.
Actually, I cannot really say if they do or don’t. What I do remember is that every person in the village was always very clean, well groomed, and wearing clean clothing.
The women and older girls invariably wore dresses—never jeans, slacks, or shorts. Most of the older women wore old fashioned dresses, usually made from a shiny fabric, often of a single color. The clothing of the younger women and girls was much more modern and stylish. They usually wore skirts with modest but stylish tops. The only jeans I remember seeing on any female body were on a young three-year old girl at the church.
As to whether the women or girls wear makeup or nail polish, all I can say is that I did not see any—yet I was not specifically looking either.
The men wear slacks or shorts, usually with t-shirts. But at church, many of the young men wear long sleeve shirts with attractive blazers—of course, all immaculately clean and wrinkle free.
Roof Burning
“We’re here to tear down the structure that fell over in the wind.” Filimon tells me with a giggle, as he glances down at my red toes separated by pink spongy pads.
Just to the sides of the guesthouse are two outdoor shelters—open-air wooden structures with high thatched roofs, presumably intended to provide daytime shade for guests.
One of the two structures, the one directly west of the guesthouse, had fully collapsed during the same windstorm that damaged the roof. The posts completely snapped, leaving nothing but a peaked thatched roof standing directly on the ground.
I watch as these three handsome young men rapidly chop at the vines that hold the roof together. Soon, all the palm leaves have been freed from the poles, and are sliding along the still-peaked poles down toward the ground. Next, I watch as the strong youth carry pile after pile of palm branches to a hillside path about fifty feet away.
A cigarette lighter is touched to one end of the dry pile.
As the branches whoosh into a bright ball of flames, I am amazed by the intensity of the heat. I can feel the boiling radiating energy of the flames from over fifty feet away.
Soon, the young men begin to gather remaining scraps from the palm branches, carrying them over to throw on the fire.
By now, my toes have long since been painted, my sponges are removed, and I am carefully walking around in flip-flops, snapping photos and helping where I can.
Just then, a large black scorpion crawls out from beneath one of the branches, beginning to run through the grassy hillside. Filimon spies it and captures it by placing a short stick on the tail, just above the stinger. The body of the scorpion is at least two, perhaps three inches in length. The long venomous tail adds another two to three inches when fully extended.
Filimon breaks off the stinger end off by pushing down with his stick. Then he reaches with his hand to pick up the active little creepy-crawler in his fingers, allowing the little guy to crawl around on his hand.
“Do you want to hold it?” He teases me with a grin.
“No thanks.” I respond, after a brief hesitation. A small part of me tells me that one day soon I will face such inhibitions.
Soon he sets the critter free, placing it gently on the trunk of a small tree nearby.
“Are there very many scorpions around here?” I ask inquisitively.
“Not a great number.” Filimon replies with confidence. “But there are some. You need to be careful, because their stings are very painful. While they will not kill you, they can make you very sick, causing numbness, aching, and lots of pain. It can take a few weeks to get over the symptoms.”
While the fire continues to roar and dance—heavily charring but not burning the surrounding moist green foliage, the boys return to the wooden A-shaped frame. Soon, the frame itself is nothing but a pile of about 10 large wooden poles and scraps of vine.
Filimon takes a break and stands next to me to talk.
“What will you do with the poles?” I ask.
“We will use them for firewood.” He replies.
“Of course,” I think to myself. “They seem to have uses for everything.”
After a delightful chat with Filiman, I learn that he loves it here in Santa Elena. Just like his brother Timoteo, Filiman’s goal is to also remain in the village, getting married, raising a family, and living off the amazing jungle.
Babbling Judgment
A little while later I see a white-skinned North-American-looking man approaching the hand-pumped well in front of Christina’s home, directly below the guesthouse.
With intentions to be friendly, I wander closer, but soon I realize he has filled a bucket of water and is bathing himself under a tree right along the edge of the road. Choosing to not bother him, I retreat to my guesthouse porch and resume my Spanish study.
Thirty minutes later, the man himself walks up to the guesthouse to say hello to me.
I quickly learn that he is Canadian, from the Vancouver Island area. Almost immediately, I pick up on a judgmental energy that has me emotionally backing up, wanting to run for the hills.
“I have been coming to Belize for over twenty years.” He tells me. “I’m thinking about buying land in the San Ignacio area, but it is being overrun with rude foreigners.”
Then he switches to the village. “These local people are all gossipers. They were all down there gathered around talking and watching me while I bathed. … All the men do is lie around and drink, and drink. They are lazy, and have too much time on their hands. The smart and lucky ones are able to get a job and get the hell out of here.”
His little soap box lasts for almost fifteen minutes. I politely listen, not saying much in response, realizing that there is no point in my trying to change his mind about anything.
“The friend that I am staying with told me there was a guest house here, and he suggested that I could stay here. But I told him that, if it is alright with him, I would prefer to sleep at his house. Just in case though, do you mind if I come in to look around?” he asks.
Part of me is beginning to seriously judge this man, silently screaming, “Please, please, please, do not stay here at the guest house. I do not like you. I do not want you here. You will ruin my experiences here.”
But then I catch myself, barely managing to remain the observer, barely managing to pull myself back to a spiritually centered perspective.
“I am the one being judgmental now.” I remind myself, again silently. “I just need to maintain love and peace, no matter what he does or says.”
Soon, the man excuses himself and walks away. Amazingly, I never see him again during the remainder of my time in the village.
House Burning
I am soon eating a delicious lunch at Dionicio’s home, enjoying a delightful conversation with Heralda. She feeds me rice with tomatoes, jippi jappa, and hot cocoa.
As we talk about my morning, I comment regarding how fast and incredibly hot the palm branches burned this morning.
“What happens if a spark hits one of your thatched roofs?” I ask inquiringly. “Do people’s homes ever burn down in the village?”
“Actually, our home burned down four or five years ago.” Heralda responds. “The flames destroyed everything we owned.”
“Really,” I answer with shock. “Would you tell me about it?”
Soon I learn that a spark from someone’s nearby fire had landed on their roof. Heralda was inside and heard some crackling above. As soon as she realized that the roof was on fire, she ran outside to get help—but there was nothing she could do.
“All of the buildings were burned to the ground.” She tells me. “We had no clothes, no food, nothing left.”
“We slept on the floor in that little building by the road.” Heralda continues. “There is a corn mill in there, but it is broken. The women used to get together and socialize in that building but they don’t do it anymore.”
“After our fire, several people gave us some clothes,” she adds, “and various families around the village took turns feeding us in their homes. Those were very difficult times. But we made it through. We literally started over.”
A Chance Encounter
During lunch, I run the numbers in my head. Heralda tells me that Santa Cruz is only two miles away. I should have ample time to walk both ways, spend a couple of hours visiting the Mayan ruins, and still make it back with plenty of time for dinner.
I know absolutely nothing about the small ruins, other than that they are a short way out of town on the other side of Santa Cruz—a little Mayan village that I passed while on the bus headed toward Santa Elena just five days earlier.
Forty-five minutes later I arrive at the western edge of Santa Cruz, believing my journey to be almost complete. As I walk through the village, I see many pigs on hillsides, some of which are rummaging around in the underbrush near the road.
“I wonder why villagers in Santa Elena don’t raise pigs?” I ponder briefly.
I soon learn that this small village is very spread out. I continue to smile and say hello to passers-by, but remain mostly focused on my journey. As I pass through the center of town, I notice a cream-colored bus parked on the side of the road. Directly across the street, I notice a small building. Crowds of villagers are lined up outside. My curiosity is definitely peaked, but I continue walking.
Twenty minutes later I finally reach the water tower on the other side of town. The ruins are very near. A small handmade sign marks a small path that leads away from the road into the jungle.
As I reach the ruins, I discover two earth-covered pyramids, completely covered by trees and jungle foliage. While it is possible to tell that these are indeed ruins, virtually no excavation has been attempted. The view is spectacular—a 360 degree view all around, as the pyramids sit above the highest hills in the area.
While exploring the immediate perimeter, I simply inhale the ancient energy of this sacred place, meditating, reflecting on the Mayans of old—how they lived and died here, raised their families in these surrounding valleys, found food in the same jungles, and bathed in the same rivers.
As a glance at my wrist tells me it is time to move on, my return journey begins.
I again pass through the center of Santa Cruz. The crowds of waiting people are now gone, but the cream-colored school bus still sits in the street. I notice that the bus’s back door is propped open. When I see a very American-looking man walk around the corner of the bus, wearing blue scrubs, carrying a large plastic bin, I confidently call out, “Hello.”
In an animated, but relatively short conversation, I learn that Dave is one of several doctors from a university somewhere in Tennessee. They are here in Belize for one week, performing medical service for the indigenous Mayan people in several small villages.
“I’m staying at a small guesthouse in Santa Elena.” I volunteer.
“Hey, we’re going to be in Santa Elena tomorrow.” He responds with enthusiasm.
“I will probably see you there.” I respond eagerly.
Somehow, I know that my day tomorrow will involve spending time with these generous doctors from the states.
An hour later, as I am almost back to Santa Elena, a man walking down the road pauses and begins talking to me in Spanish—a fact that really catches me off guard. Amazingly, I understand perfectly, and we carry on a fun five minute conversation. He reminds me that we met at Dionicio’s home just a few days earlier. I apologize for forgetting—I have so much new information crammed in every corner of my leaky brain.
The very friendly man just moved to Santa Elena six months ago, having come from Guatemala—thus the Spanish. He excitedly tells me how he formerly spent two years working in Long Island, New York, working as a landscaper.
As loving energy flows through my body, everyone I meet seems to be so incredibly friendly.
Guava Giggles
By 4:15 p.m., I am again seated on the guesthouse porch, enjoying a relaxing pre-dinner rest.
“Hello Miss.” A sweet little voice calls out.
When I look up, a darling little girl named Rosaria (one of the dancing angels from the church) comes over to visit, bringing two shy friends with her. After giggling with me, constantly referring to me as “Miss”, the girls walk over to a tree about fifteen feet away, quickly retrieving four green hard fruits, about the size and texture of a green walnut.
“What are these?” I ask with a giggle, as the girls begin to bite down very hard on their green mysteries.
“They are Guava.” She giggles again. “They are not ripe, but they are still good.”
I try to bite down on mine, but my teeth feel like they are biting into a golf ball.
Rosaria hands her guava to me, already half eaten, showing me the insides, offering to let me taste it.
Sure enough, as I bite into the softer center, I can definitely taste guava—but the fruit is still far from ripe.
A few minutes later, as Rosaria and her friends walk away I am delighted by what happens.
Rosaria repeatedly turns around, waves eagerly, and in a giggling voice calls out, “Bye Miss … I will come again Miss.”
These beautiful little angels may not know it, but they have totally won over my heart.
Village Romance
Dinner at Irma’s turns into a real treat. Her husband Justo (pronounced WHOSE-toe) decides to join us in the kitchen, and a charming conversation unfolds as I chow down on a bowl of beans, a large plate of cabbage, and a bottomless supply of tortillas.
“How did you two meet?” I ask, hoping to build a more personal bond with my hosts.
“I was born in Guatemala,” Justo begins. “My parents brought me to Belize when I was just a young toddler. We moved several times before settling in a tiny border village called San Vicente.”
“As a young man, I loved to play the guitar,” Justo continues. “I began to travel around from village to village, playing in various churches. I met Irma one time when I was playing here in Santa Elena.”
“After a while, I fell in love with Irma and knew that I wanted to marry her.” Justo adds to my delight. “My parents came with me to Santa Elena to ask Irma’s parents for her hand in marriage. Several months later, we were married, and soon I moved into Santa Elena to stay.”
“I was about 20 years old then.” He adds. “Now, we have nine beautiful children together. The oldest three are big. My two boys live in Placencia with my father. They like to live and work in the town.”
Then Justo changes the topic. “We spent five hours this morning working on our cacao farm, harvesting large buckets filled with ripe cacao. The seeds need to ferment for five or six days before we dry and sell them.”
Then, Justo does something no one else in the village has yet done. He asks about my extended travels, my education, my former jobs, and my plans for the future.
As I return to the guesthouse, shortly before darkness settles in, my heart is again full with joy.
Worm Wonderings
Not long after finishing a delicious Tuesday morning breakfast at Christina’s home, I hear loud honking coming from the road on the east end of town. The sound gradually proceeds westward, until an old cream-colored bus comes into view.
Immediately, I hop up, secure the guesthouse door, and eagerly bound off to join the welcoming committee. Before I get very far, one of Dionicio’s sons rushes over to meet me.
“Brenda, can we have your keys?” He asks. “We need to open the center.”
“You mean the guesthouse keys fit the center too?” I ask with a shocked look.
All week I had wondered what might be contained in that small locked-up building, just across from the school. Soon, I find out first hand.
I am the first to greet the doctors as they descend from the bus and begin carrying large plastic bins of supplies into the small empty building—a building perhaps 20 by 40 feet, with concrete floor, block walls, shuttered windows, and a corrugated metal roof.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask Dr. Dave, feeling eager to assist in any way possible.
For a while, I feel like I am in the way, not sure if they really want or need any help. But then, the only MD in the group, Dr. Joe, approaches and tells me, “Brenda, if you want to help, you could be in charge of passing out toiletry supplies. That will free us all up to work with patients.”
I soon learn that Dave is a Physician’s Assistant (PA), as are two of the woman doctors. Two other younger late-twenties PA students, who are almost finished with their course of studies, are also part of the entourage.
“Where exactly are you all from?” I ask one of the students.
“We are from a small university called Bethel University.” She answers, quickly adding, “You have probably never heard of it. We used to be Bethel College, but just recently achieved university status.”
“This is my first time coming to Belize.” She tells me. “But groups from the university come down every year at this time, spending one week traveling from village to village, providing whatever medical assistance we can.”
For over four hours, I sit in a chair at the back of the room while my friends from Santa Elena line up to see the doctors. Some of the local faces are very familiar, while I am seeing others for the first time. As each family group finishes their visits with one of the medical team, they come over to my station. I give them a plastic bag into which they dump whatever medications they have been given. Then I add toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, and even pony-tail bands.
Repeatedly, I witness these loving doctors provide free medications for bronchitis, ear infections, skin rashes, bug bites, and so on. They even diagnose one case of chicken pox. When one medication is depleted, the team works together to improvise and find something that will be a good substitute—such as antibiotic eye drops that will be used for an ear infection.
“Dave,” I begin to ask, “I notice that you are giving out worm pills to everyone that comes in. Do you think that maybe I should consider taking some worm medication since I have been living and eating here?”
“Absolutely, I would highly recommend it.” Dave begins. “I plan on taking some pills myself after I return to the states.”
Dr. Dave then reaches out onto his table, grabs a packet of pills and says “Here, take these pills together. One dose will be plenty.”
I find it interesting how powerful our minds can be. Prior to asking that question, I had not experienced the slightest fear about intestinal worms. A strong feeling of confidence has long permeated my soul, continuously reassuring me that as long as I am following inner guidance, I have absolutely nothing to fear or worry about.
But suddenly, upon seeing a doctor pass out worm medications, I begin to feel cramps in my stomach and intestines. I begin to experience slight fear that maybe I am carrying around parasites—that maybe I need to be cured.
Then I go into my head. “But maybe I do have worms, and these doctors were synchronously sent here by the universe so that I could get the medication that I need to cure me?”
With a smile on my face, I accept the packet containing two pills, deciding that I can examine my faith later, thus postponing the debate between head and heart.
“It won’t hurt to carry the packet around for a while.” I tell myself. “I will meditate over this decision at a later time.”
Crafty Goodbyes
As lunchtime rolls around, Glenda comes to fetch me. The line of waiting people has almost disappeared, and I excuse myself, telling Dr. Dave “I’ll be back soon. I hope you are still here so I can say goodbye.”
As I walk with Glenda back to her home, I ask about her very interesting head attire. Her baby, Marlene, Is wrapped up in a white cotton baby-carrying bag, suspended over her back. What I find amazing is that the weight of the baby is supported by a thin strap placed at the upper area of Glenda’s forehead.
“Doesn’t that hurt your neck?” I ask inquisitively.
“No, it is actually quite easy.” She responds. “Everyone carries their babies this way. Mopan Mayans always use white cloth, but other types of Mayans use different colors of cloth to carry their babies.”
During my days in Belize, I have witnessed countless women carrying baskets, buckets, tubs, and even ice chests on top their head, often without hands. I have witnessed men carrying large loads of firewood and huge logs, all suspended from a strap above their forehead—but this is the first time I have seen a baby carried this way. I am delighted.
As soon as lunch is over, both Glenda and I rush back to the doctors. I am eager to say goodbye. Glenda is eager to sell souvenirs. A large group of village women and young girls are already gathered in front of the village center, with a colorful display of baskets, necklaces, bracelets, and other handcrafted items spread out in front of them.
Meanwhile, the medical team is busy packing up the bus. On one trip through the grass, Dr. Dave spies a small tarantula. Eager to see my first live tarantula, I scamper over with my camera. The spider seems very large to me, but I am told it is quite small for a tarantula. The skinny body is less than two inches long, with the leg span being less than four inches—but nonetheless, I finally get to see one of these large arachnids. I can honestly say that seeing another is not at the top of my wish list.
As the team prepares to board the bus, I do not hear their whispers, but I do see a look of puzzlement in their eyes.
“If you want souvenirs, this is probably your best opportunity.” I hear one of the Belizean escorts quietly tell the medical team. “We have lots of time today, and this village has a good selection of crafts.”
Soon, all of the doctors turn around and walk over to the excited villagers. For twenty minutes, I witness a joyful bargaining frenzy, as a happy medical team purchases beautiful treasures from my new friends.
I gleefully enjoy the amazing crafts from afar. My backpack is full, my travels are long, and my whole life right now seems to be about letting go of possessions. But in a different time, under different circumstances, perhaps I may have bought the entire display. Some of the handmade baskets, carved coconut shells, wood carvings, and jewelry are amazingly creative and beautiful.
Peace fills my heart as I wave goodbye to a dirt-covered, cream-colored, east-bound bus. Soon, it disappears over the small hill in the distance.
Toucan Sightings
During lunch, Glenda had told me, “Brenda, I saw two beautiful Toucan’s fly over my house this morning while you were helping the doctors.”
Then, while sitting on my shady porch after the doctors left, a young boy approaches trying to sell me some beans. After a short conversation, he shows me the side of his hand. Written in blue ink, just below his thumb, is the number “28.”
“I saw 28 Toucans in the jungle behind the center where the doctors were today.” He tells me. “They were everywhere.”
Not having given up on my quest, I again set out for an hour long search. I search the area behind the center, I visually scour the jungles around Glenda’s home, and I walk back out to Mathias’s cacao farm—and I find … nothing.
Smiling to myself, I walk peacefully back to the guesthouse, knowing full well that I will see Toucans exactly when and where I am supposed to see them, and not before. While I would love to see them today, I have absolutely no emotional attachment.
Vanessa
While not intending to advertise my birthday, a few people in the village have occasionally asked me how old I am. Without any shyness whatsoever, I have confidently answered that I will be turning 55 soon. If they inquire further, I tell them that my birthday will be on Wednesday—but I never expected any type of gifts.
After a very relaxed late afternoon of studying Spanish grammar, sweet little Elida soon arrives at my door to fetch me for dinner at Teodora’s house.
“Brenda, I brought you some gifts for your birthday tomorrow.” She tells me with a big wide grin.
My heart melts as Elida begins to hand me my presents, one at a time. Throughout the process, her face glows with a radiant smile.
The first lovely gift is a small necklace made from long, shiny, black, cylindrical beads.
The second gift is also a necklace. This one, which I choose to put on, is lined around the neck by tiny, round, black beads. On each side of the necklace’s front are three small silver beads surrounding two larger turquoise beads. Right in the middle is a beautiful shiny black pendant shaped with a slight ‘S’-like curve.
The third gift is a small bracelet made from three rows of small wooden beads that are flat on the inside surface. The beads are bound together with flexible segments of elastic. The bracelet slides immediately over my hand and onto my right wrist.
The fourth gift is another bracelet made from intricately woven tiny red, white, and blue beads, forming Indian-like patterns. Right in the middle of the main portion of the bracelet are some letters.
“Oh, what does it say?” I ask with excitement as I realize that there are letters.
Turning the bracelet over and upside down to orient the word, I read the name “Vanessa.”
“How beautiful,” I tell dear sweet Elida. “Thank you so much for these wonderful gifts. They are very special. You really didn’t need to give me anything.”
“Oh but I did,” she replies innocently. “You helped the doctors today, even when you didn’t need to.”
“What beautiful logic … and what a beautiful heart-felt gift,” I think to myself. “I will forever cherish my “Vanessa” bracelet.
As we walk toward Teodora’s house for dinner, my heart is overflowing. For a brief moment, I giggle to myself as I half consider the idea of changing my name to “Vanessa.”
Changing The World
As a beautiful sunset forms on the mountainous horizon to my left, I enjoy watching the movement of men and boys racing around and kicking balls on the large soccer field below me in the distance—across the stream, and above the school.
As I sit quietly in the deepening darkness, I spot a woman walking up the trail. She is obviously heading to a home somewhere on the hill above me.
“Hello” I call out in a pleasant tone, not really expecting an answer.
I am pleasantly surprised when the woman not only responds, but actually comes over to visit. The darkness is already so thick that I cannot even see her face, but that does not matter in the least. I feel an instant connection and am eager to talk for a few minutes.
I quickly learn that her name is Constancia, and that she lives in the little home just fifty feet up the hill from the guesthouse. I am quite surprised as she confidently tells me that she is divorced and that she lives by herself. She has raised six children. The oldest is a thirty-one year old girl, with each subsequent child alternating in gender. The youngest fifteen year old boy lives with his father.
“I have been on my own now for fourteen years.” She tells me. “Sometimes my daughter-in-law stays here with me while her husband works, but I take care of myself.”
Constancia radiates a vibrant, confident energy about her. The discussion is delightful.
Stated simply as a loving observation, with absolutely no judgment intended, I have indeed noticed that the majority of the women and older girls in the village have been quiet, polite, humble, and reserved—taking considerable time to warm up to me as a stranger. However, my experience with the men is that most are very confident and talkative.
I feel encouraged to see how Constancia seems to have personally empowered herself.
After Constancia disappears in the darkness up the path, I soon retire to my own dark bedroom. While lying awake on my pillow, I am engulfed in thought about the question:
“Is there some way to help these women further empower themselves without meddling and interfering in a beautiful culture—a culture in which they all seem so happy and contented—a culture in which life is so simple and free from the cares of the external world—a culture that I have grown to love.
Then my answer comes passionately from within.
It is neither my right, nor my privilege, nor is it even within my power to manipulate or coerce change in another—whether it be a single individual or an entire culture.
By seeing a need for change in others, I am actually projecting my own judgment outward. I am stunned as I realize the momentary arrogance of assuming that “my way of thinking might be better than someone else’s.”
The only thing I can or need do is to continue my own personal healing process—my highly personal inner healing journey—a journey that is teaching me to see the entire world through the eyes of unconditional love.
Powerful personal experiences continue to confirm that as I shift my inner world, my view of the outer world magically shifts as well.
In times past, the ‘old me’ used to see a world filled with war, crime, corruption, and fear.
But now, the ‘new me’ increasingly finds only love and peace in every situation, no matter where I go, no matter what I do.
It is only when I allow judgment and fear to enter my consciousness that I begin to see reasons to judge and to fear everywhere around me.
No! Changing others is not my responsibility.
In fact, as I think about it, I have long had the conviction that when counseling others, my goal is not to change them in any way—it only to help them get in touch with their own personal inner guidance—to help them find the courage to recognize and access the passionate desires that rise from within their own soul.
A sense of deep peace surges through my soul as I close my eyes on this beautiful Tuesday evening. I am content in knowing that I can indeed change the world, because it is entirely an inside job.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved