Sunday morning, as I sit on my bed at 7:32 a.m., I am completely caught off guard. At the same time that I suddenly feel myself beginning to bounce on the mattress, I also hear what sounds as if an army of large trucks is rumbling down the street just barely outside. As I glance up at the walls, a mirror and a few other wall hangings move from side to side.
As soon as I realize that I am experiencing a small earthquake—the first one that I have ever felt in my life—I follow my instincts and hop off my bed, scampering over to position myself in the doorway of my room.
For just a moment, I think about the second story of heavy concrete above me and realize that if the ceiling were to collapse, the small door frame would do little to hold back the crushing weight. Moments later, my heart reassures me that everything happens for a reason, and that there is absolutely nothing to worry about.
I glance to my left and notice the hostel’s morning clerk standing in an indoor patio area—away from all walls—centered under a large clear-fiberglass sun roof.
“Es un Terremoto (Is this an earthquake)?” I ask her, with an air of curiosity.
“Yes,” she quickly answers with a sound of nervous excitement in her voice.
After what feels like thirty seconds, the mild shaking stops and the rumbling noise fades into silence.
Twenty minutes later, after a quick internet search, I learn that I have experienced a small 5.4 tremor. After the initial excitement passes, I return to my planned activities for the day—posting my photos, followed by an afternoon of exploring the city of Xela on foot.
Throughout the remainder of the day, the experience of this morning’s earthquake continues to energize my heart. I cannot help but wonder if the universe is telling me that the world as I know it is about to be shaken up a bit.
Silly Subtle Signals
My heart overflows with eager anticipation as I lift my over-stuffed backpack onto my shoulders and quickly surrender my room key. With the early morning sun still low in the east, my six-block trek down narrow cobblestone streets seems to proceed quickly, almost effortlessly. I find it difficult to comprehend that Monday has arrived, and that I am already embarking on the first steps of my next great adventure.
As I stroll through the open doors of the CBA Amerindia Spanish School, confidence and excitement dance through my body—yet I also feel quite disoriented, slightly uncertain as to what will happen next.
“You can put your backpack there in the corner.” A woman named Elbia reassures me. “I will be here in the office all morning. Your things will be safe.”
“For the next six nights you will be staying in the home of a woman named Jaqueline.” Elbia continues. “She will come to get you shortly after 1:00 p.m.. The family lives very close—only about three minutes away on foot.”
Having arrived ten minutes early, I have a little time to browse through a small library of books that the school makes available for students to borrow. I stand quietly in front of the shelf as my eyes begin to scan rapidly.
Only a few seconds later, one tattered old paperback—a book whose cover is literally falling off—energetically reaches out and captures my attention. The very act of encountering this unexpected book launches my thoughts into a flurry of reflective recognition.
Just ten days earlier, while peacefully “getting out of the way” during an unplanned two-hour wait in Coban, in the middle of my supposed “non-stop/direct” shuttle ride from Flores to Lanquin, I had noticed someone’s book sitting on the rear seat of my replacement shuttle. At that precise moment, a sense of deep curiosity had been ignited in my soul. I knew absolutely nothing about either the book or the author—but I knew that something important was happening.
“You need to write down the name of this author.” The Jedi voices had whispered silently while registering very powerfully with my soul.
“That’s just plain silly.” I had thought to myself—yet I humored myself and opened up my daypack, taking out a small notebook. At the bottom of the last used page, I carefully scribed the author’s name: Paulo Coelho.
In later reflection, I find it quite interesting that I felt no such prompting to record the name of the book itself. I only remember that the book was written in English.
The very next day, while enjoying my relaxing visit to Semuc Champey, I briefly noticed as someone else was reading yet another book written by Paulo Coelho.
“That’s quite the unexpected coincidence.” I thought to myself as my intuitive interest was again peaked.
Two days later, Monday April 12, while browsing through a small indoor mall in Coban during an afternoon of exploring the city, I was surprised yet again. Prominently displayed in a tiny book section of the store were several Spanish language paperbacks written by none other than Paulo Coelho. After thumbing through several titles, I almost purchased one. But I hesitated—I didn’t know which one to choose.
The little Jedi voices made quite an impression in their silence. “You will be reading one of these books very soon.” The voices whispered. “You know you really want to do it … you know that you will do it … but yes, it is OK to wait.”
Six days later, just hours after experiencing my first small earthquake, I found myself strolling through a large store near the second-class bus terminal in Xela. An eerie sense of recognition and destiny flowed through my veins when I stumbled onto yet another small display of books.
Prominently visible in the center of this new display were, of course, several books written by Paulo Coelho.
As before, I had hesitated. My seemingly-silly feelings were quite clear in telling me that I would be reading one of these books—yet I once again walked away empty handed.
Today, back in this precious present moment, as I stand staring at the bookshelf in the CBA language school, my eyes are fixed tightly to a small Spanish-language book titled “El Alquimista (The Alchemist)”—written by none other than Paulo Coelho.
With nary a second thought, I clasp the book tightly in my hand and approach Hugo—Elbia’s husband and co-owner of the school—asking him if I can read the book while studying this week. Minutes later, the precious little book is safely tucked away in my daypack.
I have no idea what this old beat-up little paperback is about, but the resonating energy in my soul tells me that this book was meant for me, today, right here, right now.
Fried Brains
Five minutes later, my hand is outstretched as Elbia introduces me to my teacher for the week—a handsome twenty-something young man named Vinicio. I later learn that in addition to being a Spanish teacher, he is also a student at a local University. If his classes and internship go as planned, Vinicio will graduate this fall as Xela’s newest attorney.
Vinicio is quite large as far as Guatemalan’s go. At around 5’8”, he appears to be around 180-200 pounds, with most of that weight being muscle. Everything else about him is quite typical—darker skin, dark brown eyes, and short black hair. I am quite charmed by his pleasant, upbeat, and positive personality.
Vinicio and I talk nonstop, almost entirely in Spanish, rarely using an English word. My brain feels completely fried after enduring five hours of intensive exercises and lessons—lessons that mainly involve an in-depth review of concepts with which I am already familiar. But our time together stretches my limits both in comprehension and speaking, teaching me many new words.
Nevertheless, when 1:00 p.m. rolls around, I am very anxious to uncover the next phase of my treasure-filled mystery week, namely where and with whom I will be living.
Home Sweet Home
When Jaqueline walks through the door of the language school, I immediately feel at home with her pleasant energetic smile. She is a forty-something woman, perhaps five feet in height. Her stout build gives her a very motherly feel—yet she is definitely not overweight. Her round face and short curly black hair remind me slightly of photographs of my own mother when she was in her early forties.
After Elbia walks us through the formalities of a quick introduction, I throw my heavy backpack over my shoulders and balance the weight by wearing my smaller but heavy daypack backwards on my chest. Jaqueline offers to help carry something but I assure her that I am fine. I am actually getting quite used to carrying my belongings for short distances.
Two and a half blocks later, we are walking through the front door of a humble, but very clean home. The weight-bearing exterior walls of this old structure appear to be nearly three feet thick. We are in the historic center of Xela, an area filled with many such older homes.
I immediately note that the house is very different from typical western homes. Entering through a large wooden door from the street, I step into a living room that is perhaps 14 by 18 feet, with a hardwood floor, a wooden ceiling, and a few items of basic furniture. On the left end of this living room are two makeshift doorways. Jaqueline quickly opens one of the doors and tells me that this is my room.
As I enter my new temporary home, I am very surprised by the extremely tiny size. My bed nearly fills up the entire room. There is no space whatsoever to walk along the foot of the bed—and after laying my backpack on the floor to the side of the bed, I barely have room to walk to and from my doorway. Closer inspection reveals that my bed has twin-size box springs, but the mattress on top is of an odd shape and size—leaning up against the wall and hanging slightly over the edges. I later discover that the mattress is also thin, very hard and quite lumpy.
Two of my bedroom walls appear to be framed with homemade 2” x 3” lumber. The walls themselves consist of nothing more than odd-shaped pieces of thin 1/8” thick hardboard nailed to the outside of the wooden frame. I quickly deduce that my room and the other room to its side were hastily added as quick afterthoughts in an effort to provide space for two tiny bedrooms.
Behind the living room, the remainder of the home is more like an old motel—consisting of a small long-but-skinny open-air courtyard, surrounded on two sides by individual rooms. On the longer side of the courtyard are five doorways, the first four of which lead to bedrooms, with the last one being a kitchen. Doors on the narrower end of the courtyard lead to two bathrooms—one is extremely tiny with just a toilet—the other is quite large with toilet, sink, and a shower that has an electrical instant-heating shower head.
During lunch, I learn that Jaqueline’s husband, Hugo, works in construction. Two of her three children are also named Jaqueline and Hugo, with the third being named Richard. The children range in age from 14 to 17.
The other tiny room next to mine is rented to a young 17 year old boy named Gregorio (nicknamed Goyo). He is Mayan, and comes from a little village less than an hour to the north of where I stayed in Nebaj, just a week earlier. This sweet young man is now in his third year of living with Jacqueline and Hugo while he finishes his high school education here in Xela.
While my basic room is extremely tiny, and my mattress does not prove to be much softer than a saggy, lumpy, thick carpet, I am quite content. Jaqueline is very fun and easy to talk to, her food is interesting and filling, and I feel very much at home in her peaceful loving abode. I have literally everything that I need.
Daily Routines
From Monday through Friday, my daily routine is mostly quite fixed. I get up shortly after 6:00. At 7:00 a.m., Jaqueline feeds me a small breakfast. Shortly before 8:00, I am walking through the doors of my classroom. At 1:00 p.m., I leave the school for a 1:15 lunch and delightful conversation with Jaqueline, and possibly one or two of her children. Then at 3:00 I am back over at the school for some type of afternoon activity. After completing a small amount of homework, Jaqueline feeds me dinner at 7:00 p.m., and I have the rest of the evening to myself. By 9:00 p.m. I am so tired that I crawl into bed and literally crash on my pillow.
But while these routines provide helpful structure to my long tiring day, it is the variations that provide me with delightful personal growth.
Educational Conversations
In class, intense conversational practice with Vinicio leads to deep discussions about various topics, even including spiritual beliefs. Rather than exhausting my energy, much of our time together feels more like a fun conversation between new friends who are just getting to know each other.
My weakest area in Spanish is with basic grammar and pronouns. While I already know the concepts, I often have to think for several seconds before I can create and/or decipher the details of a complicated sentence. Vinicio is extremely patient with me, gently coaching me through one helpful exercise after another—while at the same time, mixing things up just enough to keep me from getting bored.
Starting with day two, I no longer leave the classroom feeling as if my brain has been hooked up to an electrical shock machine for five continuous hours. I actually enjoy the language practice, even feeling quite animated when I leave.
Evelyn’s Baskets
Monday afternoon, I am the only student who chooses to participate in the city tour activity. My personal guide for the tour is Doña Alejandra—a sweet 57 year old Mayan woman who is one of the teachers at the school. For two hours, Alejandra and I explore the historic center of Xela together on foot. While conversing entirely in Spanish, Alejandra passes along details about the places, the buildings, the government, and the people. I feel a deep connection with this beautiful Mayan woman who is the mother of six children ranging in age from 14 to 33. For a great deal of her life, she has raised her children as a single mother. As Alejandra shares several fascinating stories, I realize that I would love to have the opportunity to get to know her better.
Tuesday afternoon, while returning from a field trip to a neighboring town—a trip in which we visited the first Catholic Chapel built in Guatemala back in 1526—I begin to develop a friendship with Jane Bartel, a fellow student from North Carolina. Jane is a total beginner in Spanish, feeling completely isolated and confused at being immersed in an environment where speaking English is forbidden. During our return bus ride to Xela, we decide to break the rules together, giving Jane an opportunity to vent her frustrations, including a few unrelated tears.
Tuesday evening, I experience a slight sense of Déjà vu as my bedroom again begins to rock shortly after 9:30 p.m.. I am half asleep as I step into the living room where I find Goyo reassuring me that we are not experiencing a full blown earthquake.
“It’s only a tremor.” He calmly tells me, assuming that I must be somewhat afraid.
I simply smile inside as I again wonder if the universe is passing along a small message. I later learn that this second tremor was around 4.8 on the Richter scale.
Wednesday morning before class, I learn some fascinating details about Jane and her husband Joe. They are on a sort of “mission” in Guatemala. A few years back, their granddaughter Evelyn was born with a cleft lip and palate. One of the doctors on the surgical team who helped their granddaughter was from Guatemala. Through conversations with this doctor, Jane learned that most indigenous babies born with cleft lips and palates in Guatemala do not survive. Due to the nature of the physical deformity, the babies are unable to suck, and are therefore unable to nurse, preventing them from getting any nourishment whatsoever.
In Guatemala there are agencies that will perform the corrective surgeries on such babies, but such interventions cannot be performed if the baby is not healthy and strong enough to endure the difficult procedures.
Most of the indigenous midwives who deliver these babies are not aware of the fact that there are special bottles which can be used in a way that allows the baby to suck the milk. Out of pure love, Jane and her husband have organized a small home-grown charity, and are working on personally delivering special baskets around Guatemala. In each basket they place a breast pump, a special nursing bottle, and a booklet with information (written in Spanish) and photos regarding cleft lips and palates. Together, Jane and her husband have already helped to save the lives of many babies in Guatemala, and they hope to save many more.
“We desperately want to learn a tiny bit of Spanish,” Jane tells me, “even if it is barely enough to enable us to personally communicate a few words to the new mothers of these beautiful babies. I don’t want to always have to rely on an interpreter.”
Thursday is Jane’s birthday, and she and her husband invite me to join them for an early afternoon chat in a small coffee shop. For most of an hour, we engage in delightful heartfelt conversation, sharing details about each of our particular inspired journeys. There is no doubt in my mind that if we were to spend more time together, that we would continue to deepen our friendship.
I cannot predict if our friendship will endure beyond this short encounter, but I do feel prompted to pass along a little information in case anyone wants to help or to learn more about what Jane and Joe are doing.
Jane and Joe have a blog about their journey at the web address janebartel.vox.com. They also have a website for the charity at www.evelynsbaskets.org. I can personally vouch for the genuine sincerity of both Jane and her husband Joe. They truly are two beautiful loving angels.
Personal Stories
Every day during this long week of intense studies, I have at my disposal scattered little gaps of free time—time that when collected together in small chunks gives me about three to four hours of spare minutes with which to work. During these precious moments, I quickly immerse myself in my new treasure-filled book.
Due to my still-weak vocabulary, the reading process is extremely slow and exhausting. On Monday evening, I spend only a small percentage of my time in the book itself, with the remaining time being consumed by the process of hurriedly flipping through the pages of my thick dictionary, anxiously looking up words, desperately wanting to understand.
In Spanish, The Alchemist is 190 pages in length, and I quickly make a goal of trying to read 40 pages every day, giving me time to finish the book before the end of Friday. As I retire on Monday evening, I feel slightly doubtful about my ability to reach this goal. So far I have only succeeded in completing my reading up to page 26.
But an intense spiritual energy pushes me onward. I do not yet know why, but a powerful sensation of urgency tells me that I need to read this book before the week is over.
By Tuesday evening I am totally consumed in the story—I cannot lay the book down. I make good progress and am only a few pages shy of my page-80 goal when exhaustion finally overpowers me.
By Wednesday evening, I am giddy with energy as I begin to read even faster. Many times during my reading, tears of joy flood my eyes. In some magical way, Paulo Coelho has written a beautiful little novel that closely parallels my own present day journey, speaking deeply to my heart. I am overwhelmed with inspirational energy as I finally lay the book down at around page 135.
As I finish reading the final words of page 190 on Thursday evening, I am radiating with joy as I ponder the amazing series of tiny synchronicities that brought this beautiful and deeply inspiring little story into my life. Those synchronicities all began with what felt like a silly prompting to write down the name of an unknown author printed on the cover of a never-before-seen book. Even the synchronous way in which I was guided to attend the CBA language school contributed to my reading of this book.
As I lay the book down for the last time, with my reading now complete, my internal passions seem to have been completely refueled, rejuvenated, and reenergized.
I don’t want to ruin the story for anyone, but I feel inspired to briefly share a few highlights. I will attempt to do so without giving away the book’s beautiful surprises.
The story tells of a young boy who feels a passion in his heart—a passion that guides him to live his life in a way that is against the wishes of family and friends. The boy’s internal desires push him to travel, and the idea of becoming a traveling shepherd speaks deeply to his soul.
Through the silence of caring for his sheep, the young lad begins to develop an intuitive connection, not only with his sheep, but with nature all around him. He gradually begins to learn how to recognize and act on some of the subtle little signals provided by the universe—the same types of synchronous signals to which most of us never pay attention.
One evening the young lad has a series of dreams that at first confuse him. But these dreams spur him on with curiosity, in search of new answers, and new growth. There is a treasure waiting for him, the dreams tell him—but to find the treasure he must embark on a long journey that will take him out of his comfort zone.
As the genuine young boy pursues his answers, the universe begins to guide people into his path. With each inspired interaction, the young lad grows and learns—giving him the courage to pursue his dream with increasing determination.
One wise man along the way teaches the young boy that each one of us is born on this earth with our own unique “Personal Story” buried deeply inside of our heart. The only way we will ever be truly happy is if we learn to connect with our “Personal Story”—connecting with the internal messages that bubble from within our heart. If we follow these messages, the forces of the universe will do everything they can as they conspire together to support us on our journey.
But the human world around us seems to encourage us all to live conventional lives, to give up on our dreams, to fit in with the way things are supposed to be done. We have so many reasons why our dreams are impractical, and we continually postpone them one day at a time. The more we ignore and bury our “Personal Story,” the quieter those internal longings become. We begin to feel stuck and dissatisfied. We even become frightened by the thought of listening to the truth that lives inside of us.
Along the path of his journey, the young lad follows his promptings to give up his sheep so that he can pursue his internal promptings in ways that cause him to stretch and to grow even more. But he suffers many setbacks along the way that cause him considerable delays. Several times, he temporarily gives up on the pursuit of his dream. He begins to consider returning to his old known and comfortable life of being a shepherd. But each time the synchronous signals around him magically guide him to new experiences that reawaken the passions within his heart.
Eventually, the young man’s journey teaches him to fully connect with the oneness that is all around us—teaching him to recognize and to follow even the most subtle of the signals constantly placed before us by the universe.
Inspired Changes
Friday morning, as I sit waiting for my teacher, Vinicio, to show up, Joe walks up and tells me that his wife Jane is very nauseous and miserable—that she will not be coming to class today. I glance over at a bench and make eye contact with Doña Alejandra, who is Jane’s personal teacher. I fondly remember how this beautiful Mayan woman guided me around the city on Monday.
As 8:10 a.m. comes and goes, no one seems to know where Vinicio is. He has not called in, and is not answering on any of his three phone numbers.
Doña Alejandra continues to wait, still unsure as to whether she will have any income today. I continue to wait, wondering if I will have a teacher.
“I’m feeling that I may end up being your teacher today.” Alejandra tells me with a cute smile.
“Yeah, I feel the same thing.” I reply hopefully, as I remember how much I had wanted to get to know her better after Monday’s city tour.
Five minutes later it is official as Elbia walks over to talk to me.
“Brenda, we still cannot reach Vinicio.” Elbia begins. “Would you mind working with Alejandra as your teacher today?”
I simply smile inside as I reply “yes, of course.” There is no doubt in my mind that the Universe orchestrated this little change of plans in support of my own “Personal Story”—but I do feel bad that Jane had to get sick in the process.
For much of the next five hours, Doña Alejandra and I simply carry on a long beautiful conversation. She tells me story after story about her fascinating life, including details about her childhood, her education, her travels, and her continued struggles in raising her six children.
“I have been through so much hardship and growth in my life,” Alejandra tells me, “that I often feel like I could write a fascinating book.”
“Oh, I definitely think you should do that.” I respond encouragingly.
After actually practicing some Spanish grammar for a couple of hours, Alejandra and I spend our final hour together discussing ancient Mayan Spirituality.
I learn that Alejandra was raised by her parents to believe in the Catholic religion, but when she went to the University she began to question her beliefs. Her grandfather still believed in the ancient Mayan spiritual practices, and Alejandra learned a great deal from him.
Alejandra teaches me about the “Naguales” (spirits) that accompany us in our life. She tells me about Mayan rituals and fire ceremonies, and gives me a little insight into the symbolism of various offerings that are placed around the fire.
How I wish I had a tape recording of our conversation. My little mind is so incapable of absorbing it all, and much of what she shared is already forgotten.
As I walk away from my final class on Friday afternoon, I giggle inside while I pinch myself.
I love how the universe works.
It’s In Every One Of Us
Friday afternoon, as I began to think of weekend writing and future travels, a beautiful song was repeating over and over in my mind.
After having finished “The Alchemist” on Thursday night, I had been immersed in a radiating state of peaceful energy and joyful emotion. With a small amount of time to spare, I followed an intuitive feeling and pulled out my IPOD. A sixth sense told me that some music may be calling to me. While scanning through my library, I felt unexpectedly guided to a small collection of songs that a friend had shared with me a few years back. As I opened up the album’s playlist to see what was inside, I became fixated on one song—a beautiful song that I had completely forgotten about—a song that was now calling deeply to my soul.
As I lay on my pillow on Thursday evening, I continuously replayed this inspiring song—over and over—only stopping when sleep consumed my consciousness.
For most of Friday, Saturday—and now as I continue writing on Sunday—I continue to reflect on the song and its powerful words of truth. The beautiful song fits perfectly with the inspiring story of a young man who learned to recognize the signals of the Universe as he pursued the path that was laid out before him by his heart—his “Personal Story”.
This song was written by David Pomeranz, and has been performed by a great number of famous singers. Every time I listen to the words, I am deeply inspired.
Following are the complete lyrics.
If you wish to listen along, I found this website where you can listen to the song for free: http://woodbadge.ws/songs/itsineveryoneofus.aspx
It’s In Every One Of Us
Words and Music by: David Pomeranz
[Main:]
It’s in every one of us, to be wise
Find your heart, open up both your eyes
We can all know everything, without ever knowing why
It’s in every one of us, by and by
… Repeat [Main]
It’s in every one of us, I just remembered
It’s like I’ve been sleeping for years
I’m not awake as I can be, but my seeing’s better
I can see, through the tears
I’ve been realizing that, I’ve bought this ticket
And watching only half of the show
But there is scenery and lights
And a cast of thousands
You all know, what I know
And it’s good, that it’s so
… Repeat [Main]
It’s in every one of us, by and by
I have no doubt that I have a divine spark, a divine purpose, a “Personal Story” that lives in my heart. This personal story desperately wants to be explored, to be lived, to be realized. Yes, this divine connection to infinite wisdom lives in me, just as it lives in every one of us.
My heart knows the way. All of our hearts know the way. Our hearts have always known the way.
But well meaning people unknowingly taught me to put my heart into a cage—teaching me to live a normal traditional life—warning me that an untamed heart will only create problems and cause trouble.
But when my heart is caged, I know that I can never be truly happy.
I know that the most powerful thing I can do in my life is to strengthen my ability to communicate with my heart, to continue opening both of my eyes to the “personal story” that patiently waits to speak through me.
Each of our hearts is waiting for us to listen, and to follow. When listened to, our hearts can teach us the mysteries of the universe. We can learn everything. We don’t need logic and reason. We don’t need to know “why?”
I feel as if I am finally beginning to remember—to gradually wake up from a sleep that has kept me in darkness through much of my life. As my vision and intuition continually improve, I am amazed by the new wonders that appear in my awareness. I truly have been seeing only half of the show, and I so desperately want to see more.
Moving Into Mystery
This morning, I said my loving and grateful, hug-filled goodbyes to my incredible hostess, Jaqueline and her family.
Today I finish my writing.
Tomorrow, I enter another phase of my journey. I feel guided to a place called San Marcos, situated on what I am told is the beautiful Lago (lake) de Atitlan in western Guatemala.
I am not yet sure, but I will most likely be participating in a month-long spiritual retreat that begins with the full moon on Wednesday. All I know for certain is that today I am being pulled in that direction. Tomorrow the voices of my heart may indicate another minor course correction.
The mystery of not knowing is beautiful.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved