Note: This is a continuation from my previous blog titled “Terrifying Trigger Traumas.”
Butterflies of curiosity, adventure, and apprehension all take turns dancing around in my abdomen as I stare out the large thick windows of my bus, watching the countryside of southern Mexico disappear behind me. The bus driver frequently pulls off the main highway to wind his way through small towns, picking up and dropping off passengers as we continue the journey northward.
After nearly four hours, we pull into yet another of those towns. I have been carefully paying attention to the highway signs, wanting to make sure I do not miss my destination. As we slow down and make our way through a sleepy run-down residential neighborhood, the driver suddenly stops. When I look up and read the sign on a tiny tienda (neighborhood store), I realize it is time for me to get off the bus.
Throwing my backpack over my shoulders, I stumble into the extremely tiny bus stop with a puzzled look on my face. There are no other businesses around, and the few bus routes listed on a sign hung on the wall do not contain any familiar names.
“How do I find a bus to Puerto Escondido?” I ask a man behind the counter, using my best Spanish.
“Go two blocks straight that way, turn left, and go two blocks more,” the man responds.
I am actually quite delighted that I understand the directions given to me. Within seconds, I set off on foot, filled with confidence. Glancing down at my watch, I note that it is 4:45 p.m.. Common sense tells me that it might be wise to find a hotel here in Ariaga, but I do not see anything like that around here, and a hunch tells me to keep going.
A Variety of Scenery
After a ten-minute walk in the afternoon sun, as I begin to drip from the heavy humidity, I giggle when a large modern bus station comes into view.
“I need a bus to Puerto Escondido,” I ask a ticket attendant with a questioning-but-hopeful tone of voice.
“There are no buses to Puerto Escondido here,” the woman responds with a tired look on her face, “but a bus to Juchitlan is leaving right now. If you hurry, you can still catch it. You will be able to find more buses there.”
Literally, thirty seconds later I am climbing on board an older bus, much more dilapidated than the first, blindly trusting very subtle inner feelings that continue to say, “Keep going.”
The three-hour ride takes me through a variety of scenery, both inside the bus and out. The most interesting thing on the outside turns out to be a long stretch filled with mile after mile of huge windmill farms. The most interesting thing inside the bus becomes the frequent and futile attempts I make to politely disengage from a very drunk man who starts by asking me what time it is. He then quickly migrates to the seat beside me, persistently attempting to engage me in conversation. I finally have to be somewhat firm and rude, telling him I just need some space right now.
Finally, at around 8:00 p.m., the bus pulls into a large modern station – the end of our journey. I giggle when I walk up to the ticket counter and discover that there are several buses that leave for Puerto Escondido, early tomorrow morning. I purchase a ticket for one that leaves at 7:30 a.m. – hoping to catch a little much-needed sleep.
Trusting My Gut
A quick glance at the surrounding dark streets reveals a couple of hotels and a wide variety of street-food vendors. Feeling tired, I pay for a room at the first hotel that I see. My only requirement is a decent price and a comfortable bed. The fact that the room has air conditioning, even though it is extremely noisy, is but a luxurious afterthought.
After perusing many street-food vendors, none of which appeals to my senses, I check with my inner guidance. It feels perfectly safe to walk a couple of blocks in unlit seedy-feeling darkness as I make my way to a large modern grocery store – one that I remember having seen on the way into town. With a few bananas, and bread/pastry items in my cart, I stop at the deli counter and gobble down some cold stale Hawaiian pizza. This is my second day of nearly nonstop traveling – my second day of scarce eating, with little time for a decent meal other than that fried chicken I had for breakfast this morning – a morning that seems like weeks ago. The apples, nuts, and bread that I brought with me from San Marcos are beginning to get old. Anything different seems quite delicious.
Early Saturday morning, after a relaxing shower, and a quick snack of bananas and bread, I hurry across the street, muddle through the process of boarding yet another bus, and head off into the sunrise. It seems quite strange to be heading west with the sun at my back. Contrary to how it might seem in my head, this part of the Mexican coastline runs mostly east to west, much of which is decorated by sandy beaches.
A glance at my sketchy whole-country map leads me to believe that this final journey should only take a few hours. Having done no advance travel research, I had no idea that I would find myself winding on narrow roads, up, down, and around hills, while squeezing through frequent construction sites.
After more than eight hours of exhausting and slow travel, I finally step out into the intense humidity of Puerto Escondido at 4:00 p.m.. As I stand on the street near the bus station, I find myself on a hill, overlooking the busy tourist town below – too busy and touristy for what I desire. But right now, all I want to do is eat and sleep.
“I will stay here tonight and figure out how to get to Mazunte tomorrow,” I ponder what feels like a plan.
Following The Flow
Rather than pay for a taxi, I lift my backpack onto my shoulders and begin to walk toward the beach area, which from my hillside vista appears to be about a mile away. After crossing the highway and walking less than 50 yards, already dripping with sweat from the heat and humidity, I feel an urge to step into the shade as I walk past a white bus parked in front of a small restaurant.
“Where do you want to go?” a nearby craft vendor suddenly asks me in Spanish.
“I’m thinking I will go down to the beaches here in town tonight, and then go to Mazunte tomorrow,” I respond with exhaustion.
“This bus right here will take you to Mazunte,” The man quickly shares. “These buses run all day long, leaving every fifteen minutes, and only cost twenty-six pesos.”
“I think I will go to Mazunte today,” I respond with a grin after a twenty-second pause for inner reflection.
Ten minutes later, a hot window breeze dries my sweat as the small run-down chicken-bus-like transport whisks me back to the east on my way to my intended final destination.
“This is where you need to get off,” the driver suddenly tells me about forty-five minutes later.
“I thought you went to Mazunte?” I ask with a puzzled look.
“No, but you can catch other transportation here that will take you there,” he responds.
A Stubborn Stare-down
With a tired giggle on my face, I grab my belongings and find a concrete ledge to sit on, hoping for some type of public collective to pass by. I watch with disinterest as a taxi occasionally drives by. I do not want to pay the more expensive rates of a taxi; I want to take a minivan or a pickup truck.
Twenty minutes later, as the skies appear increasingly ominous, a taxi pulls up and offers to take me to Mazunte for fifty pesos (about $4.00 US).
“No thank you,” I respond confidently. “I am waiting for a collectivo.”
“There are only taxis here … no collectivos,” the driver responds.
A hunch tells me the driver is conning me (and I later find out that my hunch was right), but as I stand here looking at rain clouds, I decide to negotiate.
“I will pay thirty pesos,” I respond with hesitation.
“No less than forty pesos,” the driver makes a counter offer.
“No, I will not pay more than thirty,” I respond with stubbornness, not budging, just standing there staring at the road and nearby scenery.
“For forty I will take you straight to your cabaña (cabin),” the driver again makes his lowest offer.
Finally, after several minutes of stubbornly ignoring the driver’s offer, I surrender and give in. A cloudburst feels imminent, and I have no desire to get soaking wet, especially with my luggage. Fifteen minutes later, I am checked in to a little family run beach hotel. I am in a balcony room, with a view of the beach looking off to the east, just a flight of stairs away from white squishy sand and pounding surf – and the best part is that I am only paying $16 US per night.
New Hope
It is just after 6:00 p.m., almost dark, when I step out of my little “posada” (small hotel) in search of food. I love the hot humid air, the sound of crashing surf, and the laid-back feeling of this little, non-commercial, quiet town. It seems to be a place designed for tourists, having many small restaurant options and tiny hotels – but at this time of year (still rainy season) there are very few people around. I have the place mostly to myself.
After three long days of travel and sketchy meals, I find great pleasure in a cool shower, a good filling meal, and a relaxing sleep – even if the bed isn’t the most comfortable in the world – even with the sound of the beautiful surf being so loud that ear plugs are required to lower the intense sound waves.
As this beautiful Sunday evening comes to a close, emotional struggles have mostly moved into the background. I am present, following glimpses of guidance, hoping for new beginnings.
Relaxation Paradise
I enjoy a beautiful relaxing week, dominated by hot and humid sauna-like days with sunny skies – a heat that causes me to guzzle more than three liters of fluids every day.
I explore beaches on a daily basis. At first, I dare not venture beyond the surf, several times getting beaten down to the sand by unexpected wave surges. I feel the power of these turbulent waters – power that, like my emotions, could sweep me off my feet if I am not careful. Later in the week, I find the courage to swim beyond the breakers as I learn to trust that the currents are safe and will not carry me away into the blue expanse beyond. Several times when I return for a shower, I can only giggle to discover a great deal of scratchy coarse sand hidden in my swimsuit.
I take a day to hike to a nearby mountainous peninsula, doing so at midday in the hottest part of the grueling sun. In retrospect, I can giggle, but at the time, I am in the early stages of heat exhaustion as my water runs out. I never lose trust and peace, but I do repeatedly grab onto beautiful trees, asking them to share energy with me, giving me the strength to hike back to town. The amazing part is that each time that I do this, I feel a rush of energetic tingles giving me a boost of courage to continue to the next tree – to keep going on my journey back to civilization and a refreshing cold soft drink.
And during my abundant free time, I devour a recreational novel, and continue listening to ACIM and several inspirational speakers on my IPOD – doing so on a frequent basis.
Fruit Fun
Early in the week, I take a day to learn about local collectivos, taking a thirty-minute ride to the town of Pochutla where I make an ATM stop and explore travel options across the mountain range to the city of Oaxaca – my next probable destination. The highlight of that little day trip takes place on the way home, after having searched and finally found a pickup transport that will take me directly to Mazunte, passing right by the spot where the taxi driver picked me up earlier in the week.
As I munch away on a large plastic cup of fruit that I bought in the Pochutla market, an older man suddenly reaches out his hand. When I look into his eyes, I am met with an exhausted grin. I feel his love and I feel his need. With a giggle in my heart, I hand him the peace of yummy cantaloupe that I was about to devour. Ten minutes later, just as I am about to eat the juiciest piece of watermelon, out comes that hand for a second time. Again, I smile with love as the cool juicy treat disappears into this beautiful hungry man’s mouth. As I near the bottom of my cup, I save the final piece of pineapple for him, handing it to him just before he gets off at his stop.
Dolphins And Turtles
Perhaps the most magical nature experiences of my week begin with spending a few hours in a turtle museum, observing up close a huge variety of live turtles, followed by a heart-warming video.
The next day, I join an early morning half-day tour – a ride out into the ocean on a small launcha. After frequently passing by and stopping to observe many large turtles out in the wild, a small family of dolphins begins to play nearby. They seem to be teasing us, playfully coming close and then darting away, quickly disappearing. Finally, at the prodding of several passengers, including me, the driver stops and allows us to put on our snorkel gear.
I eagerly search for one of those dolphins, hoping for an up close encounter, but they only tease us by swimming away into the distance … leaving my wish unfulfilled.
Later, on our return voyage back to the beach we do stop, however, and swim with a few of the many large sea turtles, or tortugas as they are called in Spanish.
I find great pleasure just playing tourist, letting go of burdens and cares, getting a glimpse of renewed play and fun.
Brewing Emotional Crisis
Thursday morning, September 27, I make a daily stroll over to the only internet café in town. I want to check my email, but am totally unprepared for the emotional backlash that is about to knock me off my feet, kick me fiercely in the gut, and wildly drag me beneath the waves while mercilessly rubbing my face in the rough metaphorical sand.
Before explaining this crazy assault by a Pandora’s box of volcanic emotions, I probably need to add a little background.
Ever since mid-July, Keith had been off traveling in the United States with two main projects in mind. One project was working with some videographers on the East Coast with a goal to produce a documentary about empaths. The other project was engaging in traveling chocolate ceremonies along the eastern seaboard and across the southern states, with a slight possibility that he might have time left over at the end to do some ceremonies in Utah, Arizona, and California.
Deep inside of me, an attached (and perhaps ego-based) longing had been brewing, hoping for some type of inner guidance telling me to fly to the east coast to participate in the documentary. Another stewing desire was that if and when Keith did make it to Utah, then I would really like to be there to participate in ceremonies with my friends.
But to my confusion, none of that guidance had ever materialized. Instead, I had begun to swim in the emotional swamp of putrid projections, drowning in bouts of misplaced anger and resentment while Keith continued to follow his magical journey in the United States. In fact, it was some of the many posts related to his stateside ceremonies that had triggered me so deeply.
From what little sketchy information I occasionally gleaned from random Facebook posts, it seemed quite clear that Keith would not have time to make it to Utah during this round of travels. Therefore, I had felt quite confident in following my own guidance – letting go of a deep desire to possibly travel back to Utah – clearly knowing that my journey was on the inside, by myself, in my own way, in my own place – the very journey that has now brought me to Mazunte.
Besides, given my emotional state of the last several few weeks, even if I did attempt to temporarily join with Keith in his tour, I clearly recognize that I would not be capable of contributing in any positive manner. That “I-am-a-loser-and-a-failure” energy is the last thing I want to take back to family and friends.
Pressurized Rage
As I eagerly open my emails on this beautiful last Thursday of September, I discover one from Keith, joyfully informing me that his plans have shifted at the last minute, unexpectedly opening up a few weeks of time for him to travel to Utah, Arizona, and California. In fact, his plans are to be in Utah, doing ceremonies with my friends, NEXT weekend … and he wants MY help in making connections to fill up his schedule on days that are not yet already spoken for.
In retrospect, I joyfully giggle at how my inner creation set up this entire painful manifestation – clearly seeing the purity and innocence of Keith doing magical ceremonies in my home stomping grounds – and I take deep delight in hearing feedback about how some amazing people were deeply blessed by his visit with them.
But in the moment, on that doomsday Thursday morning, my entire world seems to suddenly collapse as pure rage violently erupts inside. It is all I can do to contain that pressurized rage before I return to my hotel room.
“How dare Keith do this to me!” the angry inner chatter spews with fury. “How dare he not give me time and advance notice so that perhaps I could have been there too! How dare he blah, blah, blah, ad infinitum.”
As if without control, I dive into the toxic cesspool of my twisted emotional projections – of my own self-hatred and repressed inner anger.
What is funny is that I had never asked Keith to give me advance notice, and I had never clearly expressed any deep desire to be there. I had always trusted that if I was supposed to be there, then my guidance would take me there. In fact, my journey of the last several weeks had continuously been one filled with so much pain that I frequently believed I would never again have the slightest desire to even observe a chocolate ceremony, let alone participate actively.
I clearly knew in mid July that my journey for at least the short term would be a solo one – that I desperately needed alone time to clear my head, to find my own inner footing, and to reconnect with me and my own once-very-active guidance.
Hanging On
Shell-shocked from this email and a couple of other especially boastful boisterous postings by another friend, I return to the privacy of my room as quickly as possible.
As if back in Kamikaze mode, I chew up 1.5 ounces of chocolate and wash it down with water, determined to get to the bottom of this emotion – determined to heal another paralyzing layer of dysfunction.
Without waiting for the chocolate to even kick in, I begin to sob – and I sob for what feels like hours, hanging on to a thread of observer mode, as an intensely emotional afternoon is the only forecast on my horizon.
As the emotions finally settle, I attempt to meditate, but the swirling energetic storm in my head makes it impossible to focus. Eventually, I give up and try something different, going out for a swim, listening to some music, seeking for something to stabilize and soothe that inner hurricane.
Finally, peace returns, this layer of emotional density has been released – but as usual, I did it on the “hard bus” and was not fully successful in detaching and not identifying with it. In fact, I am clear that I reenergized much of it and stuffed it back down inside for later processing.
Sleep is fleeting, eluding me till well into early Friday morning.
Purity And innocence
Friday morning, the flash flood is over. I am exhausted but feeling much better. I spend time being gentle with myself, allowing space for a lazy relaxed morning, listening to another chapter of ACIM, and finally returning to the internet café.
With great peace, I send loving and helpful email responses to Keith, along with various forms of communications to others regarding his upcoming travels to Utah, doing everything I can to facilitate Keith’s pending magical visit, resigning myself with love that this is the right and only thing to do.
In the afternoon, I begin listening to one of my favorite ACIM teachers and authors, one whose words had formerly helped me in profound ways.
As expected, listening to one of Gary Renard’s audio presentations on my IPOD helps me deeply and lovingly reconnect with a profound truth – that at the root of my healing, a pure form of forgiveness is the key. This is not a form of forgiveness that forgives others for what they have done. On the contrary, it is a form of forgiveness that involves seeing everything on the outside as being my creation, as exactly what I manifested for my healing. It is a form of forgiveness that involves seeing the purity and innocence of everything and everyone, and in recognizing that nothing was ever done to me by anyone. My time spent in this task of remembering what I already know is profoundly valuable.
It becomes obviously clear that all of my struggles are on the inside, that no one has done anything to me, that my journey now is to return to finding that same purity and innocence in my inner world – something so simple but so illusive.
I spend a great deal of the afternoon in magical meditation – the first of many in the week to come.
I spend the evening listening to fun, mood-lightening, healing music. What a beautiful day … what a beautiful contrast to the doomsday end-of-world scenario from yesterday.
It is only from sheer exhaustion that I fall asleep late on this Friday evening.
Profoundly Eager
After another relaxing day of swimming, collecting shells, and listening to inspirational audio, I duel with a vicious killer mosquito that snuck into my room like a Trojan horse, marauding my bed, laying siege to my exposed arms and head, stabbing me with his stinging bites. Finally, I just giggle and surrender.
It has been a long and beautiful week of healing. Yes, I had yet another Terrible Tantrum of Traumatic Projection – but I pulled it inside, I dealt with it, I found love for it, and I released it. I am peaceful and prepared to deal with any additional layers of that proverbial onion that may surface.
Tomorrow morning I will set off on a new adventure – a journey that will take me over the top of wild and rugged mountains and then back into the high-mountain valleys of the state of Oaxaca – to the city of Oaxaca.
I have no idea what awaits me, or how long I will stay, but I am profoundly eager to move into yet another new experience.
A Sunrise Journey
By 6:50 a.m. on Sunday morning, September 30, 2012, I find myself standing on a dark street in the center of tiny Mazunte. With my backpack in tow, I wait, and wait for the public collective pickup truck that is supposed to pass by every twenty minutes or so. By 7:15 a.m., the sun begins to rise, and I still wait, and wait, and wait.
Finally, at 7:45 a.m. a collective taxi stops in front of me.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“Pochutla,” I respond, “How much?”
When his answer is only 10 pesos (about 80 cents for a twenty-five minute taxi ride), I smile and respond “Si,” quickly loading my backpack into the trunk before tightly squeezing myself into the only remaining spot of the back seat.
Three Little Bears
By 9:15 a.m., I am sitting “shotgun” (right front passenger seat for those who might now know) in a privately operated minivan shuttle service, just beginning what will likely be a six-hour ride across the rugged mountaintops from Pochutla to Oaxaca.
Three hours later, after winding through breathtaking scenery dotted with high mountain indigenous villages, I find myself eating a sandwich and banana in a tiny bus stop at the very top of the mountains. It is amazing to think that just three hours ago I was living in hot, humid, swimsuit weather. Now, as I munch away on my sandwich, nearly everyone I see is wearing a heavy coat and a ski cap. It really is quite cold at this altitude.
Soon, we begin our descent toward Oaxaca. On the way from Tapachula to Mazunte, I had been quite fascinated when the buses I was on were repeatedly stopped at military and other police checkpoints – something that happened at least ten to fifteen times during those long two days of travel. On at least five or six occasions, soldiers actually boarded the bus and walked up and down the aisles, profiling people for whatever they were looking for. On one occasion, two soldiers had randomly searched everyone’s bags, including mine.
Today, I am even more surprised when our minivan is again stopped at a checkpoint, and this time, every pocket of my large backpack is opened and casually searched. I simply smile and cooperate.
Finally, at shortly before 4:00 p.m., the minivan parks at a small station somewhere in the city of Oaxaca. I have no idea where I am, or how far I am from the center of town, so I simply start asking questions. Minutes later, I am trudging toward the “Zocalo”, or historical town square … periodically stopping at random hotels to check out their rates. I barely have time to find a room just a block from the town square before a huge downpour empties the park and turns the streets into rivers.
I can only giggle when I realize how, even though I love the location, my room is flooded with loud traffic noise, and under siege by a colony of “teensy weensy” cockroaches living in the bathroom doorframe. Nevertheless, I am thoroughly enjoying my new digs.
As I ponder back, I can only giggle at the parallel of “Three Little Bears.” In the course of a single day, I came from a place that was “very hot” to one that was definitely “too cold” and finally ended up in one that was “just right.”
Ruins, Black Clay, And Flash Floods
Early Monday morning, after a failed attempt to contact or locate my friend Conny who lives somewhere in Oaxaca, I purchase a ticket for a tour of the nearby ruins of “Monte Alban” – a tour that also includes a visit to an old monastery, a wood carving shop, and a fascinating “black clay” pottery maker.
That evening, I just giggle with excitement while watching an intense river of water run down the street below my window as another huge downpour literally drenches the city. In places, the flow is more than a foot deep. I can only assume that this is not an uncommon experience for this city, as there does not appear to be an adequate storm drain system for such cloudbursts.
Rapid Movement
Tuesday, after finally learning that my friend Conny happens to be in Germany right now, I set off on another adventure, following several marked-off walking tours on a tourist map.
This beautiful city overflows with amazing history and culture, and I love the town square just a block from my hotel. It hustles and bustles with colorful flare of every variety, and is a fascinating place just to sit while watching people.
But today is not a sitting day. As I later look at the maps, I figure that I probably walked over 70 city blocks, with at least seven miles of walking, and I also stood on my feet for over three hours while enjoying my favorite treat of the day … a beautiful visit to the fascinating museum and Cathedral at “Santo Domingo de Guzman.”
As I go to bed, again attempting to ignore street noise, random car alarms, and late-night cockroaches in the bathroom, I lightly massage my exhausted and sore feet before drifting off to sleep.
But three nights in this place is all I can handle. Another task I fulfilled during the walking yesterday is that I discovered a cute little quiet hotel on a beautifully decorated indoor courtyard – just four blocks away – and it is even cheaper than where I am at.
Early Wednesday morning, I pack up and move to my new location before spending another magical day playing tourist – this time heading off on a tour that takes me to the historical tree at Tule, the beautiful scenery of “Hierve El Agua,” a textile weaver, a Mezcal factory, and the ruins of Mitla.
I am quite enjoying this tourist stuff and I love my new hotel room.
No Thank you
Thursday is a much-needed day of rest and meditation – one that I spend almost entirely in the Zocalo – the magical historical center of Oaxaca.
Friday begins with more walking tours. I just love the fascinating historical buildings in this town, especially the old churches. I cannot explain it, but these old cathedrals, churches and chapels just carry a historical energy that resonates with something inside me.
But the highlight of my Friday afternoon is an unexpected encounter with a young eight-year-old girl named Jenni.
As I often do when visiting large cities in this part of the world, I get in the mood for a burger fix, and in Oaxaca, there just happens to be a Burger King near the center of town. I find myself visiting this place frequently during the time that I am here. Some may judge me for it, but I choose not to take that judgment personally. I am not a particular lover of the restaurant menus in my travels, and for me, a burger just hits the spot.
As I stand in front of the soft drink machine to fill my cup, a young girl walks up and stares at me. She is carrying a heavy vendor basket of gums, candies, and various handmade nick knacks, and I just assume she wants to sell me something.
“No gracias,” I tell her with a smile, “No necesito nada.”
A Lesson In Sharing, A Lesson In Love
As I place my tray on the table and slide into my seat, I note with deep curiosity that the young girl follows me, sits down at my table, and continues to stare at me.
She reminds me of the begging dogs that often walk up to me in a San Marcos restaurant. They are so cute as they walk up, place their chin on a chair and look up into my face with those longing “who me?” eyes.
I begin to feel extremely guilty as I put that first French fry in my mouth.
I have to say that I frequently give small amounts to street beggars, usually only doing so when an inner nudge tells me “give to this one or that one.” As I have walked around Oaxaca, I could easily spend an entire day’s budget simply by passing out a few pesos to every beggar who puts out a cup or bowl in front of me, asking for a hand up. Some of them are playing instruments, some are blind or disabled in some other way, and some are women carrying infants. It breaks my heart to see such poverty, but I also know that I can only give so much.
At times, it can be overwhelming and I shut down the generosity. This experience starts out as one of those times. I begin to feel deeply annoyed by what I perceive as the skill by which this young girl uses her charm and technique to seemingly manipulate me.
“Can I have a French fry?” The young girl finally asks boldly.
I quickly hand her one, still feeling resistant to her skillful presence. The beautiful young girl eats the French fry very slowly. When she is done, I hand her another one. As I do so, I begin to remember how I was not even going to order a combo anyway, how I didn’t even really want my French fries today. Soon, my resistance melts and I freely share, even to the point of offering to buy her a meal of her own.
“No thank you,” she responds lovingly. “What I really have right now is thirst.”
My heart melts, and as we talk, I tell her that as soon as I finish my meal, I will use my cup to get one final refill and give it to her. I ignore the guilt that tells me “this is against the rules.” I know that if I did not give that last refill to her, I would probably fill it up and take it with me anyway.
In the course of our beautiful conversation, I learn that her name is Jenni, that she is eight years old, and that she lives in one of the outlying suburbs of Oaxaca. She comes to the city every day with her mother. Her job is to sell things, and on a good day, if she sells enough, she can use a little of the money to buy herself some lunch so she won’t go hungry.
“When I don’t sell anything, I don’t get to eat,” Jenni tells me with loving humility, “and today is one of those bad days where I haven’t sold anything.”
I fall in love with this young girl, wishing I had been more generous and open from the start. Soon, as I prepare to say goodbye to my new friend, a woman who was sitting and observing with her family just a short distance away also stops at the table and hands Jenni another half bag of French fries. I find it hard to hold back the tears when Jenni offers to share those precious fries with me.
Time To Return
For the rest of the week, I mostly hang out in the center of town, observing people, taking in the culture, listening to my IPOD, including additional chapters of ACIM. In fact, I have almost finished the entire series of recordings. But my favorite continues to be more workshops on forgiveness as taught by Gary Renard. I feel alive, reconnected, and fully ready to return to San Marcos with a new focus on my inner healing journey.
If it were not for the fact that my friend Conny was returning to Oaxaca on Sunday, I would probably begin my journey home tomorrow, but because of Conny’s begging, asking me if I can please stay longer so we can visit, I decide to stay for yet another few days.
It is Sunday afternoon, October 7, when I finally meet my long-lost friend at a little coffee shop in the center of town. Conny is the woman from Germany who inspired my journey south into Belize and Guatemala – a fellow traveler that gave me a tour book on Christmas day, 2009, in Valladolid, Yucatan, Mexico. We have inspired each other, as she also gives me credit for inspiring her to have the courage to return to Mexico and live in Oaxaca.
After a short visit on Sunday, Conny and I make plans to spend most of Monday together. She has just arrived from two days of long air/bus travel herself, and she needs her rest. It is late on Monday afternoon when I make the final decision that it is time to begin my return journey to San Marcos. Conny walks with me to show me where the bus station is – perhaps a half mile from her house.
Home In A Flash
After a final relaxed morning in my room on Wednesday, I check out of my hotel and walk seventeen blocks with a heavy backpack. Conny has kindly offered to let me hang out at her house while I wait for my bus that leaves shortly after 7:00 p.m. tonight. It is a delightful visit, one with deep spiritual conversation at times. I love my friend.
Finally, at 6:30 p.m., not especially looking forward to an all-night bus ride, I walk with Conny to the ADO bus station, thank her, give her a huge hug, and set out into the night.
Thirteen hours later, with very little actual sleep, I step out of the ADO station in Tapachula … full circle back to my original Mexico destination. An hour later, after two combi rides, I am leaving Mexican customs and walking across that same wide bridge, again giggling in the sweating heat as I watch large rafts floating across the river with cargo and people.
Once I am through the border, I hire a bicycle taxi to carry me on a fifteen-minute ride to the local chicken-bus terminal. From there I easily catch an old beat-up bus to Coatepec, where I catch another to Xela. It does not matter that I accidently catch a bus that takes a different, winding, high-mountain route to Xela. The cold mountain air and beautiful views simply carry me back in time to a similar trip in a minivan, climbing over the mountains to Oaxaca, just ten long days ago.
From Xela, I am back in familiar territory, catching my final bus at 12:30 p.m. – a bus that will drop me off in San Pablo, just a short Tuk-Tuk ride away from San Marcos. As I finally step into my apartment at around 2:30 p.m., I am exhausted but energized. In only about twenty hours, I made the same journey that took me the better portion of three days on my way north.
At least for now, I feel as if I am back home … grounded … centered … connected … alive and at peace … trusting that all is well … and prepared to follow whatever future guidance is on its way.
Potluck Triggers
The first week back in San Marcos is peaceful. I get online and begin to download a few Kindle Books, engaging in spiritual reading, locating and reading one of my favorite books “Ten Secrets for Success and Inner Peace” by Wayne Dyer, plus beginning to read “The Power of Now” by Eckhart Tolle. I loved “A New Earth” but had never gotten around to reading his other writings. I find the reading to be deeply therapeutic.
I continue to remain in a good state, avoiding triggers, downloading on the internet, running errands, doing a little hiking, and shopping across the lake.
Occasionally I get triggered by something, but at least for now, find it much easier to not get sucked into that Pandora’s Box of hypnotizing trauma.
It is not until a week later, on Tuesday, October 16, that the triggers being to reach their gnarly hands out of that box trying to grab me by the neck. A friend invites me to a birthday party – but it will be a potluck (I don’t like cooking for others), and there will be lots of young magical people there who have triggered me in the past. I won’t go into further detail, but several other things that my friend shares about the party cause me to cringe with fear of possible projection. Parties with the younger San Marcos crowd are still one of my biggest fears right now. I cannot explain it, but a huge number of inner childhood social issues get triggered just thinking about it.
Even so, I attempt to ignore my triggers, and keep my options open, actually considering attending … actually considering facing my triggers.
A River Runs Through Me
Over the course of the next few days, I find myself increasingly triggered by random things – things related to social issues and chocolate – things not really worth rehashing in public – things that are deep childhood insecurities projected outward.
Thursday, October 18, 2012, I return to Panajachel and spend the day at an internet café, spending several hours talking to my dear friend Rose.
To my unexpected horror, I again lose myself in a swamp of heavy hopeless emotion as I make a simple attempt to share what I have been going through in the last few weeks. Just the mere act of attempting to talk about it causes me to intensely re-live it, again and again. I feel deeply embarrassed that all I can do on the phone is blubber my way through repressed sobs.
I absolutely know this emotion has no present day cause. I know it makes no sense based on current circumstances. Yet it is profoundly real, as if a powerful current of old teenage pain is running through me like an intense swampy river … as if the emotion originated only yesterday … as if I were somehow betrayed in the worst way, even though it has been years since anything even close to perception of betrayal actually took place in my life.
At one point during our Skype conversation, the internet connection dies. As I wait for a chance to reconnect, I begin to feel much better. When I finally do reestablish that link, Rose is unable to hear my side of the conversation.
Feeling stunned by the wild intensity of emotion that just burst through me, I eventually return to San Marcos in a state of shock.
Isolation To The Max
After I get home, my friend stops by to remind me about the party tonight.
“I am not going,” I tell her as emotions again violently bubble out of me.
I cry some more, desperately not wanting this emotion to publicly flow … feeling like such a loser that the emotions are still so strong … so uncontrollable.
“It has to be the intense vortex energy of this place (San Marcos),” I tell myself, “combined with the fact that this emotion really is still inside of me. I don’t know if I am capable of living here any more. I can’t handle these crazy emotional outbursts.”
In deep emotional exhaustion, I isolate and spend the rest of the day watching videos – videos that unexpectedly trigger many past transgender pains to rise to the surface.
Dropping all resistance, I find myself in a deep sobbing release process. By 8:30 p.m., I am in bed, and I sleep remarkably well, considering.
Good Intentions and Imaginary Scenarios
Friday is a day of good intentions … of attempting to meditate and read spiritual books … but emotions quickly cause me to surrender, to isolate, and to just watch more videos.
By mid afternoon, I am again in deep emotional release. I begin to question everything, clearly recognizing that what I am doing is just not working … clearly believing that my journey on Keith’s porch has been deeply real and valuable … clearly understanding that what is coming up and out is real pain that continues to be hidden deep inside of me.
“But I can’t do it this way anymore,” I tell myself in exhaustion, recognizing that I am still trying to process all this emotional density on the hard bus – doing it without the assistance of higher energies.
“And I can’t seem to switch to the easy bus,” I express in frustration. “No matter what I do, no matter how I try to allow higher dimensional assistance, I always hit that un-climbable glass wall and fail.”
It is also becoming increasingly obvious, on a daily basis, that the stuff that is flooding through me has absolutely nothing to do with present-day perceived reality – that the floodgates of inner repressed pain are manifesting imaginary scenarios to trigger this stuff to come up and out.
I am terrified to go on. I know this emotion is real. I know it is toxic. I know it is suicidal. And I know it is coming up whether I like it or not. The frightening part is that when it does come up, in even the tiniest of ways, I soon find myself being hopelessly sucked into it with full force.
An Impossible Path
Early Saturday morning, October 20, 2012, I awaken from a very vivid dream.
I was with an unknown male friend, standing at the top of a tall cliff, perhaps rising a thousand feet or more above a beautiful sandy beach below. As I look closer, I note that I see some type of road winding with switchbacks, back and forth down the cliff to the gorgeous bay and surf-filled waters that dance and play at the bottom of the cliff, far below me.
At the beginning of the road, just to my left, I see an expensive house. Initially, I quickly assume that the road must be private property and hesitate to follow it. But when I notice several beach houses below, at the bottom of the road, I realize that it is a public access path and I begin to make my way down the cliff. Soon, after several switchbacks, my friend and I come to an extremely narrow spot in the rock. What was once a beautiful road wide enough for a vehicle has now unexpectedly become less than a foot wide.
Suddenly, terror consumes me as I also notice that what is left of the path is also steeply slopped downward, and that there are no visible handholds on the cliff on which I can place my hands for stability. I am acutely aware that if I dare venture forward – if I make one false step – if I slip in even the slightest way – that I would certainly fall to my probable death on the jagged rocks below.
While standing there, locked in terror, I am shocked when my male companion steps in front of me and keeps going, easily working his way to a spot below where the road again begins to widen. He quickly disappears around a bend far below.
I remain frozen in my tracks, in a state of panic, refusing to go on, clinging to the cliff beside me.
Then, I watch again with surprise as several women come up from below. The first struggles to make her way up the narrow spot, resorting to rock climbing techniques to get to the top, but she succeeds.
I continue clinging tightly to my safe spot, frozen in utter fear, staring at my impossible obstacle, refusing to go on … and then I wake up from the vivid dream, still feeling the intense fear.
An Un-climbable Wall
As I meditate, the meaning of the dream is obvious. Everything is deeply symbolic of where I am at right now in my spiritual journey … in healing these frightening layers of my childhood issues.
These remaining core issues – the ones that continue to reach up and grab me with intensity – are representing the healing path that lies in front of me. I have too much fear to go on, absolutely knowing that I cannot make this journey under my own power. It is only later that I realize the male friend was one of my guides – a man who easily slipped right by the obstacle. In the dream, I did not even think about calling to him and asking for help … I did not even consider the option of allowing help. I knew that I had to do it all by myself, yet I knew that I could not do it by myself.
The futility – the unsolvable task – made it clear that it is too dangerous to go on … that there is no point in trying.
“You will fall to your death if you try,” the inner voices taunted me, “and you will remain stuck forever if you do not try.”
“I would rather die than go forward,” I ponder with increasingly clarity. “A part of me absolutely knows that I will fail. I will not go on. It is too risky.”
“This is that wall of glass that Keith keeps talking about,” I further ponder. “The one that is impossible to climb under my own power … the one that forces me to reach out and connect with something higher than my physical self.”
God Drama Refusal
As I further ponder, I again start to sink into those agonizingly familiar, hopeless and suicidal emotions of sheer futility. I feel them now, and I felt them last night. These emotions are intensely real … overwhelmingly terrifying.
The rational mind part of me – the part still running the show – absolutely knows that these emotions are un-healable. I have been dancing on the edge of these agonizing emotions for most of the last year. I have been hanging by a rope from the edge of that cliff for most of the last several months.
“I feel like an utter loser,” I ponder the fears raging through me right now, “but I know I will die on that cliff before I will dare to venture any further.”
It is as if I am two different people. When I step into the dominant toxic emotion, I become that stuck person staring numbly at the impassable switchback, feeling angry, rebellious, betrayed, abandoned, and ignored – absolutely knowing that I am in an impossible situation and that it is God’s fault – that Higher Powers are betraying me … not helping me. In fact, when my guide walked right past me on that cliff, he did not even turn around to offer me assistance. He ignored and betrayed me.
Yet, when I am in a state of peaceful presence and energetic connection, I clearly know this to be a bullshit lie … that this is MY God Drama … the game I am playing with God … that it is ME, MYSELF, and I that refuses to allow that help from higher powers. Even though I give platitude to the idea that I want higher dimensional assistance (as my dream so clearly shows me), I still refuse to even look up and ask for that help from the guide who was walking with me.
The childhood energies that feel betrayed, the ME that is still running the show behind the blinders of denial, refuses to allow help until the perceived betrayer (God) first apologizes and makes everything right.
Guidance At Last
I spend the next several days waffling in confusion and doubt, wanting to do something different, but not knowing what that might be. When I think about the future, all I can access are the feelings of angry rebellious hopelessness that flaunts my loser failures in my face, telling me I am going to fail, that San Marcos is destroying me, that I will never get the help I need, that God (as projected onto Keith) is ignoring me, blah, blah, blah.
I know I am making all of this up. It is so clear to me that none of these emotions has even the slightest factual basis in present-day physical reality. But no matter what I do – no matter what I try – I seem helpless to stop the tidal waves of hopeless emotion from consuming me. In fact, in that hopeless state, I do not even want to try.
“I have to get away from San Marcos again,” I ponder with fright. “I am losing it while just staying here, wallowing, isolating, struggling all by myself. I have to do something different.”
Finally, on Wednesday, October 24, 2012, a spark of intuitive energy inside guides me to actually check out ticket prices and travel options. I have wanted to do this for months, but every time I have tried, the emotion and other inner feelings have blocked me. Today, the opposite is true. I am peacefully driven to check out all possible flight options. By the end of the day, a new hope has consumed me.
“I am going home for Thanksgiving,” I ponder with clarity.
The feeling in my heart clearly tells me that this statement is coming from somewhere outside of my struggling rational mind – from a place of deep guidance. A tiny smile actually forms in the corners of my lips.
… to be continued …
Copyright © 2012 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved