Brenda's Bicycles

 
The sun is hiding behind a layer of thin grey clouds that drift slowly by in the sky above. Every so often, a small cloudless patch of deep blue allows the sun’s bright rays to peek through to the earth below, temporarily warming my skin, blinding my eyes, and causing the glow of my laptop screen to fade. But another layer of clouds soon returns to transform the sky back to a pale grey. A moderate unpredictable breeze gently rattles the leaves of nearby trees. Occasional random gusts of wind momentarily shake the branches, but these gusts quickly subside, allowing the cool breezes to resume their gentle and pleasant natural rhythms. The temperature is perfect, right around seventy comfortable degrees.

As I lay here in my favorite hammock, I cannot imagine a more delightful place to begin writing about this week’s adventure—a return to the thick green jungles where my Valladolid journey essentially began—a long awaited pilgrimage back to the energy filled ruins of Ek Balam.

Last Wednesday (Jan 27), Dr. Gomez gave me the long-awaited green light to exercise and to ride my bicycle to greater distances. During that visit, I continued to maintain my silence regarding the fact that I had already ventured out on two shorter ten-mile rides. As I rode away from the clinic, my heart was ever so grateful to receive official medical clearance to break out of my prison cell of near inactivity.

Ever since my event-filled third degree burn of almost eleven weeks ago, I have played around with the idea of returning to Ek Balam on my bicycle. An eager spirit urged me to tackle what would be an arduous, almost seventy kilometer roundtrip bicycle journey. I knew I could do it—I knew I had to do it—even after two months of minimal physical activity.

For one reason or another, this past weekend came and went with no travel. Yes, we did have several days of stormy weather, but weather was not the main roadblock to my venturing out into the wild. Instead, it was the lack of clarity in my feelings that plainly told me “Not yet.”

Monday evening, however, was a different story. A strong resonating feeling surged from within my soul, undeniably declaring that “Tomorrow is the day.” I cannot say exactly how I knew—I just knew with total confidence. I didn’t even bother checking the weather forecast, because I was going to go—rain or shine. Waiting for another day was simply not an option.

Sleep Surrender

As I went to bed on Monday evening, I was beginning to wonder just how much sleep might be possible. For two weeks now, the little Catholic Chapel here at Candelaria Park has essentially dominated daily life in the neighborhood.

As I have previously mentioned, Valladolid’s annual two week expo is a festival held in celebration of “Our Lady of Candelaria.” This fair-skinned Virgin Mary is said to have appeared in the 1700’s to a humble Mayan Slave while he walked through the jungle carrying his load of palm leaves. The beautiful Virgin was carrying a baby in one hand and a candle in the other. Upon meeting the humble slave in the jungle, the Virgin asked him if he would build her a house. The resultant small structure is reported to still exist behind the alter of the Candelaria church, right here in Candelaria Park, less than one hundred feet from the entrance to my hostel.

Throughout the festival, the church has been hosting numerous, daily, outdoor meetings, with the loudspeakers seemingly maxed out at full volume. On most days, the festivities would quiet down before 9 or 10 p.m., but this past weekend became a totally different story.

Friday evening (Jan 29), a large band formed on the small concrete stage at the eastern edge of the park square. As the band played traditional folk music, literally hundreds of Mayan folk dancers crowded onto the stage. The vast majority of the dancers were dressed in traditional white Yucatan clothing. The women wore typical white dresses with elaborate and colorful embroidered flowers, wearing fancy white shoes, flowers in their hair, and a smile on their face. The men were dressed in white wide-legged slacks and traditional cotton shirts. Their outfits were topped off with white hats and a large colorfully embroidered scarf hanging from the right side of their waist area.

The energized dancers seemed to represent every age group, ranging from eight-year-old children up to elderly grandparents. The footwork was complicated and elaborate, delightful to observe as the dancers twisted and turned to the rapid beat of the music. Each couple was doing their own unique version of the dance, yet seemed to be following the same general style of fancy stepping—a style that did not vary much throughout the entire evening.

Knowing I would not sleep much with the loud music, I stayed up and watched the dancing till nearly midnight. Earplugs did not do much to mask the blaring melodies, but in spite of the noise I somehow managed to get random one or two hour spurts of broken sleep. To my amazement, the high-decibel festivities continued that night till nearly 4:00 a.m. on Saturday morning.

As my head hit the pillow on Monday evening (Feb 1)—the second-to-last night of the festival—instinct told me that I might be facing a similar night of uncertain sleep. The church had begun outdoor services around 5:00 p.m., and by 9:00 p.m. an unending series of musical concerts had commenced. At 11:00 p.m., a Mariachi band was still playing traditional songs at full volume, and there were absolutely no signs of slowing momentum.

As the wee hours of the morning found me still awake, lying in bed while listening to meditation music on my IPOD, I finally succumbed to my growing desires for sleep and gulped down a sleeping pill at 2:30 a.m.. I smiled when only minutes later the music gave way to peaceful silence. I was not sure at first whether the silence was real or simply the result of the sleeping pill—but I was told the next morning that the bands had indeed ceased their playing. Five hours of sleep was not much, but nothing was going to alter my plans for an early start on my bicycle adventure—nothing except sleeping in, that is.

Ceiba, Ceiba, Who’s Got The  Ceiba

I suddenly sat up in bed with a start, having awakened from a short but sound sleep. I recognized the familiar rumblings of a large and noisy outdoor Catholic Mass already in progress. Tuesday morning had arrived ever too quickly, but a sense of relief comforted me when a quick glance at my watch revealed that the time was only 7:45 a.m..

After chowing down on a quick but relaxed breakfast of fruit, yogurt, and bread, I returned to my room to casually throw a few items into my daypack. As 8:30 a.m. ticked away on my watch, I was finally enjoying the cool breeze blowing against my face as the tires of my bicycle hummed above the smooth asphalt below.

Yes, I was starting out a full hour later than I had planned, but a strong presence of peace clearly proclaimed all to be perfect in my first big bicycle adventure since a magical pre-sunrise ride to the Eastern shores of Cozumel just last September.

For the first few kilometers, the road leaving northbound out of Valladolid consisted of a wide modern four-lane highway with very narrow shoulders. Ten minutes later I was carefully maneuvering around a large roundabout while passing underneath the first of two east-west highways. This first highway, a shoulder-less two-lane highway that winds from Cancun to Chichen Itza and beyond, passes through each of the small towns and villages along the way.

After yet another ten minutes, I huffed and puffed as I pedaled to the top of a large overpass that straddles the second highway, a large interstate-like toll road that runs between Cancun and Mérida. This larger and straighter divided highway, with two lanes in each direction, is more expensive to travel, but also much more efficient for travelers who are in a hurry to cross the Yucatan.

As I continued northbound, my once-four-lane highway immediately shifted into a beautiful two lane highway with large, spacious shoulders—shoulders that doubled as a perfect bicycle path for my casual adventure past the wild jungles huddled closely along each side of the road.

Barely a hundred yards ahead, I approached a large sign confirming my ultimate destination. The words read: “Ek Balam, 27 kilometers.”

A small burst of excitement flowed through my veins as I pedaled onward. Overflowing with energy, I had an undeniable feeling that today would be a magical experience.

While the beautifully paved road was straight and ordinary, the journey itself was anything but ordinary. Insatiable curiosity kept me constantly absorbed in studying my surroundings while I gradually pushed on to the north.

About one hour into my journey, I passed through the small pueblo of Temozón. According to google maps, this beautiful little town is approximately twelve blocks in length and eight blocks wide. Another website lists the 2005 population as being approximately 14,000 residents, with over 12,000 of those speaking the Mayan language (most speak Spanish too).

After stopping for a brief glance inside of a beautiful 17^th century church, I eagerly continued my journey to the north. Soon the pueblo behind me was nothing but a memory as a sense of anxious excitement continued to push me onward. In my mind, I pondered the prospects of locating my baby Ceiba tree—the same little sacred tree that I had left behind with Carmen some eleven weeks ago.

“What could have happened to my precious little tree?” I wondered. “Was it ever planted? Could it have been lost or destroyed?”

I hoped to find answers soon, but knew that I would remain at peace regardless of the outcome of my search.

Thirty minutes later I said goodbye to the main highway as I began the final eastbound twenty-minute leg of my journey along narrower back-country roads. Anticipation grew ever more heightened as I rapidly approached fond and familiar places that will forever hold a warm spot in my heart.

Finally I was there, riding past the small central park of the indigenous Mayan village of Ek Balam.

“Is Trini at home?” I asked a few nearby ladies as I approached the Cocina Maya (Mayan kitchen).

“No, she has left on a trip,” was their reply.

I had secretly hoped to talk to Trini, desiring to gather clues about my baby Ceiba—but that option was no longer available to me. After engaging in a short and surprisingly fluent Spanish conversation with these two women, I eagerly continued on to my next destination: The magical ruins of Kaxan Xuul.

As I turned down the tiny dirt road leading out into the jungle, I silently laughed at myself as I remembered how confused and unsure I had been during my first visit to this unmarked crossroads back in mid November. Today, both my confidence and my language skills have blossomed in so many ways. Nothing would stop me now.

“Where are you going?” A man called out to me from his field, showing a sense of concern in his voice.

After getting over my initial surprise, I simply called back with a confident and loving reply. “I’m going to Kaxan Xuul,” I told him.

The farmer’s curiosity seemed to be satisfied as he smiled and waved me forward down the road that wound through his fields. Soon I was climbing the final fifty feet up a slight gentle slope. Around the final bend I reached my destination at last.

A lone bicycle stood propped up against a nearby tree, but I saw no signs of human activity whatsoever. With nary a thought, I rode right past the beautiful open field containing the Temazcal structure and continued up a narrow wooded trail right to the base of the earth-covered pyramid of Kaxan Xuul. This is the same sacred place where the Mayan Priest and Shaman Aj Men Bartolomé conducted our incredible fire ceremony—the same loving place in which our tightly knit group later said our heartfelt and tearful goodbyes—the same peaceful place where I last laid eyes on my baby tree.

As I approached the buried pyramid, I noticed that a small rope, perhaps four feet above the ground, was tied across the path as an obvious deterrent to visitors.

“Do I dare venture forward?” I asked myself. “Will it be OK to return to the top of this mysterious and magical hill in the jungle?”

After glancing around, I ducked under the rope and scampered to the top of the hill. The unused branches from our incredible fire ceremony were still neatly stacked nearby. The large circle of rocks at the very top contained fresh offerings: a few candles and some dried flowers—but there were no signs whatsoever of a baby Ceiba tree.

For fifteen minutes, I scoured the surroundings of this small sacred unexcavated pyramid. Methodically, I used a makeshift circular search pattern to scan all of the hillsides and surrounding clearings.

Carmen had indicated her intention to have Bartolomé plant the sacred tree somewhere near the base of the pyramid—but I came up empty in my search. There were no signs of my tree, dead or alive. Logic told me that if the tree had indeed been planted, it would be clearly marked in a manner that would keep it sacred and safe from accidental harm.

As I prepared to head back toward the Temazcal structure, intending to search the surrounding fields, I heard the sound of a machete chopping in the jungle perhaps one hundred feet away.

At first I was startled, wondering if the groundskeeper would be suspicious of my presence. It would have been so easy for me to slip by undetected and to simply ride away—yet a strong confident feeling guided me to walk over and approach him directly.

“Hola. My name is Brenda.” I began. “I was here in November at the Fiesta de Chicaban. At the end of the festival, I gifted a baby Ceiba tree to my friend Carmen who was going to make sure it got planted via a sacred Mayan ceremony—right here in Kaxan Xuul.”

“Is there a chance that you might know of the whereabouts of this tree?” I eagerly asked him in Spanish.

At first, the gardener seemed to be slightly confused by my request for information. He indicated for me to follow him as he led me right back to the very top of the earth-covered pyramid.

As we reached the fire circle, I spoke up again.

“It was right here where I gave the tree to Carmen … it was right here where Carmen left it.” I eagerly explained as I pointed to circle.

“Oh … yes … the little tree with a small brown sack of earth on its roots.” He replied with a newly found grin on his face. “It is safe over by the hut.”

With a scamper to his step, the groundskeeper eagerly led me back down the edge of the pyramid and indicated for me to follow him back through the open field of the Temazcal, right up to the small structure that sits near the entrance to the sacred site. Without pausing, he joyfully walked up to a three-tiered metal rack. On the top shelf were four potted plants. Three of them were flowering, but one was not. It was in a larger base—a makeshift pot created from thick, black, shiny plastic.

As the gardener carefully lifted this pot and placed it on the ground in front of me, I joyfully recognized the object of my search. There, carefully transplanted in about two gallons of rich dark moist soil, was my precious baby tree. Standing about one foot in height, the tree proudly displayed a bundle of very healthy looking leaves at its very top.

At last I had located my tree. A sense of powerful peace resonated through my soul as I recognized that the tree is indeed being loved and cared for. This little Ceiba will be planted at exactly the right place, at precisely the right time.

I may be there, and I may not—but I know that I will be back to see it sometime soon. If it takes a month or even a year, I have no doubts that I will one day see this sacred little Ceiba planted near the buried ruins of Kaxan Xuul.

At my request, the groundskeeper gave me his blessing to stay longer while he resumed his duties in the nearby field. After a quick nostalgic tour through the Temazcal structure, I stood briefly with my tree, gently caressing its trunk and leaves, sending it blessings of loving energy. A mere ten minutes later, I said my goodbyes, hopped onto my bicycle, and rode away into the beautiful late morning sun.

Joy and peace were my companions on that ride.

Swimming At Last

Twenty minutes and six kilometers later, I found myself enthusiastically coasting into the parking lot adjacent to the ruins of Ek Balam. But the ruins were not my initial destination. No, my first stop would be an infamous clearing in the jungle near the Cenote Xcanché. I would return to the scene where my favorite little jungle tick hungrily bit into my tasty flesh—the same place where my Zapotec friend Delfino, a man with such loving intentions, roasted a large crisp circle into my ankle—the same place that launched me into an incredible internal exploration of self discovery.

I briefly paused after completing a relaxing 1.5 kilometer ride down a remote dirt path to the rim of the Cenote Xcanché. It felt so strange to remember that the last time I was on this beautiful path, I was crying alligator tears of love as my friend Osiris rode with me in a bicycle taxi, helping to transport me and my seriously burned foot back to the edge of civilization. In another flashback, I momentarily reminisced about a life-and-death battle between a snake and a large frog in that very same spot. While these memories remain clear and vivid, they also seem as if they took place many years ago.

Minutes later, I stood in a jungle clearing just a hundred yards away. The ground was covered with new leaves, but I easily found the site of the scene that played before my memories like a slow motion movie.

Yes, that is where I was sitting right before the tick bit me … and yes, this here is the rock where I sat bawling my eyes out while Defino held a stick of glowing hot charcoal above the tick’s beautiful velvety black back—the same rock on which I sat when the Olmec Shaman José Manuel uttered those powerful words: “Brenda, there is a big difference between pain and suffering.”

As I meditated in these sacred surroundings I felt no painful or traumatic emotion. I experienced no feelings of victimization or regret. My heart was filled with gratitude, overflowing with love and peace. There is still no doubt in my mind that everything happened in this jungle exactly as it needed to happen. My personal growth here in Valladolid has been powerful, and I owe it all to the events that took place right here, in this small clearing during that amazing third week of November.

But soon I was off to finish another unfinished desire.

As I had patiently waited most of the afternoon in that jungle clearing almost eleven weeks ago, I had been determined to go swimming in the Cenote Xcanché—an opportunity that never actually materialized. All hopes of swimming were cut short by an innocent little jungle tick.

Today, I would fulfill that desire.

After a quick change in a nearby changing room, I eagerly skipped down the trail before descending a steep staircase that led down to the depths of the sacred Cenote below. Just as I arrived at the bottom, three other visitors were leaving the water, preparing for their climb up the stairs.

The timing was perfect. For the next thirty minutes I had the incredible blue water pool all to myself. After swimming out to the middle of the cool refreshing waters, I perched myself atop a large thick rope that stretched from one side of the Cenote to the other. In the middle, the rope conveniently sank about two feet below the surface—perfect to support me, allowing me to rest while keeping my head out of the water.

In complete silence, I sat there nearly motionless, listening, watching, feeling, and absorbing. The surroundings were so quiet that I could actually hear the occasional leaf splash into the water as it fell from the heights of the trees far above. As the birds in distant trees slowly resumed their cheerful chirping, I watched several small six-inch catfish swim near my feet. In a sense of heightened present-moment meditation, I inhaled my surroundings, feeling as if I never wanted to leave the incredible peace.

But after thirty minutes I knew in my heart that the time to leave was now. After swimming to the far side to briefly touch the incredible bundles of tangled hanging roots stretching from the distant surface above, I swam back to my entry point, wrapping myself in a towel.

Just as I reached the upper part of the stairs, a young family began to descend to the depths below. The universe had timed my silent visit with perfection—giving me all the alone time I needed, but no more.

A Tour of Peace

As I handed over my money to enter the archeological ruins of Ek Balam, I briefly queried about a possible guided tour. When I heard the price, over three hundred pesos (about $25 US), I immediately said thanks, but no thanks.

Engaging in a tour of the ruins was not my purpose. I was longing to simply sit with the energy of the ruins. It was my intention that after finding a quiet shady spot, I would simply enjoy the present moment—the views, the sounds, and the ambient energy.

As I neared the outer wall (one of three) of the ruins, I noticed a medium sized Ceiba tree growing by the side of the trail. The trunk, being perhaps two feet in diameter, was covered in thick, hard, sharp thorns—similar to very large rose bush thorns. Such thorns are a trademark of these amazing trees. As the trees grow even larger, they lose their thorns, but this particular three was still thick with the prickly little pokers. I am told that these amazing sacred trees can live as long as one thousand years—and they grow very large.

As I stopped to more closely examine the texture of the tree, I placed my hands on the trunk while maintaining a meditative stance—simply enjoying the present moment experience of sharing energy with nature.

Seeing what I was doing, a handsome Mayan man approached me a few minutes later as he walked down the same path.

“I love these Ceiba trees.” I told him as we began to engage in spiritual conversation.

After a few minutes of conversation, the man asked if I would like a tour of the ruins. Rather than telling him “No”, I instead asked him “How much?”

“My tours are 350 pesos for a tour in Spanish,” he began, “and 450 pesos for a tour in English.”

Even though I had already turned down an earlier tour, my feelings firmly guided me to reconsider. I queried him about how much he knew about the ruins. He told me that he lives in a small village just ten kilometers away, and that he has spent considerable time with the archeologists over the past fifteen years.

“I can tell you whatever you want to know.” He assured me.

I amazed myself when I said “Yes”, asking him for a tour in Spanish. Up to this point, our entire conversation had taken place in Spanish, and I was able to easily communicate with him in clear and understanding terms. Something told me that the experience would be well worth my time and money, and I was not about to resist those internal feelings.

The tour was delightful and inspiring, and yes, I was able to understand almost everything my guide said. Everywhere that he took me, we enjoyed our shared appreciation for the incredible energy that we both felt. Indeed, he and I recognized a sacred bond to these ruins. Words were not needed to communicate that fact.

As the tour progressed, I learned that my new friend’s name is Aurelio, and that he has a wife and three beautiful children—ages 16, 13, and 6—two boys and one girl. He told me how he helped the archeologists to explore the jungle in the entire twelve-square-kilometer area that makes up the ancient community of Ek Balam. Based on the number of dwellings that were discovered, the archeologists estimate that over twenty thousand Mayans once resided in this immediate area.

As our tour came to a close, Aurelio and I exchanged hugs instead of handshakes. I was truly blessed by a short encounter with a local Mayan man who deeply loves the spiritual nature of his heritage.

Soon I was doing what I originally set out to do—finding places to meditate among the ruins. After first spending some time leaning against another huge towering Ceiba tree, I climbed a smaller ruin that sits opposite the distant and towering Acropolis ruins, directly across the complex. Sitting in the shaded doorway at the top of these ruins, I sat in complete silence and isolation for over thirty minutes.

As I departed this energizing spot to explore another, I noticed that the area where I had been was soon crawling with a group of about ten tourists. Again, the universe had blessed me with thirty minutes of perfect isolation, while guiding me to move on exactly when it was time to move forward.

After enjoying two more spots, I ended up at the base of the towering Acropolis on the exact bench where I had sat while the Mayan Shaman Bartolomé spoke to us for over two hours. I was in the exact spot where I had witnessed a colorful, but ugly, venomous spider crawling on Bartolomé’s pant leg on the day right before my tick bite.

Could it be that the spider had been there for my entertainment—to get me thinking about poisonous spiders—to prepare me for my own internal lessons into fear and trust?

While sitting on the bench, I watched a nearby caretaker carving something in a chair by his hut about fifty yards away. Soon, the Mayan man began to take a stroll in my direction. As he stood about twenty five feet away, I called out to him.

“What are you making?” I asked him.

“I’m carving a Kukulkan,” he replied.

As I looked in his hand, he carried an intricate, almost-completed carving, of a snake-like body with its mouth and teeth showing. The ten-inch carving reminded me of many that I have seen in gift shops. My prior thought was that such carvings were mass produced. Today I learned otherwise.

In a delightful twenty minute conversation, I learned that these carvings take Edilberto about two days to create, and that he sells the finished product to earn extra money for his family. But his primary job is as a caretaker and guardian of the ruins of Ek Balam.

My new friend Edilberto is one of three men who live at the ruins, mostly full time. On rotating shifts, each man is able to return to be with his family only one day each week. Edilberto goes home every Thursday. While on duty, these three men take turns in their shift duties on a twenty-four hour basis—making sure that someone is always awake to watch and protect the ruins—making sure that no one comes to vandalize or steal the valuable artifacts contained within.

When I asked him about his family, I learned that Edilberto has four grown sons, the oldest being thirty and the youngest being twenty two. Edilberto himself is almost fifty three, just two years younger than me. What I also found quite interesting is that Edilberto and Aurelio live in the same small Mayan pueblo. When I asked Edilberto if he knew Aruelio, he revealed a huge loving smile as he replied “Yes, of course.”

As I said my gracious goodbyes to Edilberto, I nearly had to pinch myself. All throughout the day, events seemed to continuously line up perfectly.

I was repeatedly guided into conversations with local people—and every one of those conversations was meaningful and totally in Spanish. My success in communication amazed me—and that communication was not all with words—it was also accomplished with abundant loving energy—energy of spiritual recognition.

Even the cool dry weather was ideal. When the sun was out I always had shade to keep me cool. When I was out in the open, I always seemed to have slight cloud cover to shield the hot burning sun.

My confidence was flowing and radiating from within. It seemed as if I could do no wrong—as if everywhere I ventured and everything I touched turned magically to gold—perhaps not in a physical way, but in a very real emotional way.

The Journey Home

As I resumed my long journey home, the hot afternoon sun was shaded by jungle trees on the west side of the rode—a blessing that was totally unplanned but greatly appreciated. Only thirty minutes passed before I was only a mile north of Temozón.

To my amazement, as I passed by one small dirt trail that disappeared into the jungle, I witnessed three men dressed in full length white protective clothing and full bee-keeper’s veils. Each of the men carried two large wooden boxes from a beehive (called supers) strapped to his back. There were no trucks around, and the nearest building along the highway was at least a half mile away. As I looked back, I noticed that these men were now walking along the side of the road, headed toward the town.

“Could it be that they manually carry these heavy boxes filled with honeycomb all the way back to the village?” I pondered to myself.

As I rode away, my mind flashed back to my bicycle dream of April, 2009—the dream where the bees were climbing from the honeycomb-saturated string up onto my fingers. I could not help but draw the connection between the two events as I pondered whether or not the universe was giving me yet another little synchronous nudge in my own journey. Regardless of the message, I loved the visual imagery of the experience.

By the time I reached Temozón, my physical energy was seriously waning. My daypack was beginning to dig into my shoulders as a result of the excessive weight. In a protective stance, I had packed a few too many extra things just in case—things like an umbrella, a poncho, bicycle tools, a pump, and an extra inner tube, and even an extra change of clothes.

But while the final hour of my journey was indeed physically arduous and even somewhat painful in the shoulders and knees, I never lost the feeling of spiritual energy and aliveness. As I finally locked up my trusty bicycle in front of the hostel, I was practically limping as I struggled to regain my land feet—yet I was almost floating in the clouds from the exhilarating energy of having successfully completed an amazing journey—a journey that took me over forty miles to an magical reunion with the past, and a peaceful encounter with the present moment.

Prognosis: A Big Hug

Wednesday morning, I visited with Dr. Gomez for the final time as his burn patient. Prior to the visit, I felt a very nostalgic desire to maintain contact, hoping to at least come away with an email address with which I could contact Dr. Gomez at a later time. But before entering his office, my feelings guided me to say nothing, to not even ask. I completely honored those feelings.

After one final treatment and pronouncing me good-to-go, Dr. Gomez and I had a delightful conversation about our time spent together—a discussion in which both of us expressed that we would definitely miss our visits and conversations.

“Brenda, do you ever think you will return to Valladolid?” he asked.

“I definitely see myself returning, at least for a short visit.” I responded.

“I have an apartment that would be ideal for you if you stay for longer periods.” He resumed. “It has a small bedroom, cable television, internet, bathroom, and microwave—and it is a lot cheaper than what you are paying at the hostel. It is only 2500 pesos (about $200 US) per month.”

“Let me give you my contact information,” he continued, “so you will have a way to reach me if you come back and want to rent the apartment.”

Soon I had a card in my purse with both his email address and cell phone number. I probably won’t use it much for now, but it warms my heart to know that I have the contact info—and I didn’t even have to ask for it.

As Dr. Gomez walked me to his office door, what would have normally been a handshake and a simple thank was also topped off with a brief but warm loving hug. As I walked away, I felt a slight twinge of sadness at the thought of saying another goodbye to someone whom I have grown to deeply love and appreciate.

But I know the time has come to move on very soon. Valladolid has been an amazing internal journey. It is with deep emotion that I rapidly near the end of my unexpectedly long stay here, but I know that I have many more amazing journeys still to come. I cannot wait to see where these journeys might take me.

Saying goodbye after each transition in my journey is difficult, yet I realize that they are not really goodbyes at all. Wherever I travel, I am taking a piece of each friendship with me. I will never forget the beautiful memories that fill my heart with such powerful love.

Early next week I will make a new transition. After briefly returning to visit friends in Cozumel, I will soon launch into another adventure, destination unknown. I have yet to choose the next bicycle that I will take down from my ceiling—but I know it will be an amazing ride.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

After two months of hibernating in Valladolid, I decided it is time to post a few of the photos I have been accumulating since my amazing weekend in Ek Balam.

The final twenty seven photos are of my foot healing progress, beginning with my first huge blister and ending with the small scab that I have today. I hesitated as to whether or not I wanted to post these photos, because many of them are quite gross and graphic. I might have posted them sooner, but I didn’t want to worry anyone back home. But now that I am mostly healed I decided to go ahead and publish them.

If you are squeamish, you might want to skip the remaining photos as soon as my foot photos begin.

As usual, you can click on any photo image to download a high resolution image for more detailed viewing. I hope you enjoy the photo update.

This is the sweet little Mayan lady named Maria Esther. I first met her at the bazaar food court in mid November. Since then we have talked numerous times. She sells embroidered handkerchiefs to buy food for her family.

This parade wound its way all around the downtown streets of Valladolid. It was held on Dec 12, 2009, in honor of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Horns were honking and sirens were wailing as this very long parade explored the city streets. This photo shows some of the runners who were marching in the parade. These runners (and others like them) ran around the streets holding torches for more than a week before this parade.

This is the back of one of the small hometown floats in the parade on Dec 12. There were not many floats–most entries were people walking or taxis with sirens or motorcycles etc…

Toward the end of the parade were a series of horses with riders wearing elaborate costumes. This lady reminds me of the one that entered the bullfight arena just last Sunday.

This is my friend Conny from Germany in a photo taken in the outdoor kitchen area, just one week before Christmas. In her lap are my little Chihuahua friends, Bobby and Kalugin. Kalugin has the darker fur and is closest to the camera.

This little fellow visited the Hostel on Dec 21. Ewout saved it for me in a bottle and showed it to me the next morning. We released it in some rocks at the corner of the park in front of the Hostel.

I didn’t use a ruler (for obvious reasons), but I would estimate that this little scorpion is at least four inches long.

This is another one of many local parades that took place in December. This one was on Dec 28, and involved a local taxi union with taxis driving all over town–again with blaring sirens and flashing lights.  Even though it was a taxi parade, they still had a float and flags containing images of Guadalupe.

Another photo of my friend Conny (from Germany) as she holds Bobby in the outdoor kitchen area of the hostel.

This is a photo of Tania in the outdoor kitchen area of the hostel.

Me relaxing with Kalugin in one of the hamocks. I do a lot of Spanish studying, and sometimes writing while in this hammock.

Conny in another hammock, holding Kalugin. Bobby is playing by her feet.

I had to throw this photo into the mix. This is my dear friend Susan on my laptop screen as I talk to her on Skype. Notice the bottom left corner box where I am holding the camera, taking the photo.

This beautiful “blue moon” (second full moon in December) shined brightly overhead on New Year’s Eve as we ushered in the beginning of the 2010’s.

Tania enjoying a late-night New Year’s Eve dinner.

Ewout at our New Year’s Eve Barbeque.

Tania and I on New Year’s Eve

Me with Tania’s mother on New Year’s Eve

Minutes after midnight.  One of the “Jan’s” from Germany is opening his bottle of Champagne in the street in front of the church in Candelaria Park. The other “Jan” from Germany (the one who has been traveling for two years) is on the far left of the photo.

One of the “Muneco del Ano Viejo” (Old Man of the Old Year dolls) burning in the street.

Another of the Munecos (one of many) burning in the streets.

On January 2, 2010, a parade formed at the church in Candelaria park by the hostel. They loaded “Our Lady of Candelaria” onto the back of a truck and took her to a different church. Interestingly enough, all bell ringing out our local church also stopped while she was gone.

These nuns were riding in a van at the beginning of the parade, talking and singing into a microphone, giving instructions to the marchers behind.

Part of the parade with nuns and alter boys.

“Our Lady of Candelaria” and her baby Jesus, riding in the back of a pickup truck.

Crowds of people following behind the truck carrying “Our Lady of Candelaria.

This huge white bull is one of many on display at the expo which opened on Friday Evening, Jan 22. As I walked by, the bull towered above me in height. The boys standing by his head had a saddle on the bull’s back and asked me if I wanted to ride, but I said no. I now wish I had said yes. He was HUGE.

The bullfight arena. The arena was a large concrete circle–except for this area (top left) that opens into a parking lot. Notice that instead of seats or benches, people sit on one of many wide concrete steps.

This is the old beat-up pickup truck pulling a board to level and smooth the inner arena area.

One of the many break downs where smoothing of the arena temporarily halted while the engine was adjusted.

The water truck making its rounds to moisten the field prior to the ceremonies.

One of the countless vendors. This one got an early start, beginning her rounds before most of the crowds arrived. Her basket is filled with treats that look like something that is a cross between potato chips and cheetos. I have been told that they are made from potatoes. People pour hot picante sauce on them before eating.

Using a homemade compass (ropes and metal rods), this man scratched circles into the arena field.

Putting chalk lines on the circles, using a bucket full of chalk on a stick.

This is Cecelia, the little Mayan lady I conversed with prior to the bullfights.

The same vendor lady winding her way through the crowds.

This man is one of many who walked around selling water, soft drinks, and beer. His bucket is filled with ice water and bottled drinks. If you look closely, you can see to more men carrying buckets around on the upper rows behind him.

More vendors, this one selling a huge stack of cotton candy.

Beginning of the pre-bullfight ceremonies. The band was playing across the way as this woman in her beautiful full dress rode onto the field.

This is the primary attraction – the adult matador riding out onto the field on one of his beautiful white horses.

The field of players. The main matador is on the far left atop his white horse. The two young boy matadors are the two at the front of the parade behind the horses. The four men marching behind them are the matador assistants, the ones that helped out whenever needed. The armored men on the heavily padded horse plays a role in the bullfights with the younger boys.

This is quite the interesting horse and rider. The horse is blindfolded, with his body heavily padded. The man’s legs are covered in metal armor. During the bullfights with the younger matadors, this man rode out to help wear down the bulls.

The bulls attacked the horse, pushing strongly into it’s padded sides. While this is taking place, the man uses a spear to weaken the bull’s neck muscles.

The matador showing off some fancy horsemanship before the bullfights begin.

More showing off before the bullfights begin.

Start of the bullfight with the young first-time matador. In this photo, one of the older men momentarily keeps the bull occupied while the young matador is preparing elsewhere on the field.

The young matador in his very first public bullfight.

Preparing for his first attack on the bull.

Sticking his barbed spears into the back/neck of the bull.

Daring the bull to attack.

Taunting the bull while an assistant stands by in the background, carefully watching.

The second bullfight has begun. This is the more experienced boy fighting a bull that seems to be much more aggressive than the first.

Dodging the bull’s running attack.

A closeup of the more experienced young bullfighter.

The armored man on his padded horse, just after he helped the boy matador.

Preparing to let the third bull race onto the field. The bulls race out of this gate (where the man is perched above the fence). This is the bullfight where the older matador is riding his horse. The sun was down by this point, and the lighting was very difficult for shooting photos. As a result, subsequent photos were dark and blurry.

The bull chasing after the horse. I stopped taking snapshots after this because the lighting was so poor that I could not get a crisp focused shot.

A couple of weeks after they took “Our Lady of Candelaria” away, she returned to the local church with another parade, just in time for the local ten-day Expo to begin. Interestingly enough, the loud bell ringing every morning resumed on the same day that the virgin returned.

On the first Sunday of the Expo (Jan 24) the church paritioners got together and carried “Our Lady of Candelario” to the Expo fair grounds for an 11:00 a.m. mass at the fair. This is the beginning of that parade.

A closeup of the virgin and her baby.

The alter boys leading the parade.

Crowds of church goers following behind.

A beautiful little old lady walking in the parade.

Another beautiful old lady walking in the parade.

The crowd following behind. Notice how the church members decorated the entire street adjacent to the church.

Later that afternoon, Our Lady of Candelaria returned to the church, following which a large outdoor service began in this outdoor church that was erected a few days before the Expo began.

The front of the church while this outdoor service is taking place. Since this day (Jan 24), the church has held several outdoor meetings and mass services every evening. Today (Sunday, Jan 31) the church is holding it’s third mass of the day as noon approaches. They held one at 7:00 am, one at 9:00 am, and the one going on right now began at 11:00 am. The speakers are so loud that whenever they hold their services, we all get to participate, even from our rooms.

This church was built during the 17th century for the Virgin of Candelaria who is the “Patron Saint of Valladolid”.

Another photo of “Our Lady of Candelaria” on her perch outside the church during the outdoor service.

The story of this church goes as follows: A Mayan slave on his way to Valladolid from the forest, carrying palms with the beasts, saw a white lady finely dressed and carrying a baby and a candle. She looked at him and asked him to build a roof for her and her baby. The slave and another man built a house for the so-called “Queen”.

When the slave’s owner asked where he had been, the slave took the owner to see the Virgin. The Slave’s owner was so impressed that he asked the slave to build a new room for the Virgin. That new room is the place behind the alter of this church–the place where the virgin is kept today.

The Catholic priest speaking to the crowd. Even now, as I write this a week later, I hear his voice over the loudspeakers as he conducts his third meeting of the day today.

A common view from the hammocks.

Looking up at the shade tree above the hammocks. The tree is losing its leaves.

Looking back toward the outdoor kitchen area from the hammocks.

Looking from the hammocks through a fence into the neighbor’s lot. They got quite mysterious two weeks ago when they erected tarps to the right of the rock structure and began digging holes behind the tarps. Ewout got extremely curious about what they might be hiding …

A band performing on stage at the Expo on the evening of Jan 27. I rather enjoyed the performance. This young man had a lot of stage presence.

The same young man performing on stage. Notice the scenery behind has been created to look like downtown Valladolid.

The jazz group “Brillo Suave” performing on the same stage an hour later.

Me trying to eat cotton candy in the crowd during the concert. The humidity was so thick that the candy became sticky as soon as it was taken out of the bag. I laughed as I realized the impossibility of trying to eat the cotton candy without it getting stuck to my hands in a big way.

One of many food vendors at the Expo.

The outdoor stage at the Expo — where daily concerts are held.

A row full of outdoor food vendors at the Expo.

One of many, many parades that comes and goes from the local Candelaria Church this week. This one was quite unique with the large poles and beautiful colorful ribbons.

This parade also included a large band. It is one of the largest I have seen in Mexico.

More of the parade as the poles are being wound up prior to sitting for another service.

In November, I posted photos around the town of Valladolid. At that time the main town square was totally torn up with remodeling, and many streets in the area were also under heavy manual construction. Since that time, the streets have been finished, most of the surrounding buildings have been repainted, and the city park was finished (which reopened less than two weeks ago).

This photo is the outside wall surrounding the brand new town square of Valladolid.

One view inside the new town square.

This beautiful new fountain is the center of the new town square. The San Servacio church towers above just southwest of the park.

This image decorates all of the new park benches. The words at the bottom say “Heroic City”

The benches surrounding the fountain at center-square.

Looking toward the northeast corner of the park. The outside of the bazaar food court is the far right building.

A closeup of the new fountain.

The northeast corner of the park. Notice the elaborate sidewalks.

The main east-west street through the city center (Calle 39). Notice how all of the buildings are painted with fresh pastel colors. If the property owners paid for the materials, the city provided the labor to repair and paint the exterior of their building for free.

The street (calle 44) leading to my hostel. My hostel is two blocks down on the right.

The street right before my hostel. This was completely torn up two months ago. My hostel is right behind the large tree which towers above Candelaria park.

Foot Photos

The remaining photos are of the journey I have taken with my foot. Some of these are quite graphic, so if you have a squeemish stomach, you may not want to proceed beyond this point.

Day 1: This is the first photo of my foot after the burn. I posted this two months ago, but thought I would post it again as a starting point. This is the large blister filled with yellowish fluids. This photo was taken about 24 hours after the burn, just after walking around Chichen Itza all day. I was quite swollen and infected as well.

Day 2: This is taken on the day I returned to Valladolid. As you can see, the blilster is thick and opaque. The doctor could not see the serious damage below the blister when I went to see him the next day.

Day 8: By now, I was quite concerned by the white and reddish areas underneath the blister. These areas turned out to be 3rd degree burns.

Day 14: As you can see, not much changed in six days.

Day 17: My blister began tearing, but I was beginning to feel much more optimistic about my wounds. I was feeling much more peaceful about remaining in Valladolid.

Day 21: After ten days of not visiting the doctor, I went back to see him. He turned pale, got on the phone, and almost immediately asked his wife to drive me to go see a specialist.

That specialist, Dr. Gomez, (my present Doctor) immediately removed the blister, revealing this scene. The outer pinkish area was indeed healed second degree burns, but the large inner area was third degree.

Day 24: Three days later, the dead skin had mostly turned black and leathery. It needed to be removed soon.

Day 24: A closer view of the mostly-black leathery dead skin. Immediately after I took this photo, Dr. Gomez removed a small amount of the dead skin at the bottom of the wound. 

Day 26: This is a photo on Wed, Dec 16, taken right before Dr. Gomez decided to remove a little more of the skin. He told me that we would remove the remainder of the skin on Friday.

Day 28: This photo was taken on Friday, Dec 18, right before Dr. Gomez performed a surgical removal of the remaining dead skin. The dead skin was very much like tough beef jerkey. Note, you can see how much skin he removed on Wednesday. The exposed area is where the worst of my burns took place–the center of this area is where the tick originially bit me.

Day 28: Dr. Gomez preparing me for surgery. I really like Dr. Gomez. He is a great doctor, and instills a lot of peace and confidence with his bedside manner.

Day 28: All draped out and ready for surgery.

Day 28: Injecting the local anesthesia. From this point on I stopped taking photos, but I watched the entire procedure while sitting up. It was extremely painful and traumatic as I watched the procedure.

Day 29: The open wound with absolutely no skin remaining. Dr. Gomez treated me on this day and on Day 30. Starting on Day 31 I  cared for this open wound all by myself for eight long days, during which time Dr. Gomez flew to the U.S. for a Christmas Holiday.

Day 33:  The third day of caring for myself. The wound is beginning to show some improvement.

Day 35: Christmas Day, exactly five weeks after my original burn. The would looks very ugly, but is showing slow improvement.

Day 37: I threw this photo in because it shows some depth perspective. The top of the white area at the bottom is about where the tick bit me. As you can see, this area was burned much more severly, and more tissue came off when the skin was removed. It is this area which has been the slowest in building back up to skin level.

Day 38: Camera angles and lighting make the wound look not quite as ominous. If you look closely, you can see how scabby scar tissue is beginning to fill in around the edges.

Day 49: Taken on January 8, 2010, exactly seven weeks after the burn, and exactly three weeks after the surgical removal of the dead skin. You can see that the wound is considerably smaller and already looks much better.

Day 51: You can see progress in just two days. Notice how the bottom portion of the wound is still deeper, and struggling to grow.

Day 54: Continuing to improve. Most of the wound is grown out to skin level, cxcept that pesky little area at the bottom — the area where the tick bit — the same area that received the most intense heat.

Day 65: Taken over nine weeks after the original burn, on Sunday Jan 24. The area with no scabby skin is considerably smaller, but still lagging in the healing process.

Day 65: A closeup of the same day, just one week ago today.

Day 66: Taken just one day later. Notice how much healing took place in a single day. The open wound is now very small. The scabby area is also gradually receding around the outside edges.

Day 66: Another Closeup of last Monday. Were just about there.

Day 71: Taken yesterday (Jan 30, 2010), ten weeks and one day after the burn. As you can see, the wound is almost totally covered. I even took a shower without a plastic bag over my foot for the first time in ten weeks.

Day 71: A closeup taken yesterday (January 30, 2010). This photo makes it easier to see how the healing is almost complete. I’m guessing that the scabs will fall off in less than ten days. I can now wear shoes If I like (which I have only done once), but I still wear bandages, at least for now.

 
I am sitting in the gallery of a crowded courtroom, perhaps eight or ten rows back from the front. I realize that I am an assistant working for an attorney, and I have been left in a very awkward situation. In a strange twist of events, the attorney has left the courtroom, leaving me in charge of his case—a case involving a father, a man who has formerly abused his wife, and has now been accused of abusing his daughter. Apparently, the lawyer had another trial to attend to, and decided that I am fully capable of covering for him.

What I find totally odd is that I am not a licensed attorney, and have not yet finished law school. I know next to nothing about this case—and I am not even actually sure who I am representing—the father or the daughter. All I know is that before he left, the attorney handed me a blank notebook and a stack of unopened envelopes, telling me that everything I needed to know can be found inside the envelopes.

As I sit in the courtroom feeling unprepared and helpless, I decide to begin opening the envelopes—hoping to find something that will rescue me from my difficult predicament. The first envelope is addressed to my friend Patti—a former coworker and dear friend at my last job as a computer software engineer. I set Patti’s letter aside, planning to give it to her at my next opportunity.

The next envelope in the stack is blank on the outside. After ripping it open, I remove the papers inside and begin to rummage through what I found. A lady in the row directly behind soon taps me on the shoulder.

“Your paper shuffling is very noisy and distracting.” She informs me in a very annoyed voice. “Will you please be quiet!!!”

As the trial begins, I feel a sense of intense anxiety, wondering how I can possibly proceed. The opposing attorney calls his first witness. From my spot, still seated deep in the gallery, I realize that the witness is actually a group of young children who stand at the front of the court and who proceed to sing a beautiful song.

While the children sing, I still feel quite anxious, continuing to hurriedly shuffle papers, searching the unopened letters for any hint of what I should do next.

As the musical performance ends, I discover that I have left the courtroom and am instead in what I believe to be my home. I am trying to solve another mystery. In my hand I am holding part of my cell phone, but the bottom half—the half that makes the phone function—is missing. I search everywhere, eventually giving up, surrendering to the fact that I might never find the lost piece. Recognizing that the part of the phone I am still holding most likely contains my SIM card, I begin to make plans to attempt a recovery of the data on that memory card.

However, almost immediately I find myself walking down a crowded hallway accompanied by several men in suits. One of the men gets my attention and asks if I would mind taking a photo of him with my camera.

Smiling back at him, I calmly reply, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a camera with me.”

“Oh, but you do.” The man replies while insistently pointing to a small bag hanging from a long strap on my shoulder.

As I open the bag, I find a black 35 millimeter camera with a large SLR lens. As I remove the camera, I notice that it appears to be older and film-based—but the camera is still in excellent, like-new condition. I immediately begin to examine the fancy camera, attempting to figure out how to utilize all of the unfamiliar controls.

One of the men in our group calls out, “Hey look at that rock formation in those distant hills. See those two black dots that kind of look like two eyes? Well one of them is different now—something is strange with it—something is moving.”

“Where? What?” I ask over and over again. “I can’t see it. I can’t see anything that looks like what you are describing.”

As I stare intently out at the distant hills, I see what looks like a beautiful mix between the green granite-filled hills around Mount Rushmore and the towering rock formations of Monument Valley. I see the amazing splendor of the hills but feel deeply frustrated that I am unable to locate the anomaly that this man is so patiently attempting to point out to me.

Suddenly I am flying away in a helicopter, headed in the direction of the hills toward which the man is pointing. He keeps saying “Go there … go that way … this way, etc…,” but we don’t seem to be finding what he wants to point out to us. We are high up the mountainside, searching, soaring through the beautiful rugged scenery. I am still clueless as to exactly what it is that we are trying to find. My frustration of seeming failure is approaching a level where I am ready to simply give up the search.

As we fly over a triangular shaped open area, high atop a rugged mountain, a man appears as if out of nowhere, and runs into the clearing waving his arms at us, asking us to rescue him. But we don’t land the helicopter. Instead, we pull our helicopter away and leave him below, still frantically waving his arms.

In what feels very natural, I suddenly float up into the air, behind and above the passenger cabin of the helicopter. For some strange reason, however, I can still see the entire inside cabin area about ten feet below and in front of me. I observe that about eight large men, all wearing full black suits, are squeezed into three rows of seats. The entire cabin area is completely packed with these bulky men. There is absolutely no room for anyone else to squeeze in. In fact, I begin to wonder where I might have been sitting, because there is no room for me either.

The thought passes through my mind, “We don’t need to rescue that man. Indiana Jones will rescue him. Besides, we don’t have any room for him anyway.”

Almost immediately a strange theory pops into my consciousness: Indiana Jones is very closely connected to the attorney—the same attorney for whom I was working back in the crowded courtroom.

As I wake up, I am completely puzzled by my vivid but bizarre dream—a dream filled with so many seemingly disjointed details—details that appear to have nothing to do with each other—details that I eagerly attempt to capture in writing before they melt away into my subconscious.

Searching For Meaning

Immediately after recording the events of last Friday morning’s dream, I set my notebook aside, not believing that I would ever begin to make sense of this bizarre sequence of events.

Later that afternoon, however, a little hunch and a burst of spiritual energy encouraged me to give interpretation a try. As I entered a meditative state, the ideas almost immediately began to flow freely, seeming to arise from deeply within. Soon I was looking up items in an online dream dictionary, hoping to glean additional insight. Later, I also discussed the strange dream with a few intuitive friends.

But the key in assigning my own personal meaning has nothing to do what I found written online, or with conversation that was shared between friends. Above all else, I trust only the deep energizing feelings that resonate from within my soul. If I feel it in my heart, I believe it.

I would like now to attempt an interpretation of all that this dream means to me. The message of this dream seems to have a universal message for each one of us. I hope these words will ring as true with your heart as they do with my own.

And The Verdict Is

My initial impressions surrounding a courtroom situation were so obvious. For some time now, much of my focus has been on removing the judgments that continue to flash into my own consciousness—ever so subtle judgments that often seem to continue rising up out of nowhere. A courtroom is a place where judgment is ultimately balanced—a place where both guilt and innocence are waiting to be declared.

As an unprepared non-attorney, I felt as if I were pushed into a situation for which I was not properly trained—yet as I sat there in that crowded courtroom gallery, a slight feeling of confidence also began to arise from within. I clearly knew that with the benefit of the correct training and insights, I would indeed be fully capable of accomplishing the task that was so unexpectedly dropped into my lap.

While I was not at all clear about my role in the court, nor was I even certain regarding exactly whom I was representing, one thing did seem quite evident. My function in that courtroom was definitely to help bring forth a verdict of innocence. As I sat in that courtroom, I knew that with additional insight and training that I could indeed become a powerful tool in helping others to share my recognition of that amazing divine innocence.

As I sat there helplessly wondering how to proceed, I pondered the fact that I had been provided two tools—an empty yellow notepad and a stack of unopened letters. Deep intuition confirms to me that the sealed letters represent a series of unopened messages from my spiritual guides—unopened messages that have already been sent to me—messages that I didn’t even know I had in my possession.

Those messages contain everything I need to know and learn as I proceed in my quest to bring light to universal innocence—yet for many reasons—reasons left to be explored—I continue to leave the envelopes unopened.

Yes, such help is available to me right now, but I need to put pride aside and ask for guidance in recognizing the messages, and in understanding their meaning.

As the trial began, I am deeply amazed that the only witness turned out to be a small group of beautiful, innocent young children—singing a childlike song, and entertaining the court with love. What a powerful testimonial of innocence that is.

Even as I write these words today, some six days after my dream, tears of joy are streaming down my cheeks while an undeniable electrifying energy continues to playfully dance with my spine. How I wish I could remember the song that these incredible children were singing to the judge, the jury, and the throngs of people who were eagerly awaiting a pronouncement of justice.

As I ponder the meaning of the empty yellow notepad, I now realize that my function is to take notes regarding the messages and insights that are provided to me. I cannot fulfill my purpose in propagating the concept of innocence if I do not diligently record the words that flow through me.

This particular courtroom was very crowded. Everyone seemed eager to hear the verdict. I find it very interesting that I was seated in the very midst of that crowd—not up front where a normal attorney would sit. As I explore the possibility of “why”, I am reminded of our oneness, of the fact that we are not separate, but united. We are all in this together—judge, jury, defendant, witnesses, attorneys, and crowds of bystanders. There is no difference.

I find myself slightly puzzled that one of my envelopes was addressed to my friend Patti. I have no idea what is inside of that envelope, and I have no message whatsoever to give to her, except that perhaps I need to let her know that the universe has a message waiting for her too—a message that she needs to discover and open herself.

The internal insights garnered from this courtroom scene resonate deeply with my heart and soul. I only pray that I am capable of fulfilling my supporting role in this unfolding stage play—that I am capable of following my own divine inspiration in helping the jury to reach such a deserving verdict of pure innocence.

No Dial Tone

It seems that cell phones have been a major thread in many of my dreams over the past eighteen months.

Throughout the past decade, cell phones have become an integral part of my life. They are a powerful communication tool that can be utilized to speak to almost anyone, from practically anywhere.

Past dreams in which I lost my cell phone have left me with the impression that the time had arrived to let go of old attachments, and that I was entering a process of losing (undoing) my entire identity of who I thought I was.

But this dream feels different. In my dream, I experienced a distinct impression that my SIM card was still intact—that my contact information was still present within the broken phone. I had not lost my contact info—I had simply lost the ability to dial and receive calls—to receive the messages that were being sent my way.

My heart tells me that I continue to have my divine source’s phone numbers safely stored away. It is simply time for me to upgrade my hardware, to reconnect with my spiritual guides in new and more powerful ways. Such frequent communication with my source is a powerful tool that I have been somewhat neglecting as of late.

Unrecognized Tools

When the man in the hallway asked me to take his photo, I believed that he must be crazy. I felt absolutely convinced that I had no camera and I refused to believe otherwise until he literally pointed it out to me as it simply dangled from my shoulder.

When I opened my shoulder bag and realized that I had an SLR camera with a high quality lens, I was shocked. I realized that my new tool was quite sophisticated with many features, most of which I was still clueless regarding how to utilize. This camera was an older 35 millimeter film-based camera, but still in like-new and mostly-unused condition. It feels clear to me now that I must have been carrying this camera around for many years without even realizing that it was mine.

As we discussed my dream, my friend Susan asked how old I thought the camera might have been. Immediately, the age of fifteen to twenty years old popped into my head. Could it be that the universe blessed me with the abilities of this amazing camera over fifteen years ago, but I have, as-of-yet, never even realized that the gift was mine?

My gift includes the ability to capture photographs of present moment events. The high quality zoom lens allows me to clearly focus in (or not) on distant details. The aperture settings allow me to adjust the speed of the shutter and the size of the opening through which the light images are captured. The Single Lens Reflex (SLR) action allows me to see the image through the viewfinder exactly as my lens itself registers the image.

It occurs to me that all of these features have to do with perception. The most common goal of a quality camera is to control and adjust all of the settings in such a way that the image on the film captures the present moment with perfect light and clarity. However, sometimes cameras can be used to create illusions—varying light, speed, filters, and the like such that the resultant image is nothing like the original.

Yes, I believe that universe is telling me that I have a very sophisticated tool available to me—an unrecognized tool that I have unknowingly possessed for many years. Through this dream, I am being told that it is time to look around me, to discover what has been given to me, and to learn more specifics about how to use my gift so that I might see the present moment with more vivid clarity than ever before.

Who knows what tools the universe is trying to give to each one of us? It is our own responsibility to shift our thinking, to be open to the amazing possibilities, and to learn to recognize and to use what is already rightfully ours.

Distant Eyes

As my male friend pointed high into the distant mountains, telling me of the far-away formations that reminded him of two eyes, I felt clueless and helpless as I struggled to see for myself exactly what he himself was seeing.

Through meditation, I believe that the man was one of my guides, persistently attempting to help me to see something significant towering above in those remote rocks. But even with my guide standing right there beside me, I was still blind, incapable of seeing.

As I ponder about these two mysterious eyes from yet another angle, I realize that the symbol of two eyes in the distance has a prior meaning to me. Just a week before my first visit to Cozumel, in early December of 2007, I was blessed with a profoundly powerful meditation experience. In my writing about that experience—my Oct 22, 2009 Sacred Memories post—I mention an odd face-like shape that appeared in a dark sky filled with twinkling stars. The most prominent feature of that face was the two distant eyes staring down at me. In the exact moment that I recognized those two odd-looking eyes, an indescribable and overwhelming spiritual energy surged throughout my body.

Could the universe be using imagery from a past meditation experience, telling me that the time has come to look for those two eyes again—time to revisit and possibly go deeper into that memorable meditation experience? Only time will tell.

Floating Away

Almost seamlessly, I suddenly found myself soaring toward the mountains in my helicopter—searching for what I could not see, feeling frustrated and almost giving up in my quest.

The symbolism of this experience still escapes me, but the internet dream dictionary points out that being high in the mountains is associated with realizing goals, achieving a higher realm of consciousness, knowledge, and spiritual truth. Along a similar vein, that same dream dictionary also associates flying in a helicopter with experiencing a higher level of consciousness, new found freedom and greater awareness.

Could it be that my dream is telling me that the time has arrived to get into that helicopter, time to search anew for the connection represented to me by those two eyes, time to redouble my commitment to a achieving a higher realm of consciousness and spiritual truth. I would like to believe that this is exactly what I am being told.

No Longer A Rescuer Be

Throughout my life, I have tended to be a rescuer—always trying to help others, trying to keep them from experiencing their own pain and suffering. I have often engaged in rescuing others at my own expense, frequently neglecting my own needs and personal growth in the process. Such behavior is far less common today, but even now I still experience the temptation to rescue.

Yet my own most powerful life lessons—the learning experiences that have blessed me most deeply—are the ones where I seemingly went it alone, the ones where I was forced to face the trauma of excruciatingly difficult situations and decisions without someone else standing by to rescue me and pick up the pieces. It was in those experiences of stepping into the frightening unknown that I began to awaken the heartbeat of my own deep connection with the divine—a connection that was rooted deeply within my own soul.

My therapist friend Paul often told me, “Brenda, we don’t have the right to prevent someone else from experiencing their pain. When we do so, we take away their own growth opportunities.”

I love Paul’s counsel—counsel that has also been repeatedly given to me by my dear psychic friend Trish. But even so, I still tend to want to jump in with my red cape and save the day when I learn that someone that I love is suffering.

So in my dream, at the place where the man ran screaming and yelling into the triangle-shaped mountaintop clearing, waiving his arms high above his head while begging to be rescued—yes even in that strange dream, I felt totally shocked when the helicopter that was seemingly under my personal control simply pulled away and departed the scene.

Today, my intuition strongly resonates that the universe was telling me through this part of the dream that the time has come for me to once and for all give up the profession of being a rescuer. Rescuing others is no longer my role in life. I need to leave that role to “Indiana Jones.”

As a side note, it is interesting that my internet dream dictionary tells me that triangles symbolize aspirations, potential, and truth. They are a symbol of spirituality, encompassing the body, mind, and spirit. Was it a coincidence that I latched onto the memory that my mountain clearing was triangle shaped? I am intrigued by the thought that this was more than coincidence.

Floating Freely

What a puzzling feeling it was to feel myself rising above the helicopter, looking down on the crowded cabin from about ten feet away. Even more mind boggling was the fact that I did not see my own body in the helicopter. In fact, the cabin of the helicopter was so crowded with about eight men in dark suits that I could not possibly see how I could have fit in there myself. Where could I have been sitting?

My friend Michelle pointed out that the message might be that I don’t really need a helicopter to fly to new spiritual highs—that the limits of the physical body no longer apply when dealing in the realm of spirit. I am learning to fly without the aid of a helicopter.

Michelle also pointed out to me that the men who were conspicuously dressed in identical black suits could have represented the conventional world of human beliefs—a world that is tied down by conformity and rules that no longer apply. Perhaps I was floating away from that world of auto-pilot belief systems. Michelle’s observations ring true to my heart.

My friend Susan felt drawn by the fact that I saw what seemed like eight men in the helicopter—again pulling me back to the spiritual significance of that infinite number with no beginning or end—reminding me of the incredible experience we shared together on 8/08/08 at 8:00 p.m..—the experience where she helped me to perform an energy-clearing in my home just prior to it’s selling. If you missed it, details of that experience are contained in my Aug 9, 2009 Amazing Freedom post.

Of all the symbolism in my dream, I am still slightly unsure when it comes to the full meaning of my floating above these eight men. I hope for additional insight as time progresses.

Missing Attorneys and Movie Heroes

When I shared my dream with dear intuitive Susan, I left out one detail that I didn’t seem to find very significant. I neglected to tell her of a distinct impression that flooded my awareness at the end of my dream—an impression that told me that Indiana Jones and my missing attorney were somehow very closely related to each other.

Amazingly, as Susan and I discussed the symbolism of my nocturnal adventure, she jumped into the conversation and out of the blue and proclaimed: “Brenda, I’m feeling very strongly that both Indiana Jones and your attorney-boss were somehow one and the same person.”

Boom! Zap! Pow! Kazaam! Talk about hitting me between the eyes with a comic book punch.

Immediately, a powerful wave of insight flowed through me, confirming that yes, indeed, the two were the same person. They both represented my divine source. Holy Spirit is my guide that left me in charge in that crowded and lonely courtroom, and Holy Spirit is the same Indiana Jones hero that will rescue that man seemingly stranded in the mountains. My only responsibility is to follow spirit’s teachings and messages as I am guided step by step in my own personal awakening process.

When I reach that state of enlightened awakening, the illusory world around me will simply melt away and I will indeed see the truth through the tools of clearly focused lenses in ideal lighting. I will easily see that no guilt exists, that judgment is a figment of my own imagination, and that unconditional love is accompanied by pure divine innocence belonging to everyone.

I need but recognize and follow the messages given to me, while utilizing the tools that are provided for my journey. And what an amazing journey it is becoming.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 
I was twelve, perhaps thirteen years old. I had already earned a marksmanship merit badge in scouts, and loved shooting a 22 rifle for target practice. I desperately wanted to prove my manhood, and placing a tight group of bullet holes around the center of a small paper target, fifty feet away, was something I was actually quite good at. Target shooting was a traditional male activity that helped me feel as if I somehow fit into a confusing world of ever-illusory gender roles.

One spring day, some friends encouraged me to go rabbit hunting with them, and I quickly agreed; I had never been hunting and it sounded like it might be fun. Early on a Saturday morning we found ourselves on the edge of a large irrigation canal, situated slightly above a farmer’s corn field, just a mile or two from the edge of the small sage-brush-surrounded town where I lived in central Washington State.

As I stood perfectly still, my gaze was attracted by movement about fifty feet away. Quietly placing my small 22 rifle to my right shoulder, I anxiously stared down the sites at a scrawny jack rabbit—a small furry creature that was foraging for food in the thick underbrush at the edge of the field below.

As I gently squeezed the trigger, the loud sharp bang of my gunshot echoed throughout the nearby area, startling nearby birds that suddenly launched from the fields, scattering into the open air above.

I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

The little rabbit fell to the ground and began to helplessly squirm, letting out a loud series of squealing sounds as it attempted to find the strength to flee.

I too watched helplessly as the innocent little bunny rabbit suddenly transformed in my perception. No longer seeing the rabbit as merely an inanimate target, I awakened to the fact that the rabbit was a living, sentient being. Guilt and regret pulsed through my consciousness as I powerlessly watched the rabbit struggle on.

I shifted internally that day. While I harbor no judgment towards those who hunt—I knew in my heart that I would never, could never, be a hunter myself—especially for sport. Watching an animal suffer and die at my own hand nearly tore apart my tender young heart.

An Unexpected Fight

In my innocent childhood, the idea of facing and fighting a mean ferocious bull using nothing but a red cape seemed so courageous and daring. The movies I had watched in those early years portrayed such a glamorous image—the beautiful costumes, the cheering crowds, the romantic architecture of the arena, the adrenaline-pumping drama of risking one’s life in a fight for survival, and the captivating lure of the rich Spanish culture itself. Yes, in those days of innocence I dreamed of one day experiencing the seeming magic of a bullfight for myself. I even vaguely remember participating in childhood play where I pretended I was a matador taking on the electrifying danger of the charging bull.

Reality set in one day when I came to the stark realization that the bull is actually tortured and killed during a bullfight—but somehow, I managed to bury my judgment by rationalizing in my mind that bullfights are a fair fight between good (matador) and evil (bull).

For decades, bullfighting has been nothing more than a vague memory from past movies. I never expected I would see a bullfight firsthand—and I long ago made up my mind that I really had no desire whatsoever to do so.

So, when I found out a few days ago that beginning on Sunday there would be an eight-day series of bullfights in Valladolid, I was totally shocked as I recognized that my heart was telling me “Brenda, you are going to attend one of the fights.”

As I contemplated that thought, I was filled with a nervous wondering.

Yes, the lure of another rare cultural experience was indeed very inviting—but on the other hand, a strong hesitation taunted me—reminding me of the time when I shot that innocent jack rabbit so very long ago. I began to ponder how (or if) I might be able to handle witnessing the bloody death of not one bull, but many.

A Test Of Truth

As I contemplated my preconceived attitudes, fears, and judgments about going to a bullfight, I realized that this is a great opportunity to put my spiritual beliefs into practice.

Just last week I wrote extensively about the idea of “Loving What Is” and of simply “being” pure unconditional love itself. I also talk frequently about how our own perception is what gives meaning to everything. The act of labeling things as good or bad, spiritual or evil, is totally an inside job. We can choose to think with the man-made thought systems of the world, or we can choose to listen to our own divine inner voices.

“Just what might happen if I attend this event with a heart filled with love?” I asked myself. “Is it possible to find love in a situation that on the surface seems so brutal and cruel?”

I decided to find out.

Ringside Seat

This is the nineteenth year that Valladolid has hosted a large cultural festival at the end of January. According to published literature, this celebration of local culture and heritage is held in honor of “Our Lady of Candelaria” (A local Virgin Mary). The series of bullfights are part of this twelve-day festival, with the official newspaper-published schedule declaring that Sunday’s event would begin at 3:00 p.m..

As is my universal experience in Mexico, schedules do not seem to mean much of anything. Being eager to get a good seat, I arrived at the arena ticket booth shortly before 2:30 p.m.. However, as I handed over my 200 pesos (about $16 US) at the ticket booth, I looked up and noticed that a beginning time of 4:00 p.m. was actually posted on the sign above.

The afternoon was hot and sticky, so I decided to go ahead and enter the stadium ninety minutes early—hoping to find a nice shady spot where I could curl up with my IPOD before the crowds began to arrive.

As I entered the large round stadium I realized that I was conspicuously the only paying customer in the entire arena. Several security guards and a few groups of soda/beer salespeople huddled here and there, but the remainder of the large arena was entirely empty.

Gravitating to the top row on the west side of the Arena, I selected a shady spot where I could support my back against a blue three-foot concrete wall that conveniently blocked the hot burning afternoon sun that radiated brightly from the clear blue sky above.

Taking a quick glance around me, I noticed that the entire stadium was constructed from concrete. The structure formed a near circle, broken up only by a fifty foot opening in the northwest corner—a place where two large swinging gates separated a small parking area from the interior of the stadium.

Instead of benches or actual seats, the stadium seating consisted of seven rows of stair-like white-painted concrete levels. Each higher level rose about eighteen inches above the previous level, being about two-and-one-half feet wide from front to back. These levels each served three purposes: a flat hard sitting space, a narrow walkway, and a footrest for people seated one level up. The lowest seating level was perhaps eight feet above the ground below.

The ground-level inner circle of the arena was perhaps one hundred and fifty feet in diameter—an earthen rodeo-like arena surrounded by five-foot high wooden fences painted in a bright red. At four strategic places spaced around the arena, a small white five-foot section of fence protected a narrow entryway—a space just big enough for a man to fit through, but small enough to keep a bull out. Behind the fences, a series of narrow walkways allowed staff and others to freely and safely maneuver.

Although I intended to listen to music, I soon found myself intently observing as a group of groundskeepers began to smooth down the arena using an old run-down truck, some rope, and a beat-up plank. Placing the board on the ground about two feet behind the pickup, the men proceeded to tie ropes to each end of the board before securing the other end of the rope to the back frame of the pickup. Then, two men stood on the board, using their body weight to push the plank down into the ground while hanging onto the back of the small pickup truck as it drove around in circles. Repeatedly, the truck would stall, the hood would be popped up, and several men would rush up to fiddle with the engine. Once the engine resumed its rough humming, the earth-grating process briefly continued before being interrupted yet again by another stall.

While the grounds were being manually grated, several other men ran out to pick up handfuls of larger rocks that were turned over in the process. Such unwanted rocks were simply tossed over the red fence onto the inner walkway.

Next, a water truck entered through the large gates at the northwest corner. A young man quickly jumped off the back, unwound a large plastic hose, and proceeded to manually spray down the entire interior of the arena while at the same time following the truck as it drove slowly around the perimeter. The dusty, brownish-white soil gradually transformed to a moistened reddish-brown.

The final preparation came as several men methodically measured and drew two large circles around the outer part of the circle. Using nothing but rope, a metal rod, and one man’s ankle, the men measured the circle’s center, created a large make-shift compass, and marked the circles into the soil. Finally, a young man ran out with a large coffee can on a stick. As he walked around the already-marked circles, he shook the can up and down, causing chalk to fall through holes in the bottom of the can—thus highlighting the circle.

Throughout this entire process, I was amazed and delighted to see how such necessary preparation tasks could be so easily accomplished using manual, homemade means—without the necessity for expensive, sophisticated equipment.

At around 3:00 p.m., a few other spectators began to filter in. The sun had begun to cast a larger shadow over the west end of the stadium so I moved down to stake out my front-row seat. As I continued watching the groundskeepers, I noticed an elderly Mayan couple seated one row up and about eight feet away. Minutes later the lady urged her husband to follow her as she proceeded to move closer, sitting just behind my right shoulder.

“What happened to your foot?” She almost immediately asked me.

For the next forty-five minutes this sweet little Cecilia patiently tolerated my broken Spanish while we explored generalities of each others’ lives. I learned that Cecilia is sixty years old, has lived in Valladolid her whole life, and loves bullfights. When I told her I was single and traveling alone she seemed shocked that I could profess to be happy without being in a committed romantic relationship.

“My husband reads cards to tell people their futures.” She told me. “He can tell people if their relationships will last or if they have love in their future, etc…”

Then she proceeded to let me know that it is frightening for a woman to live alone. “You need a man in your life to protect you.” She emphasized.

I continued to smile, trying to convince her that I am indeed very happy and very safe while living and traveling by myself. I’m not sure if I convinced her—at least she did not seem very satisfied with my answer.

As crowds began to gradually filter in, I was surprised to see that the bullfights were a complete family affair. Countless parents brought their young children, many of whom sat down under the security rails on the lowest level, hanging their feet over the edge—being eager to have the best seats.

Streams of people filtered into the arena, many as late as 4:45 p.m.. Meanwhile, what seemed like an endless trail of vendors had begun to continuously cycle their way through the crowd peddling their wares: sodas, beer, popcorn, potato treats, nuts, french fries, cotton candy, and the like. This never ending supply of vendors refused to let up, walking back and forth, up and down, all throughout the entire evening.

Finally, shortly after 5:00 p.m., two and a half hours after I first sat down on the hard concrete, the crowd began to cheer as a brass band, across the stadium on the mostly empty sunny side, picked up their rhythm. Simultaneously, a lady entered the arena below with her flowing blue and white gown gracefully draped over the back of a majestic black horse, leaving only the horse’s neck, head, and legs exposed. After another ten minutes of pomp and circumstance, I was actually feeling excited as the show was ready to finally begin. I had momentarily forgotten what I was about to witness.

Perceptual Struggle

As the first bullfight prepared to begin, I was quite shocked to learn that the first two matadors were young boys in training, perhaps around twelve years in age. Each wore elaborate sequined costumes. The boy in the white costume seemed very confident as he proudly strutted himself around the stadium. The other boy wearing a tan costume seemed to be more reserved and humble. I discovered later that this was his first fight.

A group of four fancily-dressed men with bright pink matador-capes were standing nearby, one near each of the protected entrances. They seemed ready to rush out of their little hideaways to assist whenever necessary.

When the first bull ran out of the shoot, I was happy to see that it was not extremely aggressive. I found myself beginning to enjoy watching the young boys dodge the bull’s advances while skillfully dancing behind their red capes.

Then the more confident boy stepped out of the way, leaving the arena to his younger inexperienced counterpart. The older men occasionally moved in closer, giving the young boy a rest by keeping the bull occupied. I was actually beginning to enjoy the spectacle—that is, I was enjoying it until what I perceived as inhumane torture began.

When the young boy stabbed his first two barbed spears into the back of the bull’s neck I began to feel uncomfortable. Even now, as I attempt to write, the memories begin to make me feel queasy and faint. I will spare any further gory details because I have no desire to write about them.

Suffice it to say that I felt deeply saddened by the way the bull was repeatedly taunted, tormented, and stabbed. I was close enough that I could hear the bull’s squeals and moans—I could feel the agony of this living, sentient being. I could see extreme stress in the bull’s face. When the bull finally gave up hope, stumbling and falling to its knees for the final time, I had to turn and look away as two of the older men put it out of its misery. Then, the act of seeing several horsemen ride in, attach ropes, and drag the bull away beneath the stadium seemed so inhumane, so matter-of-factly routine and uncaring.

I began to seriously question whether or not I had already seen enough; questioning if now might be a good time for me to leave.

“No.” I pondered. “My promptings were to attend this event and to practice shifting my perceptions and judgments from fear to unconditional love. I need to stick this out and see what I can do to find that shift.”

The second bullfight was solely the domain of the other more into-himself young man. Each time he did something significant, he would strut around almost arrogantly, doing his best to create the appearance of being superior and special. I was still struggling to find my shift into “being” love, especially when the second kill took place.

But I was indeed already beginning to find that shift. I began by focusing on sending deep loving energy to the bulls who must have felt so cornered and trapped. I felt a powerful vibrating energy throughout my spine as I concentrated on sending that love.

Then I began to imagine the life of this young matador, putting myself into his shoes, attempting to understand what would make someone of this innocent age take such great pride in killing an animal in such a torturous manner. I didn’t have to look far when I scanned the crowd. Children are so impressionable, and the stadium was filled with them. As the parents clapped and cheered on, the innocent little learning-sponges absorbed the energy of their parents and did the same.

Yes, in this culture, these young children grow up with the message that bullfighting is a normal, even glorified activity. Who could fault them for doing what their parents teach them as they attempt to win the positive reinforcement of cheering crowds and popularity. Yes, I began to feel a deep sense of love for this arrogant-acting young matador as I realize he was only doing what he had been taught—he was merely calling out for love, trying to win the praise and approval of family and friends.

Then I began to ponder why the parents would behave this way, why they would encourage their children to engage in such an activity—and the answer was again obvious. These parents grew up with the same beliefs that were taught to them by their own parents, their own culture. Through time-honored tradition, these customs and rituals are passed down from one generation to the next. For them, bullfighting is totally normal and reasonable.

Again, I can honestly say that I began to feel love for the parents of these young boys.

I wondered to myself, “If I were raised in the same circumstances, in the same cultural belief system, what would my personal beliefs and behavior be? Would I be any different?”

By the start of the third bullfight, love was indeed beginning to resonate throughout my body. I still found absolutely no joy in watching the torture and death of a living creature—yet I was glowing with peace on the inside as I genuinely loved the people and animals involved.

The third bullfighter was a twenty-something adult with incredible horsemanship skills. Rather than being a traditional bullfighter, this man worked from the back of several beautiful, amazingly trained, large white horses. Four or five times during the fight, the other men with pink capes kept the rampaging bull occupied while the matador rode out of the arena to perform a quick change to a new horse.

As I watched the unbelievable and almost magical maneuvers of this well-composed man on his horses, I momentarily forgot what was actually taking place. The bull repeatedly charged and ruthlessly chased after the horse, but the matador skillfully and calmly maintained his horse’s position, often just inches ahead of the bull’s horns.

Frequently, I feared that the bull was on the verge of taking the incredible horse down to the ground. But through sheer skill, the matador made the horse run both forward and sideways at the same time, at precisely the necessary pace, repeatedly and skillfully dodging the incoming attacks.

In between attacks, the horse strutted his beautiful body, skillfully high stepping in an unbelievable display of equine grace and beauty. The show was so amazing that I occasionally forgot I was watching an equally beautiful animal—a large black bull—being tormented, agitated, and tortured to its death.

As the third bull was finally relieved of his misery, I again had to turn my head. I could not bear to watch. While I indeed felt an incredible love running through my body—a love focused on all participants—I still grappled with my grim perception of an animal being brutally killed in the name of sport.

By now I really wanted to leave the arena, but something inside convinced me to see the experience through to its end. Over the course of another hour, the younger more experienced boy and the horseman each took turns participating in the final two bullfights, the final two kills.

As I walked home, moving quickly down the long eight blocks of dark narrow streets, my watch read approximately 7:30 p.m.. The emotionally-taxing afternoon—an afternoon I will not soon forget—had brought with it a sense of exhaustion and confusion.

Yes, I did accomplish great leaps in finding a sense of genuine love for all participants—but I also left the arena with a mild, but overwhelming, sense of sadness regarding what I had just witnessed. I suppose I just need to sit with the emotions a little longer—observing them, processing them, allowing them to flow through me, exploring my next potential perceptual shift.

Whose Belief Is That, Anyway?

As I reflect and write about this whole powerful experience, I continue to explore my own deeply ingrained belief systems—the very beliefs that lead me to judge or to feel sad as I write about yesterday’s bullfight experience.

Right and wrong used to be so clear and simple, so absolutely black and white. But now, the more I go down the rabbit hole of self-exploration, of truly questioning what I think I know about the world, the more I realize that I really don’t know anything.

My perceptions have been wholly based on a need to survive in a world of being separate—separate from my divine source—and separate from others.

Most everything I thought I knew was taught to me—by my parents, religious leaders, teachers, friends, heroes, bosses, coaches, television, newspapers, books, and by my culture in general.

When I was young, I never chose the language I spoke, the clothes I wore, the prejudices I was given, or the life-views that I espoused. As I grew older and more independent, I took over the role of rule enforcer, self-imposing the same belief systems that were taught to me as a child. I beat myself up with guilt while rarely questioning the validity of the beliefs that created such guilt.

Today, my whole path of spiritual growth literally seems to be a process of continual undoing—undoing belief systems that were taught to me, but never examined by me. As I persist in turning my perceptual thinking upside down, I am amazed by how my entire life has been spent mostly running on autopilot under the control of programs written by well-meaning others—programs that are not even true.

It is time to turn off the autopilot and to tune in more deeply to my own personal divine guidance that resonates from within. Of course, that is what my present journey is all about. The hardest part is recognizing when the auto pilot is still running.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

I strolled out to the hammocks early yesterday morning, fully intending to spend a relaxed day engaged in pensive and meditative writing. But once I was stretched out in the morning sun, my mind would simply not focus. Instead, the delightful warmth of the sun’s radiant energy demanded that I first enjoy a short nap. Soon, the whole day rapidly melted away as other activities continued to take precedence—a late morning visit to the dentist, an afternoon bicycle ride, grocery shopping, and a late evening trip to my doctor. Many things were accomplished in my busy day, except for the fact that not a single word was written.

Today I begin the process all over again, but this time I am convinced that my efforts will be more successful.

Bobby, one of my little Chihuahua friends, is stretched out on the warm gravel just a few feet to my left. The bright morning sun peeks through the leaves of the large umbrella-like tree directly overhead. I have the distinct impression that the leaves are thinner than they were a month ago, thus allowing more sun to slip through. This raises the question: “Does this tree lose its leaves in the winter?”

A quick glance around me reveals that most surrounding trees and shrubs are still as full and lusciously green as ever. But many of the large oval-shaped leaves of this particular tree have transformed, changing to a bright reddish-brown. As a slight breeze blows overhead, several leaves escape the branches above and gently drift to the ground below. One lands on Bobby’s head. As he briefly looks up, the large leaf slips to the ground. Bobby quickly returns to his puppy-dog nap, using the leaf as a small pillow.

Dental Escapades

Friday morning, as I browsed the aisles of the local Soriana grocery store, I stumbled across a tempting bag containing twenty large individually-wrapped tootsie rolls. My craving for familiar childhood chocolate overwhelmed me, and soon the tasty treats were riding home with me on my bicycle, sharing space with other food items in one of two plastic bags suspended from my handle bars as I maneuvered my way through traffic along the narrow one-way roads.

That evening, I found myself sequestered in my room, secretly chewing away on my new prized possessions. Attempting to ration my consumption, I limited my Friday evening intake to a mere five of the three-inch-long, one-half-inch-diameter chewy delights. (In case you can’t tell, I have been yearning for chocolate in a big way lately.)

By Saturday afternoon, however, the word “rationing” completely slipped away from my vocabulary as I repeatedly gorged down more and more of my precious stash of chocolate. While lying on my bed and watching an episode of “Lost” on television, I passionately began gobbling down my second-to-last tootsie roll. Suddenly, I stopped mid-chew as I felt a strange sensation in the lower right rear of my mouth.

Sure enough, as I explored with the tip of my tongue, a slight gap revealed itself—a hole in the same tooth that had been patched up just a little over a month ago. Soon, I discovered the missing chunk of resin huddled away in part of my still un-chewed chocolate.

A quick look in the mirror revealed that a tiny bit more of my filling had been broken off along with the same chunk of dental resin that the dentist added last month—but there was no pain, no immediate threat, only an attention-getting sharp roughness. Surely I could wait until the dentist office reopens on Monday.

Yesterday, as I leaned back in the reclining dental chair, I was quite proud of myself for going all by my lonesome. My broken-tooth vocabulary has improved considerably since my last visit, and I was able to function just fine—other than for the fact that I did not recognize the words for “rinse” and “spit”. Luckily, the dentist knew those English words himself—but only used then on me after I stared blankly at his earlier requests in Spanish.

With no need for Novocain injections, my “dentist-away-from-home” drilled out part of my old filling (not sure how much) and replaced the area with a larger supply of tooth-like white resin. Twenty minutes later I was good to go.

“You need a new crown after you return home.” The dentist told me. “What I am doing today is only temporary—but it stronger than before and should last until you get home.”

“How much do I owe you today?” I asked.

“Nothing” he replied with a smile.

I too formed a broad happy smile as I said goodbye to the generous dentist and headed for my trusty bicycle.

Silly Medical Fears

Yesterday completed exactly eight weeks since my first fear-filled visit to a doctor here in Valladolid—the visit where Dr. Jose calmly reassured me that I only had second degree burns and that all would be well in two, or perhaps three weeks.

I laugh at myself as I look back at how frightened and panic-filled I had been in those early weeks after my burn in the jungle. My growth experiences of these eight weeks have been powerful in teaching me to trust my feelings and intuitions, especially when such inner guidance totally contradicts worldly logic. I am beginning to recognize the joy and peace of simply allowing the universe to flow through me rather than trying to be in control of events, schedules, and outcomes. I am finding treasures in every experience, no matter what the external appearance may be.

Last night, Dr. Gomez and I had another delightful visit as he once again changed my bandages on our twice-weekly schedule. I had needed to wait for nearly an hour while Dr. Gomez first applied an emergency cast to the leg of a middle-aged French woman who fell on the sidewalk by her hotel—less than an hour after her arrival here in Valladolid.

As our conversation about foreigners in Valladolid progressed, Dr. Gomez smiled when he told me, “Brenda, I’m trying to word this in a way that will not offend you—but my experience is that my most difficult patients have been from the United States. Most lack confidence and do not have trust in me or in my medical abilities. Burns and open flesh wounds are very common and easily treated. I see and successfully treat wounds such as yours almost every day—yet most visitors from the U.S. are afraid.”

“What is interesting, though,” Dr. Gomez continued, “is that many of my American patients end up becoming my friends.”

“I have to admit that I myself was very frightened at first.” I confessed to him. “But now, I have full confidence in your abilities. I’m so glad that I remained in Valladolid to be treated … and yes, I do consider you to be my friend.”

Just last week, Dr. Gomez spent seven days volunteering with several doctors from the United States. Every year at this time, this same group of orthopedic surgeons fly to Valladolid, spending long days volunteering their time by performing operations such as hip and knee replacements—assisting local Yucatan residents who could not otherwise afford such life changing assistance.

As I reflect on my own emotional rollercoaster ride, I am thrilled and grateful that I found the faith to trust my intuition—to trust in Dr. Gomez’s skills as both an orthopedic surgeon and as a trauma specialist.

As I left Dr. Gomez’s office around 9:00 p.m. last night, I am very encouraged by the status of my wounds. The ring of scabs (underneath which is growing new scar tissue) has reduced to about one-and-one-quarter inches by three-fourths of an inch. The still raw and open oval-shaped center area (still having no skin or scabs) has now reduced to about three-fourths of an inch wide by less than three-eights of an inch tall.

While my tissue is not healing quite as fast as Dr. Gomez predicted two weeks ago, the progress is very positive and consistent. Within another week or two, the center area should be fully filled in with scabby, growing skin, while the outer dimensions of the scabby area should be greatly reduced.

Eager To Ride

While in his office, I neglected to tell Dr. Gomez that I have started pushing myself with a little exercise—probably more so than he would approve of if he were to know.

Eight weeks is a long time to sit around with limited physical activity. My cooped-up body has been crying out for an opportunity to do some exploring—to feel the cool breezes blowing into my face as the ever-changing landscape passes beneath my feet.

Just over a week ago, in the middle of a lazy overcast afternoon, I succumbed to my desires as I hopped onto my bicycle and set out on a trial adventure. After having rested for so many weeks, I was eager to discover just what my physical limits might be.

Pedaling southbound, I left the city and followed a bicycle path that parallels what began as an unfamiliar highway—a busy two lane paved road that cuts through the ever-present wild jungles of the Yucatan. Knowing that I could turn around at any time, I pressed forward until I arrived at Chichimila (pronounced Chee-chee-Me-luh)—a small town located about seven kilometers south of Valladolid.

As I explored a few streets, I was impressed by the virtual absence of any footprints of tourist influence. Most of the side streets were earthen, lined with a wide variety of very humble habitations. What struck me as even more remarkable was the warmth and friendliness of the local people. Most everywhere that I ventured, I was greeted by warm, smiling, genuinely-happy faces—joyfully looking into my eyes and wishing me “Buenas tardes. (Good afternoon)” as I passed by.

Recognizing that I had pushed myself too far, too fast, I soon commenced my return journey. I would have loved more time to explore, but my bandaged left foot was already beginning to throb and ache—even before the seven kilometer ride home.

Yesterday (Monday), around mid-afternoon, I set off for a quick ride to the grocery store. As my flip-flop-clad feet connected with the pedals, however, my plans changed. The warm afternoon air blowing gently through my hair was too much to resist. Soon I found myself on the open highway headed toward the Cenotes at Dzitnup—the same underground wonders that I visited during my first four days in Valladolid—the same place where I unexpectedly stumbled upon a Mayan water ceremony—the same place where I had meditated while thousands of tickling little fish nibbled away on my skin.

As before, yesterday’s ride was on a trial basis, testing my limits. I had intentions to return home at the first sign of fatigue. But my heart had other plans. As I reached the Cenotes, curiosity pushed me forward into uncharted territory—toward the small village of Dzitnup—the same place where my little friend Maria Esther resides.

If you remember, Maria Esther is the sweet little four-foot-something Mayan grandma that I met in the bazaar during my first few days in Valladolid. Since then I have engaged her in several short friendly conversations as she makes her rounds through the food courts attempting to sell handkerchiefs and other embroidered crafts.

To my surprise, I recognized a familiar face as I neared the town of Dzitnup. One of Maria Esther’s friends—another little Mayan lady—was walking along the bicycle path right towards me. She greeted me with a big grin, telling me that her village is very near.

Soon, I was breezing into the small town of Dzitnup. The main road was torn up with what appeared to be a construction project to install new pipes. Piles of dirt spilled over onto the only asphalt road in town, covering it with a layer of reddish-brown soil.

As I neared a small park in the center of the village, I noticed a sign that pointed left. The name “Chichimila” was printed in large block letters just above the arrow. The afternoon sun was already low, leaving me with a limited ration of sunlight, but my intuition pushed me onward.

Seeing two young boys sitting on a low wall, I rode up and asked them my pressing question. “Can you tell me how far it is to Chichimila?”

When the answer was only two kilometers, I immediately knew what I would be doing next. I was not sure what the road would be like, but there was no doubt in my mind that I was about to find out.

The small one-lane paved road cut through the mostly pristine jungle, surrounded on both sides by thick lush green vegetation. The narrow road was generally straight and smooth, but was far from flat. An almost continuous series of slight ups and downs kept the journey ever more interesting. After completing each slight climb I thoroughly enjoyed the effortless coasting down to the next low before beginning the process anew. Yes, the Yucatan is very flat, but these slight rolling variations in elevation—perhaps ten feet from high to low—were much more frequent than I had imagined.

Through these remote surroundings, I passed several local people on foot, pedaled past a few developed fields, and even coasted by one cow (behind a fence)—but something was conspicuously missing. My curiosity was peaked over the fact that I witnessed no signs of any vehicle traffic whatsoever.

After fifteen minutes of delightful isolated adventure, the narrow road finally returned to civilization, joining up with the main highway right at the center of what was now familiar territory—the small town of Chichimila.

As I began the final leg of my now-homebound journey, sore muscles began to make their presence felt. As my almost ten-mile circular journey concluded back at my hostel in Valladolid, I was extremely grateful for the opportunity to rest—but also filled with gratitude for the opportunity to ride, and the opportunity to explore.

Last night, during my conversations with Dr. Gomez, I conveniently “forgot” to share with him any details regarding my recent treks. What he does not know will not hurt him.

Filling My Cup With Love

While living in Mexico, I have had an interesting love-hate relationship with television.

Throughout what now feels like past lifetimes, television has often served me as a means of escaping full-fledged depression. During many excruciating years of feeling trapped by gender confusion, television became a refuge, a place to hide from emotional pain, a fantasy world where I could feel safe and somewhat normal. Yes, during those difficult years, television served me well, keeping me alive and partially connected with the larger world around me.

But television also served as a source of additional depression, especially when viewing reached excessive levels. Self-imposed judgment caused me to feel intense guilt, even self-hatred for the many hours seemingly wasted in front of the TV—hours that could have and should have been used for more productive endeavors.

I made a long-overdue loving peaceful truce with television over five years ago. In that agreement with myself, I found a happy medium in which I began to allow myself to enjoy frequent healthy escapes of television downtime while still maintaining a healthy balance with the rest of my life.

But even today, television viewing time has a way of triggering feelings of past, suppressed, unhealed guilt.

Throughout my time in Cozumel, I frequently allowed myself the luxury of a relaxed evening in front of the television. English TV shows with Spanish subtitles provided an excellent and educational diversion—and yes, my Spanish language skills consistently grew as a result of those laid-back evenings.

Yet the past guilt continued to haunt me. Voices like “I should be meditating” or “I should be reading a book, or pursuing a spiritual experience” were frequent visitors whispering loudly inside my head.

Here in Valladolid, I have my own personal television in my private room. During my extended physical recovery, this television has often proved to be a grateful diversion. At times, when my body has been unusually stressed and tired, I have allowed myself to watch considerably more television than normal. My brain was often so fried with physical exhaustion that I felt incapable of doing anything that required more effort than a button push on a remote control unit.

But again, past self-hatred and judgment have attempted to sink their claws into my psyche, demanding that I feel guilty and depressed over my lack of focus—over my wasting of precious time in such a seemingly mind-numbing activity.

Yesterday morning, I awoke at 5:00 a.m. with my mind rapidly overflowing with insights and healing ideas. Rather than attempting a return to sleep, I sat up in bed, allowing myself to engage in two hours of quiet, deeply energizing meditation. Throughout that meditation, my inspired focus continuously flowed around the topic of self-judgment.

I have always loved a recurring theme in “A Course In Miracles” that teaches that love is “all there is.” The opposite of love is merely the absence of love. When love is absent, that is when fear, judgment, hatred, and all other similar emotions arise.

Years of powerful and deeply inspiring personal experiences have taught me that when I am fully immersed in a state of absolute unconditional love, nothing else in this self-projected world matters. In this divinely peaceful state, fear and judgment literally cannot coexist. This state of pure unconditional love creates such an amazing joyful and peaceful connection with the infinite that thoughts of failure seems impossible, totally absurd, and even humorous. Such a peaceful state also brings with it the ability to love and accept everything exactly as it is, right here, right now, in this moment.

While in deep meditation, it became clear to me that “a lack of love” is the obvious source of my continued television guilt—and the obvious source of the other judgmental feelings that began to plague me a few weeks ago. Clearly I have been withholding love, losing sight of the pure and divine connection to the infinite that runs through us all.

Next, my meditation reminded me of the powerful message of the “Law of Attraction.” The world is a mirror. The energy that I bring to a situation is the very energy that will be reflected back to me. When I approach the world with pure unconditional love, all I see is a loving world (no matter what appears to be happening). When I approach the world with fear, I find countless reasons to be fearful hiding around every corner.

Thus, if I judge something as being bad or wrong, my increased focus actually perpetuates the existence of what I judge. The mere act of judging my television watching is what turns television into a guilt-ridden problem. The more I struggle with the seeming addiction, the more television becomes a self-defeating problem.

Believing that something “should be different” creates conflict, accompanied by such emotions as sadness, anger, despair, and depression. In contrast, learning to “BE” love in every situation is what brings joy and peace.

As I process through these meditation insights, “The Work” of Byron Katie comes to mind. In her book titled “Loving What Is”, Byron Katie outlines a simple, but profound method of shifting one’s perceptions—but in order for her simple process to be successful, one has to first be willing to look genuinely and deeply within, recognizing the truth of the concept that we alone are the sole projectors of our personal reality.

Byron Katie’s teachings are so simple. Outside events do not make us suffer—it is our belief about those events that causes our suffering.

At first I vehemently resisted the concept of “loving what is”.

“What about all of the abhorrent evil in the world?” I asked myself. “How can I love that?”

I finally realized that the secret is not in loving a perceived evil—the secret is in simply learning to “BE” unconditional love.

The more I approach life from a state of unconditional love, the more my perceptions of evil simply dissolve and melt away. A godlike love does not see the evil, because pure love cannot judge.

A year ago, my dear friend Trish taught me a simple yet powerful metaphorical example of this concept.

Trish asked me the question:

“Brenda, suppose that you have a glass of clear water and you add a few drops of red food coloring into that water. If you want to make the water clear again, but you cannot dump the water out and you cannot use chemistry tricks, what do you do? How would you accomplish the task?”

When I exhibited a blank stare, Trish quickly provided me with the simple answer.

“You simply continue pouring clear water into the glass until the last of the red-tinted water flushes out. Eventually the glass will return to a clean, pure state.”

The lesson for me was so powerful and obvious. Attempts to remove the dye would be futile—an utter waste of time. But the simple act of adding more clear water eventually achieves the goal.

This example can be so easily applied in our lives.

If our life is filled with judgment, fear, hate, anger, and jealousy, we don’t achieve unconditional love by spending all of our energy focusing on removing the judgment, fear, hate, anger, and jealousy from our perceptual existence.

On the contrary, we achieve unconditional love by practicing the art of being unconditional love, by filling our life with loving experiences and perceptions. As we do so, our life will become so clear that there will no longer be room for anything that is not love. Continuously filling our cup with love will eventually leave it filled with nothing but love itself.

In my own situation, I will never achieve advanced love by trying to solve the problem of self-imposed guilt regarding my television watching. Trying to stop watching television creates a needless self-defeating cycle of struggle. This struggle is akin to trying to use tweezers to remove the red dye from my water glass.

But the opposite is true. As I pour more love and forgiveness into my life, judgment and guilt regarding television will simply not matter. My life will be so occupied with clear flowing love that there will be no desire to engage in activities that distract me from that joy and peace. Likewise, there will be no room for guilt or judgment.

Today I find myself on an amazing adventure—an opportunity given to me by the universe—an incredible journey of self discovery. I am so grateful for the insights that continue to flow my way each time that I center myself and return to a focus on simply being love.

Sing Your Own Special Song

Prior to coming to Mexico, I can honestly say that I had never watched a single episode of the television series “Lost”. Several times I had briefly watched a five or ten minute segment before quickly switching channels. Something about the show did not resonate with me.

While in Cozumel, one of the English channels was showing frequent rerun episodes of “Lost” with Spanish subtitles. After watching several episodes, I quickly became addicted. The metaphysical energy of the show fascinated me—the mysterious energies, the unexplained synchronicities, the time travel, the guidance through dreams, the flashbacks, the seeming random nature of events that all seemed to happen for a reason.

This past Saturday, I allowed myself the guilt-free indulgence of watching an all day marathon of “Lost” reruns—the first twelve episodes of season two. At the start of one particular episode, a familiar song rang loudly over the loudspeakers in the “pod”. This is a song I used to love as a teenager—but as usual, I cannot say that I ever really listened to the words. This time I did listen, and the words were fascinating.

The inspiring words are quite self explanatory, describing my own beliefs regarding how we each need to find our own special internal music—we each need to live our own unique life in a way that is true to the beautiful energy that flows through our own soul.

I would like to close by sharing the words of this inspiring song. You are probably quite familiar with the tune.

Make Your Own Kind Of Music
Performed by: Momma Cass Elliot
Written by: Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil

Nobody can tell ya
There’s only one song worth singin’
They may try and sell ya
‘Cause it hangs them up
To see someone like you

But you’ve gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along

You’re gonna be knowin’
The loneliest kind of lonely
It may be rough goin’
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do

But you’ve gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along

So if you cannot take my hand
And if you must be goin’
I will understand

You’ve gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along

While I love this song, I would like to add my own perspective to the second verse.

Conventional wisdom might have us believe that singing our own special song and making our own kind of music automatically results in a life that is “lonely” and “rough going”.

But I can honestly say that my personal experience is exactly the opposite. The more I learn to break from the world to play my own unique music, to connect with my true divinity and oneness—the less lonely and more connected I actually feel. My life seems to simply flow from one synchronicity to the next.

My life is abundant with joy, peace, and love.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

The warmth of the bright morning sun feels incredibly satisfying as it shines down from the blue cloudless sky above. My body has been craving such a moment as this—a moment in which I am able to once again enjoy this pleasant and relaxing source of penetrating morning heat while lying stretched out in my favorite hammock.

For several days, the Yucatan peninsula has been caught up in the same massive cold front that has engulfed southern Florida. Cloudy skies and uncharacteristically cold temperatures have taken up short-term residence.

I actually love cold winters and snow. In fact, one of my favorite mountain memories is of a time a few years ago when I hiked four miles on snowshoes in nine-degree-below-zero temperatures (Fahrenheit). The deep snow, the frigid mountain air, and the unbelievable alpine scenery were invigorating and unforgettable. On that hike, I was actually warm and toasty, even sweaty—all because I was dressed in proper protective clothing.

I used to think it to be so utterly silly when people whined about fifty degree temperatures as being cold. Now I am amazed by how a little personal experience has shifted my entire perspective.

For seven months now, I have gradually adapted to hot sticky weather with constant and often intense humidity. Such prolonged thermal adaptation has conditioned me to the point that temperatures that used to feel cool and pleasant now actually feel cold. I cannot believe I am saying this, but when adding high humidity to the mix, prolonged temperatures in the upper fifties can feel downright freezing.

But the real source of my bodily discomfort comes from two other factors—both related to preparation and living conditions.

First of all, other than one pair of long jeans and a light sweatshirt, my limited wardrobe is entirely devoted to capris and lightweight blouses. I am simply not prepared with proper clothing to spend time in cooler temperatures.

Second, and even more important, is the fact that most homes in the Yucatan area are not outfitted for cold temperatures. Central heating is unheard of, and even space heaters are extremely rare. As is quite common, the windows in my small private room have no glass. Wooden shutters do provide privacy, and window screens keep the mosquitoes out—but the cool night air flows freely over and around the cold concrete walls and tile floors. With each subsequent cool day, the concrete seems to grow even colder.

Sleeping in my room at night, wrapped up in my sweatshirt and covered only by two thin lightweight blankets, reminds me of an experience I had late last winter with my dear friends Lori and Jeanette. The three of us went camping in southern Utah with a fun new group of friends. During those long winter nights the temperatures dipped down into the low thirties. Even with all the preparation in the world—warm sleeping bags, heavy blankets, long johns, and thick winter coats—we simply could not get or remain comfortably warm in our tent.

While the temperatures here in Valladolid have only been dropping into the upper fifties at night, the feeling of being chilled to the bone has been much the same as on that memorable camping trip. I am rapidly gaining a new appreciation for the comforts of having a warm cozy home with central heating, thick warm blankets, and yes, even a brightly glowing fireplace with radiant dancing flames.

Today’s newfound heat is teasing, somewhat transient. Even now, as the sun moves behind a tree, the feeling of bone-chilling cold returns, reminding me to take nothing for granted. A quick look at the weather forecast seems to indicate that normal weather patterns should return within another few days. Excitement flows through my veins as I anticipate a resumption of warmer and more comfortable temperatures.

Foot Fodder

My foot continues to heal at a very gradual and consistent pace. As Dr. Gomez assured me would happen, the once-large open wound is steadily filling in. Beginning at the outer edges, new skin is slowly growing toward the center of the circle. The diminishing skinless area has now been reduced to a small section that is roughly one inch wide and one half inch tall. Small bands of scabs gradually form around the edges of the wound, eventually leaving behind hard pink young skin as the scabs work their way toward the center. One small skinless area still remains slightly indented as the seeming-magical healing tissue slowly builds its way back toward skin-level.

The human body is such an amazing self-healing creation. The already healed surface area looks surprisingly normal. While it is still pinkish, slightly swollen, and hard, the new skin is smooth and level with the rest of my foot—giving me the impression that my foot will actually look quite ordinary when the healing process is complete.

However, Dr. Gomez is quick to remind me that even though it appears to be quite normal, the new skin is technically not skin at all. The scientist in him seems to feel a need to teach me that what I see as new skin is actually scar tissue. While this replacement tissue looks like and acts like new skin, it contains neither sweat glands nor hair follicles.

When I question him, Dr. Gomez adds, “But your wound is small enough that any detrimental effect of not having sweat glands is totally insignificant.”

I am not the least bit worried about sweat glands—and since I am not a Hobbit, I am not too concerned about a lack of hair follicles on the inside edge of my foot either.

While Dr. Gomez continues to predict that my healing may be complete very soon, I am totally at peace with whatever happens. Having no attachment whatsoever to any timeframe is so incredibly freeing.

Besides, I love the growth experiences that I am going through right here in Valladolid, Yucatan, Mexico.

Social Explorations

This week has proven to be another interesting safari into the wild natural world of ever-changing social relationships. But the dense jungles through which my lifelong expeditions have taken me are not of this world—they have been totally created within the hidden corners of my own mind. The ferocious lions, charging rhinoceroses, laughing hyenas, poisonous cobras, and creeping tarantulas are all my own imaginary creations.

At the time of my last writing, I was quite puzzled by feelings of continued judgment and sense of separation from others. I quietly continued to observe others around me, while at the same time observing my own continued judgmental reactions.

I found myself feeling quite intimidated by the thought of attempting to socially reach out. Old childhood social fears continued to stalk me through the jungle—blindsiding me, like threatening predators jumping out from every dark corner.

Something about the mix of people that were at the hostel simply did not vibrate with my own energy. Even after spending considerable time working through and releasing my own projected feelings of judgment, I simply experienced no desire to be social with those people.

At times, especially in the evenings, I found myself struggling with doubt, questioning myself, judging myself for feeling so disconnected from the others. Evenings here at the hostel have often been quite fun opportunities to visit—but this week, each time I ventured into the outdoor kitchen area, I became a frightened outsider. The energy of the gathered strangers seemed to put me on alert, to push me away. I felt like a vulnerable baby elephant walking into a room full of hungry tigers.

Indeed, I felt as if I were the elephant in the room.

But on Friday, a very refreshing shift of energies brought with it some very powerful shifts in my soul.

Friday morning, a tiny peaceful internal urge caused me to expedite my morning routine. After a quick breakfast, I found myself carrying my ‘Spanish Verbs’ book out to the hammocks a full hour before I normally venture out. I expected to get an early start on my language studies, a task that I have been doing quite a lot of lately.

A few minutes later, I watched as a woman strolled down the small garden lane. I smiled at her as she plopped herself into the hammock right next to me.

“I finally made it to the hammocks.” The woman said with relief as she began chatting. “I must have eaten something bad yesterday because I felt really sick last night.”

Continuing, she added: “All through the night my mind was obsessed with the thought that I just wanted to go out to the garden and rest in the hammocks. Today, I finally made it.”

Within minutes, our energizing small talk had evolved into a full fledged deep spiritual meaning-of-life type of conversation. It did not take long before we both figured out that the whole situation seemed to be a setup by the Universe. We had both felt guided toward the hammocks early that morning—a joint prompting that allowed our amazing conversation to unfold so incredibly smoothly. Susie had gone through similar feelings of isolation during her own short stay here at the hostel. She had not felt any type of energetic connection with any of the other guests—until now that is.

As we continued our deep conversations into the early afternoon, a small internal prompting caused me to share the full details of my life journey, an event that stimulated two more hours of deep loving discussion. After a two hour late-afternoon break, we again resumed our conversation over shared dinner at a local pizza restaurant.

Through this amazing turn of events, I came to easily realize that the only thing I need to do in social situations is to bring a loving energy with me in my heart. If other people around are not vibrating in that same energy frequency—that is fine. I am not broken, and there is nothing I need to do to fix the situation.

If there is someone with whom the Universe wants me to connect, all I need do is simply listen to—and respond to—my feelings. The rest will happen all by itself.

I need not attempt to force anything. If I bring my loving energy to the table but nothing happens—then nothing is supposed to happen. I can let go of my self-questioning; I can release my critical self-judgment.

Early Saturday morning, Susie and I exchanged our goodbyes over breakfast. Her journey was already taking her to the Chiapas area, a beautiful portion of Mexico just southwest of the Yucatan, near Guatemala. In less than two weeks she will be returning to her home town of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Even though the two of us only connected for a single day, something inside tells me that our paths will most likely cross again in the future.

I cannot explain the why and how—but the past few days of my social safari have become a totally different experience. Even though I still retire to my room shortly after dark, I have been having fun, loving, meaningful conversations at nearly every turn. Just this morning, prior to beginning my writing, I had a delightful inspiring conversation with a young woman from Finland—a young woman who is questioning her future career path, searching within to decide just where she can find her own personal happiness in her own unique way—attempting to free herself from the voices of well-meaning advice givers.

My simple advice to her was to learn to have the faith to trust her own feelings—her own heart.

No one else, no matter how well intentioned they might be, has the right to tell us that our own internal passions are misguided or wrong. True happiness and peace are our sure companions as we synchronize our lives with our own inner guides.

As these past seven days rapidly approach an end, I am thrilled that I have learned such valuable lessons about myself. My internal social jungle now feels peaceful, joyful, content, and filled with gratitude. Many frightening and intimidating wild beasts have morphed into fluffy cuddly bunny rabbits.

I can honestly say that (at least for now) random social interactions with strangers no longer intimidate me. I don’t feel a need for everyone to like me nor do I expect them to resonate with my energy. My only job is to simply be—to be me—to be real and genuine—to continue my focus on learning to feel unconditional love toward everyone.

Sending out unconditional love requires no response from others. True unconditional love has no conditions. Love simply is. Love simply radiates.

If secretly sending love guides me into a new social relationship—I am thrilled by the experience.

If no such social relationship is in the works—I am equally thrilled, because I am left with more time to devote to other endeavors.

It is all so simple:  Send Love … Listen to promptings … Follow heart … Feel peace.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

Strange dreams have been the norm lately. Almost every night, for over a week, I have been waking up four to five times per night. By the time I am conscious enough to realize that I was dreaming, the memories have faded to near nothingness.

In one dream last week, I was able to remember a few generalized details.

My father, quietly sitting behind the steering wheel of a large sedan, dropped me off at a restaurant high up on a populated hillside. After he pulled away, as I stood there alone in the darkness, I realized that I had no purse, no wallet, and no money to buy food—so I did the next obvious thing. (Remember, this is dream logic.) I mounted my trusty bicycle (don’t ask me where it came from) and I started gliding down the hill.

Soon I found myself sitting, talking to a man about half my age. After what must have been a delightful conversation, this handsome young man invited me to accompany him as his date to a high school prom. When presented with this gracious request, I simply replied, “I’m sorry … I can’t … I don’t have a dress … I am traveling with just my backpack and have only minimal clothing.”
 
Seconds later I was awake, scrambling to write down what few details I could still remember before they too faded away.

This morning I awoke from an intensely emotional dream, but again the details evaporated with amazing speed. All I could remember was that someone had told me that I was incapable of understanding their pain. When I replied that “Yes … I do understand … I went through the same thing myself when I was young,” I suddenly started to uncontrollably sob and roll on the floor as I began to re-experience that vivid emotional pain.

When I awoke, I found myself lying calmly in my warm bed; but the strange emotions still lingered in my body, leaving me to question the source and/or meaning of the deeply emotional illusion.

So what is the meaning of all these frequent and unusual (but not remembered) dreams that I am having?

I honestly cannot say quite yet—but I have an intuitive feeling that the universe is attempting to communicate with me in symbolic ways.

I am obviously not yet hearing. When I wake up in the middle of the night, my first thoughts tend to be about a bathroom trip and a return to sleep. By the time I think about the dream itself, it is too late—the memories are gone.
 
Something tells me that this is about to change, but not without some focused effort on my part.

An Inside Job

As I wrote on Dec 30, I found myself questioning my seeming desire for social isolation. As soon as I finished posting that blog entry I began to easily make a whole new set of friends. In the course of a single evening, I developed fun casual friendships with another man from Germany (Jan), a young Israeli musician (Roei), a forty-something man from Minnesota (David), and a South-African woman who currently lives in Mérida (Deborah).

Today, however, I am again puzzled and pondering. All of those amazingly interesting people have now continued on with their own individual adventures, and the hostel is once again packed with new travelers who I am sure must be every bit as loveable and fascinating as the last group.

But I experience no desire to speak to these new people. I have even found myself feeling slightly annoyed by their quirky behaviors—feeling somewhat resentful about their mere presence within the boundaries of my personal space.

“What’s up with that?” I ask myself.

The common denominator seems to be that I am emotionally withholding so that I can focus on writing—yet the fact that I am feeling irritated and mildly judgmental deeply concerns me. Such negative thoughts run counter to everything that I believe in—everything that I strive for.

But instead of fully embracing or acting on these feelings, I simply observe them with intense curiosity. I know that the problem is an “inside job,” having absolutely nothing to do with the people around me. Each judgmental reaction is merely a projection of something unhealed inside of me, something to look at in my own personal growth, something to help me make a minor course correction on my path toward learning unconditional love.

As a youth, and throughout much of my adult life, I struggled deeply with social awkwardness and isolation. Facing a group of total strangers ranked right up there with sleeping on a bed of nails, walking barefoot on broken glass, or being forced to walk naked through a crowded street.

In recent years, my growth in social confidence has been amazing. I have faced many fears, confidently standing up and lovingly sharing my story with countless friends and total strangers. I have spoken in university classrooms, participated in public panels, answered questions on a radio program, and am now publishing my writings and insights for the whole world to read.

Yet my experiences here at the hostel are reminding me that I still have considerable growth ahead of me. Certain types of people still tend to intimidate me and it is time to start changing that perception.

As I write about today’s feelings, I find myself regressing to my painful middle school and high school days. The unexplained intense emotions of this morning’s dream are attempting to resurface, reminding me of the debilitating loneliness and pain that I experienced as a youth throughout those difficult and isolated times.

In those awkward years, I was most intimidated by the popular kids, the ones that seemed to have it all—the good looks, the confidence, the social skills, and the athletic ability. Somewhere along the way, as I projected my pain and fear outward, I labeled such people as shallow surface-level airheads who had no real emotional depth or substance to back up their popularity. Somehow, such projection made me feel better about myself.

I had believed these stereotypical beliefs of mine to be resolved and dissolved long ago.

Today, as I get deeply honest with myself, I realize that residual trace elements of these old misguided perceptions still remain. It blows my mind as I recognize the dynamics of what was happening. The travelers toward whom I felt the mild judgment last night and this morning are younger, perhaps in their early twenties. They are attractive young adults who seem very confident, popular, athletic, and socially skilled—all people who fit my old teenage stereotypes.

“They are just shallow airheaded popular people whom I don’t want to bother getting to know.” The ego voices whispered in my ear. “I don’t have anything in common with them anyway.”

I now realize that thoughts like these were very quietly flowing through the back of my mind as I hid out in my room last night. Don’t get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong with remaining in my room to study Spanish (which is exactly what I was doing.)

The part that disturbs me is the hidden motivation. I now see that my motivation was not based on love—it was based on fear. I was subconsciously afraid of attempting social interaction with people who reminded me of my past failures. The mild judgments I began to feel were a result of that projected fear. If I were coming from a place of unconditional love then any type of judgment would have been impossible.

From this time forward I pledge to be ever more diligent in paying attention to my internal motivations. I choose to shine a loving spotlight on my fear-based perceptions, embracing only behavior that is based on pure unconditional love.

Well, at least that is my lofty New Year’s goal. I’ll let you know each time I stumble and pick myself up.

New Year Festivities

The evening progressed in delightful sequence. Eleven of us from around the world spent the evening visiting and counting down the final hours and minutes as 2009 drifted away into the history books.

Learning a few interesting facts about each person was fun—such as the fact that sweet humble Roei (pronounced Roy) is a keyboard player and songwriter for the Israeli based band named “Infected Mushroom.” He was quite proud when he told me that their latest album achieved Gold status in Israel earlier this year.

As the evening continued to unfold, I found myself reflecting and pondering about my emotional and physical whereabouts as 1999 blinked and became the year 2000 just ten short years and an entire lifetime ago.

At that long-ago moment in time, I believed myself to be on top of the world—happier than I had ever before been.

Now, as I reflect back on this decade, I am amazed by the incredible roller coaster ride of struggle and growth through which I have since passed—a ride for which I will be forever grateful. I am so blessed by the spiritual insights and healings that have graced my soul. I could never have imagined my life as amazing and peaceful as it is now.

This same reflection process makes me intently curious and excited to see where life might lead me in just another ten short years. I can only imagine the limitless possibilities.

As midnight ticked away, those of us who were gathered congratulated and hugged each other before walking outside into Candelaria park to witness the local festivities.

In Mexico, many people build what they call a “muñeco (pronounced moon-yeh-coh) del año viejo” and place it on their roof before New Years Eve. The muñeco is a life-size doll made to look like an old man. Prior to being stitched up, the muñeco is filled with firecrackers and other flammable stuffing.

At precisely midnight, the muñeco is brought down to the street and lit on fire, an act that symbolizes the old year being consumed by fire as the new year enters to take its place. As these muñecos burn, the firecrackers gradually ignite, creating frequent outbursts of loud random popping.

As our group entered the park in front of the hostel, we delighted in witnessing many of these large burning dolls on several local streets as the continuous rumbling of firecrackers could be heard bursting throughout the area.

I giggled with joy when I noticed that even the nuns at the local Candelaria chapel were out in front of the church burning their own muñeco.

As an added treat, my friend Trish had told me about a lunar eclipse that would be taking place on New Year’s Eve. A quick round of internet research told me to watch for it at 1:13 a.m. local time. The skies were incredible as the visibility of the bright stars in the black sky was only hampered by the large and bright round globe glowing directly above us. This rare blue moon (second full moon in the same month) was an incredible addition to our New Years Eve celebration.

When 1:25 a.m. rolled around and the eclipse had still not happened, I ran inside to double check my internet research. I giggled again when I realized that I was off by twelve hours. The partial eclipse had happened twelve hours earlier—over Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.

Even without actually witnessing the partial lunar eclipse, just the simple act of staring at such a beautiful heavenly display provided a powerful burst of energy to my soul as we entered this incredible new era of the 2010s.

The Art of Allowing

Even though it was New Year’s Day, Doctor Gomez had asked me to stop by the clinic to have my bandages changed. What ensued was a delightful visit.

After the usual sterilizing and cutting procedures, Dr. Gomez and I sat down in his office for a short chat.

“I am not rushed like I normally am,” Dr. Gomez told me. “Since it is New Year’s Day, I don’t have any patients waiting to see me.”

Eager to learn more about Dr. Gomez, I began to ask him questions. Having previously noticed that all of the Doctors post two last names on their signs, I first asked him, “Can you explain your name? Are you Dr. Gomez or are you Dr. Quintal?”

For ten minutes, Dr. Gomez explained to me the intricacies of how names are passed down in Mexican traditions. In Mexico, everyone has two last names. The first comes from the father, and the second comes from the mother. All children in a family, both male and female, share the same two last names. The children’s first last name is the first last name of their father. The children’s second last name is the first last name of their mother.
 
While the children’s names are derived from the names of their parents, they do not exactly match the combined names of either parent. For example, if the father is named “John Joe Smith Jones” and the mother is named “Susie Marie Hansen Adams,” the children’s two last names will all be “Smith Hansen”.

As we finished discussing names, Dr. Gomez began to tell me about his dreams for traveling.

“In a few years when I am about fifty, I would love to do what you are doing.” Dr. Gomez began. “I would love to take my family and travel for a year or more, exploring different parts of the world, especially Europe and Italy.”

As I asked more personal questions, I discovered that Dr. Gomez is forty seven years old. He became a doctor about nineteen years ago, and finished his advanced certifications in orthopedics and trauma about four years later.

What a delightful experience I enjoyed as I took advantage of a rare opportunity to get to know my incredible doctor at a more personal level. I overflow with smiles as I recognize the amazing synchronicities that continue to unfold as a result of simply being bitten by a tick and then following my heart’s intuition.

Before we parted, Dr. Gomez informed me that he was quite encouraged by the healing progress on my skinless tissue. After telling me that he only wants to see me twice per week, he made a prediction.

“I will be surprised if the healing takes more than another two, or possibly three weeks.” He told me.

“Can you guarantee that?” I asked with a smile.

“No, only God can do that,” he replied, “but I can guarantee that you will get the best possible care from me.”

My intuition continues to tell me that I am exactly where I need to be. Every time I am with Dr. Gomez, I come away with a strong resonating peaceful feeling. I know that all is well.

Later that same New Years Day I sat down in the outdoor kitchen area of the hostel. Soon, I was spontaneously involved in a deep philosophical conversation with David from Minnesota. As we explored our spiritual beliefs, it became fascinating to realize that his core spiritual beliefs are nearly identical to mine, even though we arrived at them through two totally different and unique paths.

Our inspired conversation energized my soul, reminding me how silly my social fears really are. The universe has an amazing way of bringing events into my life as I simply sit back and allow the energy to flow through me.

Just yesterday, as I lay in a hammock listening to a CD on my IPOD, a deep feeling of joyful peace consumed my soul.

Being halfway through my seventh post-burn week, the old me would have been chomping at the bit and climbing the walls, desperately anxious and eager to finish my healing and to move on with my life adventures.

But yesterday as I lay in that hammock in a near state of peaceful bliss, the new me simply smiled inside, knowing that the condition of my ankle does not matter in the least.

While in this state of joy, a phase from one of the “A Course In Miracles” workbook lessons popped into my mind: “I am not a body, I am free, for I am still as God created me.”

There is no doubt in my mind that this statement is true. This mortal body does not define or limit me in any way. I am divine. I am whole. I am free. Things are perfect just the way they are. I need do nothing of my own accord. I need simply listen to, trust, and act on the voices in my heart. (By the way, these statements apply to each of us.)

On this beautiful Tuesday evening, as I finish my writing, I am somewhat amused at the emotion I experienced earlier today as I wrote about my judgmental fear-based feelings. Such feelings now seem light years away as I am once again experiencing that deep sense of peace—a peace that comes from simply allowing universal love to flow through me.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

As I begin my writing late on this beautiful partly-cloudy Wednesday morning, I find myself lying in a hammock with my bare feet stretched out comfortably in front of me.

Well, maybe I should say ‘almost’-bare feet, as my left foot continues to be covered in a very stylish off-white gauze bandage, leaving only my toes peeking out into the warm humid air.

Off to my right, some fifty feet away, Ewout is working hard, diligently watering the many plants in this lush thriving garden area—a task that he faithfully performs twice every day.

Enjoying these hammocks has become somewhat of a spontaneous daily routine, as I frequently spend an hour or two immersing myself in this relaxing environment. Conny and I have often engaged in deep spiritual conversations while swaying back and forth on adjacent hammocks, usually simultaneously playing with Bob and Kalugin, our adorable little Chihuahua friends.

A persistent mosquito hover’s nearby, skillfully dancing around me in the air, patiently awaiting an opportunity to dine unobserved on my bare ankles. Such mosquitoes also seem to be very talented when it comes to biting through my clothes left exposed through the underside of the net. For this reason, I usually avoid using the hammocks in the early morning or late evening—times when these little flying vampires seem to emerge in greater numbers.

It is hard to believe that eleven days have zoomed by since I last picked up my laptop to write. So much has happened—yet so much has remained the same.

Christmas has come and gone, as have perhaps one hundred or more backpacking travelers from around the world. I am amazed by the colorful diversity of these roaming adventurers. Most seem to originate from Europe, with the majority of those coming from Germany, Holland, and France. In some ways, I find it surprising that there are not more U.S. citizens represented here.

With some travelers I feel an almost instant energetic connection. I thoroughly enjoy visiting with them, spending time swapping stories and experiences. Around others, however, I feel no such bond, and I find myself silently turning inward, pretending they are not there, not speaking to them unless they first speak to me.

This phenomenon puzzles me.

“Am I being judgmental?” I quietly ask myself. “Why do I feel absolutely no desire to be proactively friendly with some people?”

With further pondering, I realize that my heart is only yearning for some alone time—time to write—time to meditate—time to reconnect with the silence. I reassure myself that there is no judgment involved—simply discernment telling me that I need to be spending my time elsewhere.

Today, on the day after my dear friend Conny boarded a plane to fly back home to Germany, I find myself craving the peaceful silence. Over the past three weeks, a great deal of my precious spare time has been spent cultivating my growing friendship with Conny—a process that I truly believe was inspired and meant to be.

Yet, as I followed those intuitive promptings, I often felt an internal tug of war as ego voices inside nagged me about my lack of writing, attempting to fill me with guilt for following a slight detour—a detour that I know was inspired.

Many blessings have flowed into my life as a direct result of my friendship with Conny, the first of which was a deepened relationship with Tania and Ewout—a relationship that led to a fascinating experience on Christmas Eve.

A Christmas To Remember

A few days before Christmas, Tania approached Conny and I.

“Brenda and Conny,” she began, “I am hosting a family party on Christmas Eve, and I want you to come because I consider you both to be part of my family.”

Feeling deeply honored, I eagerly accepted Tania’s gracious invitation. How could I turn down such a rare opportunity to celebrate Christmas with a beautiful Nicaraguan family in the heart of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula?

Tania’s mother gave birth to all four of her beautiful children while living in Nicaragua. If you are at all familiar with Nicaraguan history, you might recall the intense civil unrest in this Central American country as the Sandinista National Liberation Front (SNLF) successfully fought and overthrew the dictatorship of Anastasio Somosa in 1979. But the hostilities were not over, as U.S.-backed groups called “Contras” soon began to engage in skirmishes against the Sandinistas who were now in power.

Tania, who is second oldest of three girls and one boy, was born in 1981 just two years after the Sandinistas took power. While living in a country overwhelmed with poverty and suffering from the lingering effects of war and U.S. trade embargos, Tania’s mother managed to raise a beautiful young family.

In spite of the desperate conditions evident all around her, Tania tells me that she grew up feeling safe, loved, secure, and happy. She was never aware of just how much her incredible mother really struggled to provide for and protect her precious children in such difficult and dangerous times.

Over the past few weeks I have had several opportunities to meet this incredible woman when she visits Tania at the hostel. When Tania was in her upper teens, this strong matriarch uprooted her family, left Nicaragua, and moved to Valladolid, Mexico, giving them a new start with new opportunities. In her interactions with others, Tania’s mother exudes a well-balanced mixture of strength, confidence, and love.

In the few limited interactions that we have had, I have developed a deep admiration for Tania’s mother. She has set such powerful examples for her family and others, and is definitely a woman of genuine loving character.

As Christmas Eve fast approached, I found myself becoming increasingly immersed in the loving Spirit of Christmas—feeling eager to experience the festivities in a combination of Mexican and Nicaraguan styles.

For the first time in my life I opted to leave commercialism completely out of Christmas, neither giving nor receiving any gifts whatsoever. While I have to admit that I experienced a small amount of guilt for not attempting to purchase and mail gifts to family and friends back home, I also experienced a great sensation of freedom and liberation as I simply allowed myself to focus on being present with the holiday itself.

As I understand local tradition, it is quite customary in both Mexico and Nicaragua to begin Christmas celebrations at twelve midnight on Christmas Eve, having a large family banquet, fireworks, and opening of presents—not necessarily in that order.

When Tania mentioned that her family likes to get an early start with dinner at 10:00 p.m., I felt a great sense of relief; I am still not a late-night sort of girl.

Dinner was delightful—roast turkey, mashed potatoes, salad, and baked eggplant (those who know me will be amazed to hear that I actually liked the eggplant)—with cake for desert.

As dinner began to conclude, Tania’s nephew and his dad began to play with sparklers, lighting them with a nearby candle. The young man’s face lit up with delight as he practiced making glowing circles in the warm humid night-time air.

But the real magic started as the stroke of midnight made its way into the record books.

The moment that someone pronounced Christmas to have officially arrived, the entire family let out huge grins as they rose to their feet and began a genuine round of hugs, cheek-kisses, and loving Christmas greetings. I was thrilled to be included as I lovingly exchanged warm hugs, one by one, with all eleven who were present.

Deep gratitude filled my heart when Ewout greeted me. Rather than stopping with the traditional kiss on the right cheek, Ewout continued on with two more kisses—one on the left cheek, and one more on the right cheek.

“That is how we do it in Holland.” He told me. “We always exchange three kisses.”

Then Ewout startled me when he continued. “Brenda, I am so happy that you are here with us, and that Tania and I have had the opportunity to get to know you.”

My heart nearly melted as Ewout briefly continued his loving grateful words, following which I replied with my own words of gratitude, following that up with, “The pleasure is mine.”

Giggling Gifts

I have never had so much fun watching other people open gifts.

I don’t know if this is a cultural practice or a family thing, but shortly after the “Feliz Navidad” greetings ended, the family began their gift exchange. One by one, each adult member of the family took their individual turns passing out gifts. Part of the fun was forcing everyone to guess who the gift might be for.

Before giving out each gift, one at a time, the giver teased and cajoled the others. Looking sneakily at someone, the giver might say something like “Hmmmm … who could this gift be for?” Then, while glancing around in a silly way, the giver would teasingly ask, “Is it for you? … or you? … or you?”

Meanwhile, everyone in the family was being equally silly, eagerly trying to guess just who the recipient might be.

Finally, the giver would excitedly announce the recipient with something like, “It is for … TANIA.”

That person would then jump up and down in a silly over-dramatized response of excitement, before hurriedly ripping the wrapping paper off to reveal their gift. Then the process began anew all over again.

With seven gift givers, the entire delightful process took nearly an hour to complete.

As 1:30 a.m. ticked away on my watch, I decided that the time had arrived to honor my primal need for sleep. As much as I found myself enjoying the experience, I decided that my evening was complete. Before retiring, I made the rounds, once again wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, and thanking Tania and Ewout from the bottom of my heart for having included me in their family festivities.

Rumor has it that some family members stayed up partying as late as 4:30 a.m.—I honestly don’t know how they do it.

Hello, Brenda … This Is Guatemala Calling

As Christmas day progressed, my heart was overflowing with peace and gratitude. Sometime that morning, Conny had approached me, asking, “Brenda, when you have a minute, I would like to briefly borrow back the Central America book that I lent to you. There is one small thing that I need to check and then I’ll give it back to you.”

Over a week earlier, Conny had allowed me to skim through her Lonely Planet book on Central America travel. It is the same one that she used heavily when she spent three months traveling from Panama all the way to Mexico, just one year ago.

When she originally loaned it to me, Conny made one thing perfectly clear. “I will let you borrow this book while I am here … but I definitely want it back because this book has special meaning and memories for me. If you want one, you will have to buy your own copy.”

For several days I eagerly vacillated between reading through the pages about Guatemala and having frequent conversations with Conny about her own experiences while traveling there.

Energy resonated through my soul as my internal Jedi voices quietly but clearly called out to me, “Yes … you know there is nothing to fear … you know you want to do it … you know you will go to Guatemala very soon.”

When I came to Valladolid, the thought of spending time in Guatemala frightened me deeply. Now, merely six weeks later, I am filled with peace and confidence. An invisible energy is calling out to me, pulling me in that direction. There are many other places in Mexico that I would love to visit, but I will be very surprised if I am not in Guatemala very soon.

As I expressed these feelings to Conny, I also voiced my intention to look for and to purchase my own copy of the book when I visit Mérida. She must have been paying close attention.

An hour or two after I had given the book back to Conny, she returned to find me sitting in the outdoor kitchen area listening to my IPOD.

Prior to handing the book back to me, she opened it to a page where she had handwritten the following comment:

Dear Brenda,
It is old, it is used, but it wants to travel back to Central America with you—to all the beautiful, amazing, and friendly places you will visit one day. […] I will be traveling with you in my thoughts.
Your Friend,
Conny

Minutes later, after deeply thanking Conny for the generosity of this beautiful gift, I looked into her eyes and said: “But I feel bad because I don’t have a gift for you.”

“No, you don’t understand.” She insisted. “This is not a Christmas gift and I do not want you to reciprocate. This book is telling me that it wants to travel with you, it wants to help guide you on your journeys, and I could not tell it no.”

Doctor Brenda

For eight of the past eleven days, I have been playing the role of Dr. Brenda while Dr. Gomez and his daughter visited a friend up in Indiana.

Soon after beginning to care for my own wounds, my fears melted away and dissipated into a puddle of silliness.

Every day, around 10 a.m., I removed and discarded my old bandages, put on a latex glove and began the methodical process. After spraying the open wound with Lidocaine (anesthesia), I gently scrubbed it with Betadine Solution before rinsing it with sterilized water. Then, on days two, four, six, and eight, I removed a tiny sterilized disposable knife from its protective packaging, following which I used the knife to gently rough up the raw tissue to make it bleed (tricking the tissue so it will continue growing). Finally, I sprayed a thin layer of silver sulfate solution over the wound before covering it with special ointment treated gauze. After layering on several additional squares of ordinary gauze, I wrapped the foot in a stretchy gauze-like bandage—ready to take on a new day.

Feeling a sense of healthy pride, I congratulated myself on a daily basis. The process was easy, even the part where I had to cut myself with the knife.

Most of the exposed tissue appears to be growing just fine, but one small area seems to be resisting, refusing to participate in new growth opportunities, still being sunken in more than a quarter of an inch.

As I visited with Dr. Gomez yesterday on his first day back in town, he reassured me that everything looks great, telling me that I had done a stellar job. He did not seem concerned about the stubborn area, and reemphasized his opinion that we will probably not need to perform any skin grafts—even though he acknowledged that grafts are still a remote possibility.

But somehow, all of the details do not matter. I have reached a point in my recovery where I am content with whatever happens. Peace continues to flow through my veins, and I can easily look back on the countless blessings—none of which would have happened had I not stayed put in Valladolid.

Believe In What Your Heart Is Saying

A few evenings before Christmas, I sat in my room with my IPOD, feeling a prompting to listen to portions of the soundtrack of “The Polar Express.” When I first watched this delightful Christmas movie several years ago, a small selection of the songs had deeply touched my heart.

As I lay on my bed enjoying the beautiful music, the chorus of one particular song performed by Josh Groban immediately captured my attention, sending a burst of energy throughout my soul as I meditated deeply on the words.
 

Believe
Words and Music by: Glen Ballard and Alan Silvestri
Sung by: Josh Groban
Album: The Polar Express (Soundtrack) 

Children sleeping, snow is softly falling
Dreams are calling like bells in the distance
We were dreamers not so long ago
But one by one we all had to grow up
When it seems the magic’s slipped away
We find it all again on Christmas day

Believe in what your heart is saying
Hear the melody that’s playing
There’s no time to waste
There’s so much to celebrate
Believe in what you feel inside
And give your dreams the wings to fly
You have everything you need
If you just believe

Trains move quickly to their journey’s end
Destinations are where we begin again
Ships go sailing far across the sea
Trusting starlight to get where they need to be
When it seems that we have lost our way
We find ourselves again on Christmas day

Believe in what your heart is saying
Hear the melody that’s playing
There’s no time to waste
There’s so much to celebrate
Believe in what you feel inside
And give your dreams the wings to fly
You have everything you need
If you just believe

Yes, when I was a child I did know how to dream. Like all children, I was born with the magic inside of me. But years of growing up in this fear-filled world taught me to be realistic and practical—to bury my inner dreams and passions under a layer of common sense, apathy and responsibility. I seemed to be taught that dreams are for children, but adults have to work, doing things the way they have always been done. As a busy adult, I simply could not spare the time to listen to the whimsical childish dreams in my heart.

But the magic is indeed still there, easily found on days like Christmas as we experience the world through the eyes of our innocent children—beautiful shining souls who have not yet forgotten how to dream.

Yes, this incredible magic is not lost. I have regained much of it as I have gradually relearned how to believe—to believe in what my heart is saying, to believe in what I feel inside, to believe in the dreams that are once again resurfacing.

My heart has never ceased to play a beautiful melody, but that inner music is so soft that I can only hear it as I learn to silence the other worldly noises that distract me. Listening to these still and quiet voices often feels as if I am indeed trusting in the faint glimmers of starlight to get me to where I need to be—but time and time again, the results continue to amaze me.

Each day my wings seem to grow a little stronger, a little fuller, a little wider—causing me to dream of soaring to new heights, to new and never before imagined possibilities. All I have to do is simply learn to listen and to believe.

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

I seem to be stuck. There is so much that I want to say, yet the words are evasive. This is such a beautiful day, and I am in such a peaceful place—yet a part of me is resisting, unable to write, unable to find the words to begin discussing this week’s healing journey.

A humble old man slowly makes his way through the park, just ten feet in front of my bench. Even though he stands straight and erect, the top of this man’s white baseball cap cannot be more than five feet above the ground. With every careful step he methodically moves his rusty aluminum cane ahead another six inches. Finally he reaches a light pole, momentarily stabilizes himself, then turns and cautiously sits in a nearby bench. Soon he is engaged in an animated conversation with an older man who was already seated in the other half of the same S-shaped concrete bench.

A strong citrus scent captures my attention as I again glance up to see a three wheeled bicycle—the kind with a two-wheeled cart in front. The ambitious vendor has his blue wooden cart piled high with small, ripe, green limes—presumably off to sell them to nearby neighborhood shops. Momentarily, as he slowly glides by, I crave the taste of a tall glass of fresh-squeezed ‘limonada natural’ (fresh squeezed limes, sugar, and ice-water).

Candelaria Park is especially beautiful on this mostly overcast Saturday afternoon. An ancient tree towers directly above me, creating a huge green canopy—a canopy that provides inviting shade on the usually hot sunny days. But today the surrounding air is slightly breezy and refreshingly cool—being perhaps in the upper sixties or low seventies. The cool air provides a welcome break from the very hot and humid days we have been having all week.

The singing birds above have already been engaging in random target practice. Two feet to my right, a partially eaten berry splatters on the rough concrete by my feet. Already, a great number of berries have landed in my general area, one of which landed on my laptop screen, another which bounced off my left shoulder. As I continue writing, yet another bounces off my left knee, leaving a small damp spot behind before rolling away onto the concrete below.

Even while facing the danger of random incoming projectiles, I choose to sit in this beautiful park. As I face east, the lime-green façade of my favorite Hostel is clearly visible off to my left. To my right, the boundary of the park is lined with beautiful two-story homes, painted in soft pastel hues of salmon, gold, burnt red, pinkish-violet, and green. The soft colors and colonial architecture make me feel as if I am surrounded by an ancient Spanish villa.

An old public library sits straight ahead, directly in front of which is a large outdoor concrete stage. This outdoor stage has been the home of many neighborhood festivals over the past few weeks. This week alone, we have been treated to three Christmas concerts. Last night, groups of darling children performed songs and dances while proud parents crowded the plaza, cheering on their precious children. Earlier in the week, a local band of young teen-age boys performed a few recognizable renditions of several Michael Jackson and Beetles songs, before massacring several traditional English Christmas Carols with sour off-key harmony. But even so, the show was delightful, filled with authentic local flare.

To my rear stands a small but beautiful colonial-style Catholic chapel. I have still not figured out the interesting sequences of bells that ring out from this beautiful structure almost every morning.

At precisely 6:30 a.m., a long single bell sounds, followed by a varying number of short quick bells, terminated again by a long single bell. Then, at 6:45 a.m., the same thing happens, but the sequence of short quick bells is surrounded on both ends by two long slow bells. Finally, at 7:00 a.m., the same pattern manifests, but with three long slow bells at the beginning and end. The interesting part of this bell ringing phenomenon is that the sequences of short quick bells in the middle are never the same, usually ringing somewhere between 60 to 90 times each.

As I continue writing, a sixty-something American couple walk by. The husband pauses ten feet away.

“You don’t look like you are a local?” he proclaims as he begins to walk toward me.

We talk for several minutes about the beautiful surroundings. He and his wife are from San Luis Obispo, California, and are down here for three weeks. They have already spent two weeks at an all-inclusive beach resort near Cancun and are now driving to Mérida to spend their final week before flying back home.

As the couple walks away, the silence is momentarily interrupted by blaring loud speakers mounted on top of a slowly passing car. The music and yelling voices are at such a high decibel level that all other sounds briefly disappear into the jumble. As the noisy advertising car begins to disappear a block or two away, the local background sounds begin to gradually return to awareness—passing cars, motorcycles, distant road construction, and groups of nearby talking people randomly interrupt the occasional brief periods of near-silence.

As I focus on writing about my healing journey of these past six days, I cannot think of a place that I would rather be than right here in this beautiful Candelaria park.

One Day At A Time

If I didn’t know better, I would think someone or something was trying to test my patience. This entire week has been filled with what I like to call ‘opportunities for growth’—any one of which would have been enough to make the old me whine and complain.

But somehow, even in the midst of dealing with an already trying situation, I have managed to remain mostly centered in a state of loving peace and trust through each and every such ‘opportunity.’

In an almost magical way, every time I step into Dr. Gomez’s office, he instills in me a trusting and confident feeling that ‘all is well’ with my foot. His whole demeanor exudes a positive healing energy that resonates deeply with my own. Monday morning, as I rode my bicycle away from Dr. Gomez’s office, a renewed sense of peace and calm had once again taken root in my soul.

On the previous Saturday morning, I had left “Dr. what’s his name’s” office feeling traumatized and in a state of near panic. After explaining my treatment concerns to Dr. Gomez on Monday, he came up with a perfect solution. By the end of the week, Dr. Gomez would complete the surgical removal of all of my burn-destroyed tissue. Then, after training me in the procedures of cleansing and treating my own wounds, Dr. Gomez would provide me with all of the supplies and ointments that he uses.

It was all so simple. During the eight days that Dr. Gomez will be out of town for Christmas, I will be able to care for myself. Fear of having to deal with “Dr. what’s his name” had almost driven me to leave Valladolid in search of a different medical provider. But instead, by simply remaining centered in the present moment, the situation had completely and effortlessly resolved itself. An old fear had easily been replaced with loving trust.

Monday afternoon, however, did not pass nearly as smoothly.

After three full weeks of living in Valladolid, lunchtime had become a memorized routine. However, as I chained my bicycle up at the city center bazaar, something was quite different this time around. My stomach was beginning to enter a state of full mutiny as the thought of eating began to sound repulsive.

As I momentarily sat at one of the dark wooden tables in the center food-court area, I struggled to decide what, if anything, I might possibly be able to eat and keep down. Five minutes later, I was back on my bicycle returning to the hostel. In that moment, Mexican fast food was about as appealing as the thought of eating pure lard.

It took a while, but I finally realized that my body was craving yogurt and bananas. As I pondered my cravings, the whole experience began to make sense. Having been on antibiotics for three full weeks was taking a physical toll on my body. Eating yogurt would be a great nutritional way to help alleviate some of those anti-bacterial effects.

The yogurt was yummy, but my body was already struggling. For two and a half days, while eating nothing but yogurt, bananas, apples, and bread, I explored the realities of intermittent diarrhea, bloating gas, and a very weak stomach. Thoughts of writing or pursuing any other productive endeavors were the last things on my mind. Except for continued daily doctor visits, sleeping and television became my only activities.

It was after my doctor visit on Wednesday that I began to enter a state of brief panic. Dr. Gomez had already removed part of my dead skin tissue on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, he showed me how we need to gently irritate the raw white growing tissues below, causing them to bleed. Apparently, making them bleed tricks the newly-forming cells into continuing to grow thicker before they begin to form new skin over the wound.

As I visited with Connie on Wednesday afternoon, I expressed great concern.

“I don’t know if I can do that to myself.” I nervously told Connie. “Maybe I will need to go see ‘Dr. what’s-his-name’ … maybe I am not strong enough to treat myself while Dr. Gomez is on vacation.”

Connie just smiled at me and reminded me to quit worrying and to return to the present moment.

Immediately a feeling of peace resurfaced as I realized that “Yes … she is right … today, everything is still wonderful and peaceful. I can put off that fear until the actual event happens. I do not need to worry about it right now.”

How quickly I had forgotten to remain present!

Thursday morning brought a whole new form of excitement.

While chatting with Ewout and Connie, I was thoroughly enjoying my baguette roll, cut in half, toasted, and topped with butter and honey.

“Crunch.” My jaw stopped mid-chew as I carefully began to evaluate what had just happened.

“There is something hard in the bread.” I mumbled to Ewout as I continued searching for the source of the crunch, being somewhat nervous about continuing my chewing.

Seconds later, I almost laughed at the irony as I realized what had just taken place.

“A tiny chunk of my tooth just broke off.” I exclaimed with a look of surprise. “I can feel the sharp edges with both my finger and with my tongue.”

Throughout the day, I could only laugh at the bizarre events that seemed to be happening to me—first the mild food poisoning, and now the broken tooth. To my amazement, I felt no feeling of frustration or upset. I continued to find the situation quite humorous, considering it as just another opportunity to practice the art of remaining centered.

A quick glance in a mirror confirmed that a tiny corner on the inside of one of my molars had broken off. The molar on my lower right jaw has a large silver filling in the center that has been in place for possibly twenty five years or longer. Intuition gently reassured me that the damage was not serious, just slightly annoying. I felt no pain whatsoever, and the filling did not appear to be otherwise damaged.

By that evening, the problem was easily solved. Tania generously volunteered to take me to her family dentist—a dental surgeon that her parents have been going to for over fifteen years.

Again, I had to laugh. As Tania and I sat in the waiting room, a television in the upper left corner of the room was tuned to a professional wrestling program, and the volume was turned up quite loud. Everyone in the room, including the young receptionist, appeared to be glued to the television set with great interest. The whole scene seemed so out of place for a dentist’s waiting room.

After a thirty minute delightful visit with Tania, my turn finally arrived. With Tania as my translator, we entered the dentist’s back room, where his television was also tuned in to the same professional wrestling program.

As I tried to speak, I realized just how non-existent my Spanish dental vocabulary really was. I soon experienced a feeling of deep gratitude for Tania’s assistance with translation. In no time at all, I learned that my old filling seemed to be intact and secure, and that I would only require a small amount of what the dentist called “resin” to replace and smooth the area where the tooth had cracked.

Twenty minutes and 250 pesos ($20 US) later, my dental work was complete, and another unexpected experience was completely behind me.

In some strange way, my bizarre week had kept my mind occupied by helping me to avoid thinking about my minor upcoming surgery on Friday morning—a painful experience that I was not eagerly anticipating. The thought of needles and cutting in an area that was already so traumatized was not a pleasant one.

Good News and Bad News

Soon, Friday morning became a reality as I found myself sitting in Dr. Gomez’s office.

“Are you feeling strong today?” He lovingly inquired.

“Yes, I can handle whatever you are about to do.” I replied confidently.

Soon, I was sitting on a treatment bed with my left leg stretched out in front of me. After thoroughly scrubbing me with brown Betadine solution, Dr. Gomez covered my foot and lower leg with blue surgical drapes, leaving a small opening right over the burn area on the inside of my left foot.

The next thirty minutes proved to be a huge test of internal strength and will.

“Do you want to lie down?” Dr. Gomez asked.

“No. If it is OK, I would like to watch.” I reply.

Just watching Dr. Gomez fill up his syringe with some type of liquid anesthesia was enough to make me question my decision. Then, as he attached the long needle, I found myself turning my head. Needles have always freaked me out, and this one had a way of looking excessively intimidating and frightening.

As each needle poke sent shivers of pain through the local surrounding tissues, I somehow remained strong. In many ways, the pain of the numbing needle was every bit as piercing and traumatizing as the original burning process had been in the jungles of Ek’Balam exactly four Fridays earlier.

Once or twice, I coaxed myself into taking a quick glance as Dr. Gomez prodded the area with his needle. With the doctor’s permission, I even captured one quick photo. Strange as it may seem, a part of me wants to document and remember everything that I am going through.

What came next proved to be more difficult than I had previously imagined, pushing me to the very limits of my emotional strength and willpower.

Dr. Gomez had previously removed about one third of the dead skin on Tuesday. That skin was already beginning to curl at the edges and was relatively easy to remove using a tiny sterile knife and tweezers. While I was somehow hoping that the remaining two thirds would be just as easy, I already knew this would likely not be the case.

I deeply apologize if my writing is too explicit. The traumatic images will forever be engrained in my visual and sensory memories. I will spare you the gory details of this minor surgery. Suffice it to say that I forced myself to sit up and watch the entire procedure as the remaining circular area – perhaps 1.5 inches wide and 1 inch tall was cleared of the remaining, tough, beef-jerky-like, skin that still remained.

While I am glad that I watched, the experience proved to be very difficult indeed.

With the dead skin now completely removed, what remains is now an open wound, slightly oval in shape, perhaps 1.5 inches in diameter. From here on out, my daily task is to keep the wound sterile, while encouraging my body to regenerate new tissue and skin. If anyone back home wants to remotely contribute your healing energy and love to join with my own positive efforts, your assistance would be greatly appreciated.

Throughout the surgery, I was totally unprepared for the pain. For four weeks, much of the burn area had been greatly lacking in nerve sensitivity. Yesterday, this proved to no longer be the case. As I slowly pedaled my bicycle home back toward the hostel, my ankle seemed to be aching and throbbing all the way.

As I entered the garden area at my hostel, I asked Connie, “Which do you want first … the good news or the bad news?”

“Give me the bad news first.” Connie answered, while quietly grimacing, wondering what I was about to share with her.

“The bad news is that it really, really hurts.” I told her. Then I continued, “And the good news is that it really, really hurts.”

Yes, the pain was indeed a good and welcome sign—a powerful signal that my nerves are in fact functioning and that my body can and will continue the healing process.

Continued Gratitude

With Christmas only six days away, I am deeply grateful. I would never wish my present painful path onto anyone—but I am indeed filled with gratitude for the opportunity to pass through such a powerful “living-in-the-moment” experience.

My bandaged ankle is proving to be a huge blessing—a blessing that goes considerably beyond the loving relationships that continue to develop with Tania, Ewout, Connie, and others—relationships that would never have developed had I not remained here in Valladolid.

My pain and trauma serve as powerful and constant reminders of my need to remain deeply centered in a present-moment state of love and peace

On a moment-by-moment basis, my mind is continuously tempted to wander into fears and projections regarding the future—not only during the past four weeks, but likely for many weeks to come.

The act of facing these fears on a daily basis is teaching me a great deal about myself, about my capacity to remain focused and centered, and about my ability to love unconditionally.

But most of all, I am gradually learning to trust my internal peaceful promptings at a much more profound level—trusting them even when bombarded with constant ego thoughts that attempt to convince me I am insane for still being here in Valladolid … still living in the peaceful trust and confidence of each and every beautiful present moment.

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

Tears have once again been wetting my cheeks. Emotions are quite raw as I begin writing today. Fear, uncertainty, and doubt are attempting to regain old territory—but I will simply not allow such panic to reestablish its stronghold in my heart. Yes, the emotions seem real and daunting. I know that they need to find release in the form of healthy exploration and expression—but I also know that these emotions are not the truth of who I am.

For a brief while, I have been sitting with these emotions, offering them a warm mug of hot cocoa while they throw their little temper tantrums. Experience tells me that these uninvited visitors will not leave before I give them a chance to fully speak their mind—but once I allow them to completely express their victimizing woe-is-me thoughts, I will most certainly invite them to leave.

Even as I begin to record my thoughts, the tears have already ceased and the emotions are beginning to evaporate.

But I am getting a little ahead of myself. Before I talk about today, a beautiful warm and sunny Saturday afternoon, I need to fill in a few gaps.

An interesting Conversation

As I finished scribing the above words, I was sitting in the beautiful Candelaria Park, right in front of my hostel. As I prepared to move on with my writing, I was quite surprised when a sixty-something man approached and confidently pushed his way into the seat right next to me.

These park benches are not your normal straight and flat park benches. Each concrete bench is a sort of love seat, in the shape of an “S”, with room for two people, one on each side of the “S” sitting and facing in opposite directions. I was sitting by myself on one side of the bench with my water bottle placed in the other—essentially marking the space as mine.

As my new friend approached, he simply pushed my water to the side, sat down, and began to talk.

“I’m sorry … I don’t understand everything you just said.” I quickly replied to his first sentence as I retrieved my water bottle, placing it in my lap.

Without even batting an eye, this sweet gentleman ignored my statement and resumed talking almost nonstop. He talked so rapidly that I could not get another word in edgewise. Only seconds passed before a strong feeling came over me.

“Just listen and let him talk.” The feeling began. “It doesn’t matter that I don’t understand hardly anything. He just needs to connect to another caring human being, believing that someone is listening. I am the perfect person to fill that role.”

For forty five minutes I simply sat and stared lovingly into his eyes, intently focusing on trying to decipher the words streaming almost nonstop out of his mouth. While I did not understand the vast majority of what was said to me, I did pick up on some of the basic facts.

My new friend is a devout Catholic, and goes to Mass every week. Sometime in the past, both his beautiful wife and his dear mother have passed away, and he lives alone—but he proudly reports, while pointing to his head, that he still has his mind. He has traveled frequently between Mérida, Cancun, and Playa Del Carmen, and each time he travels, someone gives him 250 pesos to cover his costs. He has a pension from his former job that pays him 1700 pesos per month (about $130 US).

My new friend repeated these facts over and over in the midst of hundreds of other details that I simply could not even begin to figure out.

“I wonder if he suffers from Alzheimer’s, or something like that?” I pondered to myself as I continued to lovingly stare into his eyes, still feeling clueless about perhaps 90 percent of the words that left his mouth.

Taking advantage of my opportunity to simply listen and observe, I studied everything about him. His graying hair was covered by a blue baseball cap containing the logo of a construction company. The moustache covering his entire upper lip was equally graying, but his bushy eyebrows were a solid light black. His eyeglasses were of average thickness, with the bottom half of each lens showing obvious lines of large corrective bifocals.

Through his glasses, my new friend’s eyes reflected a genuine light of love and peace. Around his neck was a thin gold chain, from which was proudly hanging a medallion of Guadalupe. His light brown skin was covered by a sleeveless white tank-top and a pair of light blue shorts. His facial skin, while sporting a good number of wrinkles, did not show signs of excessive aging.

Throughout our conversation, I continuously checked in with my soul, repeatedly asking myself, “What is the purpose of this visit? … Do I continue to listen? … And if so, for how long?”

Finally, after forty-five minutes of uninterrupted listening, I followed my heart, lovingly spoke up, told him what a pleasure it was to meet him, and let him know that I needed to leave. Magically, in the process of focusing on this sweet man, my own emotional sadness seemed to completely melt away—becoming just a simple faded memory.

Our Lady of Guadalupe

For the past two weeks I have begun to observe a very interesting phenomenon—occasional groups of young children, perhaps 10-14 years in age, carrying a large fan-shaped palm leaf, with a large image of Our Lady of Guadalupe at the center of the leaf.

I watched some of these children walking door to door in neighborhoods, while others explored streets filled with locals and tourists. After finding a captive audience, these children began to sing loudly, in unison with each other, keeping the fan-shaped palm leaf at the center of their gathering.

Being so close to Christmas, I made the assumption that this must be some type of culturally-unique Christmas caroling. I could not have been further from the truth.

Today, Saturday December 12, is the day that Mexican’s all over the country celebrate their Patron Saint, Our Lady of Guadalupe. According to tradition, in the year 1531 the Virgin Mary appeared to a humble man named Juan Diego near Mexico City—near the place where the Basilica of Guadalupe currently stands. But the Virgin did not appear as a European Madonna—instead, she appeared as a beautiful brown-skinned Aztec princess, and spoke to Juan Diego in his own native Aztec tongue. This appearance by “Our Lady of Guadalupe” is thought to be the major stimulus that influenced the native people to begin converting to Christianity in large numbers.

I am told that these singing children were canvassing the city in preparation for today’s festivities. These children use the money they collect to purchase offerings that they use in worship on December 12.

The festivities have been building for several days, but began in full force last night when religiously devoted locals began to parade through the streets in the most interesting of ways. Caravans of cars and trucks decorated with balloons, crepe paper, and images of Guadalupe randomly steamed through the streets, honking their horns loudly, accompanied by ear-piercing police sirens. While several authentic local police cars were in fact participating, many of the sirens were attached to the tops of taxi cabs and trucks.

Another interesting phenomenon, which I have yet to figure out, is the runners and bicyclers. For about a week I have seen them occasionally moving through the streets, escorted by decorated, honking, siren-screeching trucks. Some of the running groups were taking individual turns at carrying a flaming torch.

Last night, the sounds of these roaming random parades could be heard all around the area, accompanied by the sound of loud fire crackers—almost sounding like gun shots. Around 11:00 p.m. the party music began to play from a few blocks away—blaring so loudly that even my ear plugs proved ineffective in masking the sound waves. The festive music continued to resonate loudly through the surrounding neighborhood until the wee early morning hours.

This evening, while eating dinner near the city center, the parade resumed in large fashion. Rather than a handful of small random processions, a huge parade seemed to spontaneously erupt, containing a mixture of everything: decorated cars and trucks, rumbling motorcycles, runners, bicycle riders, horse-back riders, and noise—unbelievable noise so loud that I was unable to carry on a dinner conversations with the friends who were sitting with me.

For nearly an hour, the horns honked and sirens wailed as these devoted worshipers snaked their way around the center of town before eventually heading off toward the west. As I finish my Saturday evening writing, I feel truly blessed to have had the opportunity to witness such a delightful display of local flavor and color.

A Positive Turn

Monday afternoon, I was spiritually alive, experiencing a powerful presence of peace. A series of subtle energy filled events had literally transformed what started out as an emotionally difficult day. Who would have thought that the breaking of a bicycle chain, a simple lunchtime conversation with an Asian woman, and a flood of intuitive spiritual confirmation could have such a profound impact? (If you missed it, the story is in my last blog entry.)

That evening, I unexpectedly learned that my mystery friend was actually a beautiful young woman from China who was staying for a few days at my hostel. After learning her English name, I again thanked Joan for her powerful healing advice that had impacted me so deeply. While the words had come through Joan’s lips, there was no doubt in my mind that those words originated from a higher source.

Immediately after returning from lunch I began to allow my burns to air out, quickly learning that even after hours of exposure to open air, the dead burned skin remained moist and pliable because of the thick humidity. By the end of the day, my symptoms of secondary infection (urinary tract) had all but disappeared, and a confident aliveness had taken up residence in my soul.

Prior to this week, I had mostly isolated myself in my hostel room, either writing, caring for my burns, or resting—only venturing out for necessities such as meals and restroom breaks.

Tuesday morning, however, a whole new experience began to open up. Armed with my newfound positive energy, and the awareness that I was finally completely current on my writing, I opted to remain in the hostel garden area after finishing my delicious breakfast of toasted bread and a bowl of sliced fruit with yogurt and granola.

A Friendship Meant To Happen

On Monday, I had begun to feel an intuitive connection with a woman from Germany; her name is Connie. We had only talked briefly, once in the morning and once in the evening, but something inside told me that the friendship would be going to much deeper levels.

As Connie and I began a casual conversation during our Tuesday morning breakfast, it did not take long before we were engaged in deep and meaningful spiritual discussion, sharing numerous stories and inspired experiences with each other.

Connie told me how just a year ago she had spent three months backpacking throughout Central America, visiting every country between Panama and Mexico. She shared stories of how one man in particular had deeply inspired her journey as they discussed the idea of erasing the past and living in the present.

As part of her journey, Connie had stayed for a brief period of time at a hostel in the city of Mérida—a relatively large city, three hours from here, near the northwest corner of the Yucatan. While at that hostel, Connie had become friends with a young couple who worked there; their names were Tania and Ewout.

This year, at the end of November, Connie was prepared to take a one month vacation to Southeast Asia. She had already purchased her plane tickets, had already figured out her travel route on the ground, and was in the final trip planning stages when she received an unexpected email.

Her old friend Ewout, whom she had not communicated with in quite some time, told her something like:

“Hey Connie, Tania and I have reopened the Hostel La Candelaria here in Valladolid, Mexico. We would love you to come and visit us here sometime.”

As Connie pondered the email, an undeniable internal feeling energetically pulled at her like a strong magnet. She could not get Mexico out of her mind, and it was not long before she called the airline to change her flights. Instead of flying to Southeast Asia, Connie would be spending a relaxing month in the Valladolid area.

As I told Connie of my own recent experiences in the jungle, the pieces began to fall into place. In a very powerful way, albeit through entirely different circumstances, we had both been unexpectedly guided to be here in Valladolid, at the same time, for an extended stay at the same hostel. The amazing series of synchronicities that brought us together was hard to deny.

“Could it be that the Universe has guided us together for a reason? … And if so, why?” we asked ourselves.

On that beautiful Tuesday morning, our inspired conversation lasted for several hours.

Again on Wednesday, we began talking nonstop at breakfast. The morning quickly disappeared in animated conversation, and we soon found ourselves eating lunch together near the town square. As I munched away on my grilled chicken, intuition left no doubt in my mind that I would soon be sharing my life story with Connie. Shortly after returning from lunch, that premonition became a reality as I confidently filled in the details of my own life journey. Finally, after 4:00 p.m., it was I who ended the conversation when my foot began to throb. My tired body was begging me for some rest.

Thursday would have continued in much the same manner were it not for the fact that I decided to visit my friendly General Practitioner just around the corner from the hostel.

As you may recall, Dr. José Francisco had insisted that my burns were just second degree.

“Brenda, don’t worry,” he had told me, “just take care of the wounds and come back to see me in ten days.”

Those ten days had now passed, and I was eager for an updated opinion.

Right before leaving to visit Dr. José, I confidently joked with Connie, “He is going to take a quick look at the burn, tell me that everything still looks great, and ask me to come back in yet another ten days.”

Third Degree Twist

In my mind, I can still picture the image of Dr. José’s face.

Seated confidently in front of his large wooden desk, I carefully pealed back the tape on my gauze compress. As his eyes made contact with the burn, Dr. José’s face seemed to immediately turn a lighter shade of white, while at the same time a worried look suddenly possessed his once-smiling face.

“I think the burn is worse than I suspected.” Dr. José confessed. “There appears to be some third degree damage. We need to remove the outer blister skin, but if we do, you will need to cleanse the wound on a daily basis.”

In some ways, I felt vindicated. I had intuitively known from the moment Delfino (my Zapotec healer friend) pulled the charcoal away from my foot that the burns were quite severe.

Logic dictated that I should be upset, that I should be angry that Dr. José had let me go for seventeen days before he would acknowledge the possibility of third degree burns.

But in spite of my continued inner awareness that the burns were most likely of a third-degree nature, my intuition had strongly guided me to stay put … to wait … to trust … to surrender to my promptings—all of which told me to stay in Valladolid, catching up on my writing, connecting with people, waiting for further guidance.

Yes, I had indeed been riding an extreme roller coaster ride of emotions, experiencing spiritual highs, fear-filled lows, and frightening sharp corners—but in the process I had grown both spiritually and emotionally, more so than I imagined possible. No, I was not angry or upset with Dr. José. I knew that were I to re-live this experience, I would not change a thing. Gratitude was actually radiating through my soul.

After Dr. José announced his concerns, he left me sitting in my seat and began quickly scurrying around. After momentarily leaving the office to talk to his wife, Dr. Jose soon returned to make a phone call. In the meantime, my imagination was left to speculate.

“I’m not sure I trust him to work on my burn.” I began to ponder. Strong doubts were already beginning to presence themselves.

“What will I do if Dr. José wants to remove the outer blister skin himself?”

The question seemed to be time critical, yet no intuitive answers seemed to be forthcoming.

After a few minutes, my unspoken question became a mute point when Dr. José turned back to talk to me.

“I’m going to refer you to a specialist.” Dr. José informed me. “My wife is waiting outside right now to take you there. He is expecting you at his office.”

Throughout the ten minute chauffer ride, a feeling of peace resonated within my consciousness. Still feeling deeply spiritually grounded from my “Consultation With God” experience on Monday, nothing seemed capable of interfering with my loving spiritually-centered confidence.

As I entered Dr. Gomez’s front office, I focused on being acutely aware of my inner feelings. Immediately I was thrilled to learn that Dr. Gomez spoke enough English that we could easily communicate. For the most part, we conversed in Spanish, but anytime I got the least bit confused, he repeated himself in his best English until we both felt comfortable that I understood. Within a few minutes, a deep feeling of peace had settled into my heart, confirming that I should trust Dr. Gomez.

Minutes later, after moving to his back consultation area, Dr. Gomez first asked me, “Are you a strong woman?”

After I reassured him that I am capable of handling whatever he was about to do, Dr. Gomez began to work, not giving me time to think or second guess myself.

First Dr. Gomez vigorously scrubbed the entire burn area with rough gauze saturated in a brown Betadine solution. While I felt some pain, that pain was manageable and tolerable. I have dealt with much worse in my lifetime, and for the first time in three weeks my intuition told me that I was receiving quality health care.

Soon, the blistered skin was moistened and torn, allowing Dr. Gomez to easily and skillfully utilize a small pair of special scissors to carefully trim away all of the remaining blister skin.

Compared to my imagined fears, the area of third degree burns was relatively small—about the size of a U.S. fifty-cent piece—or about the size of a ten peso coin in Mexico.

Dr. Gomez repeatedly reassured me that the area was small enough that it should successfully heal in several weeks, and that it will most likely not require skin grafts.

“The skin should gradually start growing inward, beginning at the outer edges of the circle-shaped wound, slowly working its way toward the middle.” Dr. Gomez reassured me.

When I asked him about the possible necessity of surgically removing all of the dead skin in the burn area, Dr. Gomez told me that he did not recommend this procedure in my situation.

“Removing the dead skin will simply expose more deep tissues to the risk of severe infection and healing problems.” He informed me. “It is definitely one possible option, but would greatly increase your level of required care, and your wounds are small enough that it should not be necessary.”

As I left Dr. Gomez’s office on late Thursday morning, I continued to feel a deep sense of inner peace and confidence. While I am no medical expert, his advice and treatment approach simply felt right in my heart.

I lovingly accepted the fact that I will most likely be spending my Christmas and New Year Holidays in Valladolid, and that I will have plenty of time to deepen relationships with my new friends.

While holding an appointment slip for Friday morning at 10:40 a.m. in one hand, I used my other hand to flag down a taxi.

Emotional Quicksand

Thursday finished out as being another great day of visiting and deepening relationships. That evening I found myself briefly sitting alone with Tania and Ewout. After ten minutes of general conversation, the topic slowly drifted to my family. I began to squirm as Ewout asked me a few questions about my ex-husband.

Breaking my “prime directive” rule, I briefly diverted the complicated questions; I followed my intuition that was telling me “now is NOT the time to share your story—but the opportunity will present itself very soon.”

My visit with Dr. Gomez on Friday morning again proved to be uplifting and confidence-boosting. Even thought the drying dead tissue had begun to turn a little blackish, the overall feel of the wound gave me the impression of slight general improvement, and as before, Dr. Gomez filled me with encouragement and trust.

I left Dr. Gomez’s office with a slight twinge of curiosity, however, after he informed me that he is not in the office on weekends.

“One of my colleagues will fill in for me tomorrow and Sunday.” He calmly informed me. “I will talk to him today and bring him up to speed on what we are doing.”

One other big unknown also loomed in my still-peaceful mind. Dr. Gomez had informed me that he is leaving Mexico on Dec 21 to spend Christmas in the United States. Again, he confidently reassured me that someone else will continue my quality care while he is out of the country.

Friday continued to be a beautiful and inspired day. Late that afternoon, during the perfect moment, I found myself confidently sharing my life story with Tania and Ewout, while Connie sat quietly listening, cheering me on with loving support. As usual, the Universe showed me that my fears of self-disclosure are overrated and essentially silly. Tania and Ewout were fascinated by my stories, and the evening turned into a series of great heart-felt discussions.

Saturday was a completely different story, however.

After a brief encouraging conversation with Dr. Gomez’s colleague (I never learned his name), this new doctor took me back to the same area where Dr. Gomez had worked on me twice before.

My heart and mind soon filled with doubt and terror when this new doctor proceeded to do exactly what Dr. Gomez had previously informed me that we should NOT do. Rather than washing and exfoliating my dead tissue with Betadine saturated gauze, my new doctor began to pick at my dry leathery tissues with a sharp needle. While much of his poking and tugging was totally painless, a good portion was quite painful and traumatizing.

After spending ten minutes roughing up the tissues with his needle, this unnamed doctor retrieved a pair of curved scissors and carelessly and awkwardly began attempting to trim off several upper pieces of the roughed-up dead tissue, frequently slicing into tender, living tissue.

Throughout the consultation, my mind was running wild with resistance, feeling a deep sense of panic. I wanted to speak up and yell out, “NO … STOP … don’t do that … it hurts, and it is wrong.”

But instead I quietly surrendered while feeling a complete lack of confidence and peace.

As I walked out of the doctor’s office on Saturday morning I felt anxious, fearful, and completely re-traumatized. Thoughts of returning again on Sunday for another frightening treatment sent my imagination and resistance into the stratosphere. And then my thoughts flashed even further into the future.

“Is this the same doctor that will treat me starting on December 21?” I pondered. “If so, I don’t think I can do this … I have to leave … I have to go somewhere else … I will not stay in Valladolid if this is the doctor I have to work with.”

Twenty minutes later, as I sat down with Connie to explain what had happened during my traumatizing appointment, a reservoir of tears started to form in my eyes. I wanted to bawl my eyes out, I wanted to open the floodgates and let the reservoir spill out all over my cheeks—yet I did not feel comfortable doing it in public.

Retiring to my room, I partially accessed the tears—but before they were all released I followed an internal urge telling me that now is the time to begin the healing process of writing.

The Day After

Yesterday, Saturday evening, after writing about the festival of “Our Lady of Guadalupe” I put away my laptop, still feeling entirely unsettled about what to do next. One thing was absolutely clear, however—I needed to spiritually re-center myself.

Immersing myself in meditation, I searched for the peace that was once again skillfully eluding me. Soon, in my attempts at silent breathing, the terror-filled tears again found their way to the surface. Giving up on traditional meditation, I opted to instead listen to emotion-inducing songs on my IPOD. It was not long before the chorus of the song “Close Your Eyes” powerfully reached into the depths of my soul.
 

Close Your Eyes
Michael and Jeff McLean
Album: Father and Son 

[Chorus]
Close your eyes
This part is scary
Take my hand
It won’t last long
You will love the ending I promise
When this part of the story is gone
 

A sense of peace reassured me that, “Yes, I will indeed love the ending once I get through the scary parts of this experience.”

Yet the fears did not totally go away. I was still obsessed with the question “Do I, or do I NOT, go to see the replacement doctor on Sunday morning?”

This morning, while talking to my dear German friend Connie, a series of insight-filled words finally escaped out of my mouth as I attempted to explain to her the dynamics of my continued struggle.

“I’m trying to control and plan the future.” I said with surprise.

These words formed so easily on my lips, making so much sense once I spoke them out loud.

In the midst of my fears, I had abandoned my present-moment trust and peace.

Instead, I was living in the fear-inducing “what-ifs” of an imagined worst-case-scenario future, no longer trusting the feelings that “today I am OK … today I know that I am where I need to be.”

Returning to my room, I began to work on today’s continued writing while still pondering the question of whether or not to go see “Dr. what’s his name.”

During my deep soul-searching the answer came so easily that I didn’t want to believe it.

When I was with Dr. Gomez, I experienced a deep sense of inner peace and confidence. My feelings of calm and trust seemed to flow from deep within, assuring me that I can and should safely embrace his treatment approach—at least for the short term.

When I was with his replacement, Dr. what’s his name, my body and intuition were loudly screaming “no … no … no.”

What more did I need to hear?

I am always saying “trust your feelings.” It was time for me to listen to my own advice, to the conviction of my own soul. I was clearly experiencing a complete lack of peace with regard to Dr. what’s his name.

In a simple change of thought and perception, I gave myself permission to skip today’s doctor visit. Immediately, a feeling of loving peace comforted my soul.

“I can leave tomorrow’s decisions undecided.” I told myself, “As for now—I will once again immerse myself in the trust of the present moment, knowing that when the time is right, spirit will guide my next move.”

As I have spent the whole day writing, living in the present moment of today, this rediscovered peace has proved to be real and lasting.

The answer was so simple. I simply needed to listen to the peace. I simply needed to trust my own deeply rooted inner feelings.

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved