Brenda's Bicycles

 

The clock tower barely strikes “nine” as I occupy my favorite bench under a huge shade tree in the plaza. Fifty yards away, a vendor turns on a quiet radio, providing me with relaxing background mood music. A few pigeons gather as I throw out a few breakfast crumbs.

 

“What am I going to write today?” I ask myself. Even I do not know the answer to this question—other than the fact that I desire to explore my emotional roller coaster ride of the past few days.

 

Perhaps, by writing, I can reach additional clarity; maybe I can muster a little more courage and trust.

 

For several months now, a burning question in the back of my mind has been “Where am I going to go after I leave Cozumel?”

 

All of my life I have been one to plan. When going on any kind of trip or vacation, I tend to prepare myself in advance—researching everything including maps, sites to visit, sleeping accommodations, and weather. A few times in more recent years I have attempted road trips where itineraries were unplanned—left completely to chance. While such random adventures were always great learning experiences, unforeseen complications often led me to a state of frustration, occasionally even approaching panic.

 

My logical left brain thrives on details and planning, being prepared for anything and everything. Don’t get me wrong. I consider such skills in planning and preparation to be a strength—one that has served me quite well throughout my life. But there has also been a great price to pay—including stress, and loss of spontaneity. When I am too focused on the future, I find that I miss out on the wonder of precious present moments.

 

My recent trip to Mexico City was an incredible confidence builder—a journey in which I faced several deep fears and began to tear down some of my long-held obsessions with planning and organization. Circumstances blessed me with a relatively safe opportunity to practice ‘not knowing’—to personally witness divine guidance taking the place of my need to know in advance.

 

In early August, shortly before flying home for my son’s wedding, my left brain kicked into gear. Demanding attention, this logical side of me made sure that I knew the gravity of my circumstance. “You have less than three months till your time in Cozumel is complete.” The nagging and worrisome thoughts began. “You need to begin making plans for your future after Cozumel … planning time is very short.” 

 

I appeased the worrying thoughts by beginning a small amount of research. I discovered that there are many volunteer opportunities scattered throughout Central and South America. “Yes, when I get back from the wedding, I will check some of them out.” I reassured my ego, keeping it temporarily distracted.

 

However, as I quieted my mind in meditation, my spiritually centered self calmly reassured me, “Brenda … it is definitely too early to be concerned with your next journey … there are many things that need to happen first … you need only focus on your present path … be patient … if you focus on the future you will miss the present … your future path will manifest itself at the appropriate time … and not before.”

 

In late August, after returning from my son’s wedding, I spent another evening scouring the internet. This time, other possibilities caught my fancy. I discovered two different spiritual retreat centers in Peru—one Buddhist and one Vedanta. While the thought of spending a few quiet months in such a spiritual haven proved very enticing, again my centered heart calmly reassured me “Brenda, quit looking so far ahead … focus only on the present … just surrender and trust.”

 

After focusing back on the present, September became a spiritual feast of incredible opportunity and synchronicity, one I will never forget—yet my little ego desire to “plan the future” continues to nag and fester in the background.

 

As I maneuvered through my fears prior to committing to fly to Mexico City, a deep knowing in my heart let me know that the trip was a necessary preparation for the next phase of my journey—one that involves much more spontaneity, trust, and surrender—one that involves very little, if any, planning.

 

My ego-fears staged a rebellion with this thought, creating much of the panic that I experienced during my surrender-to-spirit process. Twice in Mexico City, powerful emotional experiences unexpectedly surfaced, both the result of beautiful songs that reached deeply into my heart, gently melting my ego-resistance, reassuring me that I am protected and lovingly watched over.

 

The “planning part” of me half expected that answers would flood through my heart as soon as my Mexico City trip was completed—but my ego did not especially like some of the answers I was beginning to feel when I returned.

 

A few things are very clear in my heart. Calm peaceful feelings permeate my soul with the knowledge that I will not be living in my present apartment beyond October 31, and that my external work in Cozumel, at least for the time being, is now complete. My heart is quite clear that my remaining growth path in Cozumel will be more internal, exploring my own fears and anxieties.

 

Miguel just strolled by on his way to work. Bless his sweet heart. I haven’t had much of a visit with him for several weeks. I’m not entirely sure what I just got myself into. Again, he pressured me to have dinner with him. Rather than my usual memorized “No,” I checked in with my heart and the answer “Yes” just came blurting out. We are meeting right here, tonight at 6:00 p.m.—then traveling together to his home. Upon accepting his invitation, I reiterated over and over, “Just friends—just a friendship,” making my intentions extremely clear. Each time, he slyly throws in the phrase, “We’ll see.”

 

It is hard to believe, but exactly four months ago today, I said my goodbyes to Salt Lake City, landed in Cozumel, and moved into my present apartment. Now, in less than three short weeks, I will say goodbye to my new Cozumel friends, moving on yet again. But I know this is not really a “goodbye”—something tells me I will be returning here many times in the future.

 

Lately, almost everywhere I look, events seem to trigger a thought that has already begun to send deep peaceful roots into my heart. In the Cancun airport, while flying to Mexico City, I observed a woman with a large backpack, preparing to board my plane. On my tour to the pyramids of Teotihuacan, I was fascinated by the backpacking adventures of my young friend from New Zealand.

 

At our Wednesday morning “American Ladies” breakfast this week, I met a new friend—a thirty-something woman who has previously backpacked around Mexico. Our discussion was fascinating, after which she offered to share her wisdom and experience with me. To top it off, my friend JayDee has volunteered to store two of my large suitcases at her home in Cozumel while I set off on an adventure.

 

For more than a month, my heart has been telling me (in spite of my fear) that I want to hop onto a bus and explore the Yucatan area of Mexico—possibly for several weeks, possibly for a month or two. Then, just in the past week, a buried feeling has begun surfacing—the thought of continuing my backpacking adventures throughout Central America while passing through countries like Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala.

 

Strange as it may sound, this desire feels like a hidden memory coming back to life—one in which I remember having always been fascinated and intrigued with the thought of exploring Central America—having always known that one day I will do so.

 

Intense fear flooded through my body Saturday Morning as I began to research on the internet. The words on the US State Department website are enough to strike terror into the hearts of anyone thinking about traveling in these politically unstable countries—especially a woman considering traveling alone. Daunting warnings of high crime rates, bus/car hijackings, murders, and robberies are plentiful.

 

Then there are the warnings about Malaria and Yellow Fever in countries such as Ecuador and Bolivia, and parts of Peru.

 

Digesting these fearful words for more than two hours left my logical brain screaming “Hell no, I won’t go! There is no way I am going to make myself vulnerable to that kind of danger. My next destination needs to be something safe and comfortable. I need to protect myself.”

 

My right brain was largely silent during this fear-inducing research. As my heart began to freeze up, fear, resistance, and even panic, pushed their way into my consciousness.

 

“Do I really believe all that I spiritually profess to believe?” I began to challenge myself. “If spirit were to strongly guide me to follow such a path, would I have the faith, courage, and trust to follow—to surrender—to go forward into the seemingly terrifying and dangerous unknown?”

 

In an attempt to sooth my heart, I did a little additional research. This time I checked out what the US State Department website had to say about Mexico City. I momentarily laughed when I realized that I was reading many of the same fear-inducing statements about a city I had just visited—a city where my heart had felt nothing but peace. A feeling of gratitude momentarily flooded my being—I was grateful that I had not read these scary words before visiting Mexico City.

 

A quick browse through a few other non-official websites also gave me slight encouragement as I searched for anything to bolster my confidence and courage.

 

While I’m not yet making any declarations or commitments about backpacking through Central America, I can say with certainty that my heart is preparing me to face such fears in a very real way. Perhaps this whole process is simply a mental one where I will face my fears before being guided in a different direction—and perhaps such a physical journey is actually in my cards. Only time will tell.

 

As Saturday afternoon arrived, I was feeling completely disconnected from spirit. Fear and resistance were busily attempting to build an internal fortress around my heart, and my inner peace was in serious jeopardy. Just prior to heading out for some lunch, my heart cried out in the form, “Go to your bookshelf.”

 

While in Utah for my son’s wedding, a strong feeling caused me to buy the book “Jonathan Livingston Seagull.” Several times in recent conversation, my friend Michelle had mentioned the book. In my first reading, over thirty years ago, the book had not left a lasting impression on my heart. In fact, I retained no memory whatsoever of its content.

 

But energetic feelings I sensed as Michelle spoke those words, along with a subtle knowing in my heart, let me know in no uncertain terms, “Do not go back to Cozumel without this book.”

 

Saturday, as I stared at my bookshelf, there was absolutely no question. This little former-bestseller figuratively jumped off the shelf into my hands, saying “Read me … today … right now!”

 

I had no choice. The book soon slipped from my hand into my backpack. In a single sitting, under my favorite shade tree in the plaza, I devoured the book from cover to cover.

 

Using the power of a simple parable, author Richard Bach managed to re-ignite my inner passions—passions telling me that “Yes … I will follow my heart … no matter where it takes me … no matter what the seeming emotional or physical risk … I will fly free … I will connect to the divine potential that resides within me … I will not live with fear, limits, or self-imposed restrictions … I will fly to new levels.”

 

Amazingly, as I inhaled the message of this book, every word seemed to embrace and reinforce my spiritual beliefs—beliefs about which I am deeply passionate today—beliefs which did not even register on my radar when I read the book some thirty years ago.

 

As I retired on Saturday evening, I soon learned that my lesson in surrender and courage was not yet over. My mind was guided to my favorite workbook lesson in “A Course In Miracles (ACIM).”

 

To make this synchronicity even more powerful, I need to provide a little context. ACIM is actually a combination of several books. One of the main elements is a “Workbook for Students” which contains 365 daily lessons. Among other things, these lessons provide a structured framework that helps a student gradually shift the way he or she looks at and perceives the world, reducing and/or eliminating fear-based emotions, replacing them with loving and peaceful perceptions.

 

In early January of this year, I began these lessons anew. For the most part, I had been very diligent in doing a new lesson almost every day. Shortly before my June flight to Cozumel, I reached lesson number 135—a lesson that had been my favorite ever since the first time I read it. But, for some unknown reason, I set the book down and never resumed. With four months having passed, my next lesson remained number 135. Throughout these four months I have felt in my heart, “Just wait … now is the time to practice living the concepts … you can pick up the book later.”

 

Saturday night the feeling came to me strongly—it is time to read lesson number 135. As I reread this powerful lesson, almost every word seemed to jump powerfully from the page into my heart.

 

Each word seemed to apply to me now, today, powerfully confronting my defensiveness, my resistance, and my fears—fears caused by panicked thoughts of traveling through Central America—fears caused by my ego’s unsatisfied need for planning the future. I digested each word and phrase very slowly. Frequently, my eyes burst into tears as I contemplated and compared my debilitating fears to the comforting and faith-inducing words.

 

I won’t try to quote every meaningful phrase from this lesson, as I would have to quote nearly the entire five pages. However, two short passages jump out at me with a deep power.

 

Lesson 135, paragraph 11:

 

“A healed mind does not plan. It carries out the plans that it receives through listening to wisdom that is not its own. It waits until it has been taught what should be done, and then proceeds to do it. It does not depend upon itself for anything except its adequacy to fulfill the plans assigned to it.”

 

This first quote reminds me to surrender to the inspirations that flow through me rather than trying to plan my own path, attempting to rely on my own strength and knowledge. With my limited experience and resources, how could I possibly know the path best for me?

 

My personal knowledge is based entirely on past experience. I choose to follow inspiration that flows from absolute divine wisdom.

 

Lesson 135, paragraph 18

 

“What could you not accept, if you but knew that everything that happens, all events, past, present and to come, are gently planned by One Whose only purpose is your good?”

 

The second quote brings deep peace to my heart. Clearly etched in my soul is the knowledge that every seemingly insurmountable obstacle in my life has subsequently brought great blessings, growth, strength, and wisdom. Loving perception is the key. As I see life through the eyes of love and forgiveness, I am filled with deep gratitude for every event in my journey, easily recognizing that each obstacle has indeed been for my good. Why would I doubt that the future of following heart promptings will not be the same?

 

While contemplating my very near future, my ego-self still resists, remaining cautious, anxious, and very much in fear.

 

Simultaneously, my heart is mostly at peace. I know that as long as I remain spiritually centered, there is absolutely nothing to fear—no matter where my promptings may lead me.

 

Internal promptings tell me that a phased in compromise is likely in store—a compromise that will help me to appease my ego-self in gradual baby steps.

 

Most likely, beginning in November, I will launch out into the Yucatan peninsula and southern Mexico, traveling, exploring, growing, experiencing, and facing my fears. During these adventures, I may take a brief excursion or two into Belize and Guatemala—always knowing that I can turn around and leave at any moment.

 

With heart and inspiration guiding me every step of the way, I will build confidence, trust, and courage. As my heart expands, I envision my ego fears gradually melting away into nothingness. If my feelings guide me further south, I will follow. If they take me elsewhere, I will listen. If I do travel through Central America, and if something “scary” were to happen, I trust that my spiritual guides will see me through such an experience with love and peace.

 

With nineteen days to go, I remain open and willing to consider any internal prompting that flows through my heart. Something tells me I will indeed be pushing through the limits of my fears.

 

Loving Resolution to Confusing Feelings

 

Awkward would be a very accurate way to describe my feelings as Miguel and I arrived at his home this evening. I struggle with finding the words to describe the delicate balance beam I walked while lovingly striving to preserve the dignity of a beautiful man.

 

Even after the countless times that I emphasized to Miguel that we are “just friends,” he has never seemed to fully grasp nor believe my solid resolve. Most every time we have talked, he has continued to share his loving desires and caring feelings with me, expressing his deep longing for our relationship to progress beyond my imposed limits.

 

It was precisely for this reason that I have always told Miguel, “No, I won’t come to your house.”

 

Today, when the word “Yes” actually came out of my mouth, I shocked even myself. I had no idea what to expect, but knew that difficult heart-to-heart words would need to be expressed this evening.

 

As I sat at his kitchen table, It did not take long for Miguel to begin pouring on his charm—leaving me with the difficult task of tightrope walking—attempting to firmly diffuse his expectations while attempting to salvage a friendship filled with love and dignity—and doing it all in a foreign language.

 

At times, the old me would have just stood up and walked away—several times in fact. But tonight, letting my heart do the speaking, I was finally able to make my feelings and intentions clear in a firm unbending manner, while at the same time remaining unconditionally loving with my dear friend.

 

For the first time in four months, I actually believe that we are on the same page—a loving healthy friendship with no ulterior expectations. The power of communicating from a place of unconditional love never ceases to amaze me.

 

Sharing My Truth

 

As I look back on this incredibly busy week, two experiences come to mind that are especially worthy of sharing.

 

Wednesday morning, after breakfast, I bumped into my friend Sheila in the parking lot of the Mega store. For two months, I have known that she is someone with whom I would eventually share my background—but the timing had never yet felt right. As Sheila and I talked briefly on the sidewalk, out of the blue, as if on autopilot, I followed a quick prompt in my heart and blurted out those fearful words.

 

I don’t know why disclosing this part of my past always creates such internal panic. Yes, I used to be terrified of rejection, being judged, criticized, and abandoned—but those fears have mostly evaporated for two reasons. First, my own healing path has brought me to a loving place where I am secure in the knowledge that my peace and happiness comes only from within—and second, after sharing my story with literally hundreds of people, not one, to my knowledge, has ever rejected me.

 

Even so, each time I share my story, I invariably swallow a huge lump of anxiety as the words escape from my lips, beyond my ability to call them back.

 

A huge smile formed within my soul as Sheila approached me at Friday evening game night, saying, “Brenda, I started reading your blog at the beginning, and I am loving it.” Then she followed up with a sincere request, “Please, whatever you do, wherever you go, please stay in touch with me.”

 

Even today, as I write these very words, Sheila is playing an important part in my own path. Just yesterday, she flew to Nicaragua for a three week stay at a Spanish Immersion school. Today is the beginning of her first-of-fifteen four-hour classes. Because of the example of her courage and inspiration, I envision myself doing something very similar, possibly attending the same classes in the very near future.

 

Thursday afternoon, I had my second “official” Bach Flower Therapy appointment with Eduardo. He is another friend with whom my heart has told me in no uncertain terms that I would soon be sharing my story. As usual, our one hour appointment turned into more than three hours of delightful conversation. After recapping my adventures in Mexico City, we talked about anything and everything spiritual. At one point Eduardo told me “Brenda, I would love to read your blog. I searched for you on Google last night, but could not find it. Can you give me the address?”

 

After gladly sharing the website, my heart instantly confirmed that now was the time to take yet another risk. Five minutes later, I had summarized my entire story—my lifelong struggle of learning to love and accept myself.

 

Of course Eduardo’s response was incredibly loving and accepting. I knew it would be. There was never any doubt—yet the anxious lump in my throat was still present as I shared those liberating words. When he asked for permission to share my story with his wife, I encouraged him to please do so. The last thing I want is for anyone else to feel burdened with carrying my secrets.

 

I have no way of predicting the future, but I do know one thing with absolute certainty. The incredible friendships I am establishing on this journey will not end when I leave Cozumel in just a few weeks. Each beautiful friendship will forever be with me in my heart, traveling with me wherever I may be guided. And who knows how many paths may yet cross again in the future?

 

I would love to end today’s writing with a poem written by my dear friend Joni—a friend who has also found the courage deep within herself to live her own personal truth. Thank you, Joni, for writing such beautiful words. I hope you are OK with me quoting them here.

 

Title Unknown …

… by Joni Weiss

 

Be who you are – authentically!

Love yourself – dearly!

Be good to yourself – truly!

Be your own very best friend.

Embrace yourself.

Embrace life – your life!

Be wholly who you are.

You are love itself.

Be THAT love!

 

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

This is part three of a three phase photo update. These photos are from my spiritual journeys involving the activites in celebration of Regina, and my visits to the pyramids.

This is the exterior of the huge “Basilica de Guadalupe”. A short distance above here is where I began the “Caminata” (spiritual march) on Sunday morning.

This is a view from above the Basilica, looking down at the medium size church (middle, foreground) and the larger Basilica on the right. In the distance is Mexico City.

This is a view looking up at the small church (Capilla del Cerrito) where our Sunday morning walk began, dressed in white, Many blowing on Conch Shells.

A closer-up view as I climbed the stairs to the smaller church up on the hill.

Our festivities began at 8:30 a.m. on the far right of the photo, right up next to the church. We formed a large circle of about fifty people dressed in white, with Copal incense and blowing conch shells. Hundreds of tourists soon surrounded us as we faced the four directions and honored the four elements (earth, fire, water, and air) before beginning our silent march–first into the church itself, and then down the stairs, past the Basilica, and into the streets below–headed for Tlatelolco.

Out of respect, I did not take any photos during the march. Once we finished at Tlatelolco (on the Plaza de las Tres Culturas), I took a few photos after the fact. This first photo is a monument honoring the people who died here on October 2nd, 1968.

This is our beautiful group of marchers, gathered and visiting after our circle ceremonies ended.

A closer up view of our group mingling with each other after the ceremonies.

This is one of the ruins of Tlatelolco, right by the plaza. Several people threw their flowers on top this sacred round temple ruin. I did not understand and threw mine too late. If you look on the grass to the left, you see my flowers on the ground.

After the Sunday march, we took a subway to a home near Chapultepec where Regina had lived off and on for six months before her death in 1968. Out of respect, I did not take any phots of the house itself, or of the inside room where we meditated together.

I originally believed we would be doing a six hour meditation here. As it turns out, six hours was reserved for people to do individual meditations for as long or short as they desired.

 I stayed about 90 minutes.

My Monday morning tour to Teotihuacan stopped first at Tlatelolco, a much desired opportunity to explore yesterday’s area a little more fully. This is the site of a large ancient city, with fascinating history.

In 1521, this city was lost in battle. The spaniards used rocks from the ruins to build this beautiful church–the same one I had seen at the end of the march on Sunday.

The inside of the church from a few pictures back. This was takenwithout a flash. The window lighting created a beautiful blue glow.

From next to the church, looking at the Plaza de las Tres Culturas (Plaza of the three cultures). This is the spot where the students, including Regina, were killed at sundown on October 2nd, 1968. To the far right is where our march ended on Sunday.

Our tour guide explained that this water-filled hole in the ground was caused by one of the bullets in the shootings of 1968.

Our tour guide, Isaac.

I’m going to attempt to post a small video here … hopefully it will work.

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This is a short video taken of our tour guide talking in Spanish, following which I do a short pan over the main ruins.

Next, our tour took us to the fabulous ruins of Teotihuacan.

We started out our tour of Teotihuacan with a four kilometer bike ride from this restaurant, around the road that circles the perimiter of the ruins.

This is my trusty little bicycle.

The first place we visited was a newer area of Teotihuacan, much of which is still being excavated. These are some fresh digs in that area.

It was fascinating to observe them as they uncover more treasures.

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Ancient ruins recently uncovered.

Some more ornate decorations on he side of one pyramid.

Next, we rode back to the restaurant, ate lunch, and then stopped at this little artisan’s shop where they showed us about how they use cactus and carve obsidian. Take a look at what he is holding in his hand. This is a sharp meaty spike from the center of the cactus.

First, he pealed of a thin skin which is very much like a waxy paper. He explained that this was actually used by the native people to create paper.

Then he pulled the sharp dry thorn from the tip, removing a long strand of strong string-like fibers used to make rope, string, and yarn.

A picture of the fibrous string from inside the cactus

Next, he grabbed a flower from a geranium and rubbed it on the string, showing how they died the thread to a variety of colors using natural dies.

Finally we drive in our van to one of the main entrances to the park near the Pyramid of the moon. This original piece was shown to us during an introductory tour of some habitational areas.

Another section which is still the original painting from former residents here.

Isaac showed us how to tell what is original and what is restored. The lower rocks and the middle stucco section are all original. The upper section with the tiny black rocks stuck throughout the grout are restored areas. Any area which is restored after the fact is marked by these tiny black rocks.

This is my view of the Pyramid of the moon as we approach it for the first time.

Me in front of the Pyramid of the Moon

People climbing the Pyramid of the moon. Tourists are only allowed to climb this one up to the first level.

The view from up here is incredible. The energy of the pyramids radiant.

This is me on top of the first level of the Pyramid of the Moon.

This is me, climbing back down from the pyramid of the moon. My friend from Germany (lives inSwitzerland now) took this photo for me.

The long walkway between the two large pyramids is called the Avenue of the Dead (Avenida de los Muertos). This is taken from near the pyramid of the sun, looking back at the pyramid of the moon.

A view from below, looking up the steep side of the pyramid.

A photo taken from half-way up the pyramid, looking back toward the pyramid of the moon.

Me, sitting on a corner of the top, looking down at the ground below.

Partial view from the top.

This is the top of the Pyramid of the Sun. It ends in a rounded-off mound of ancient rock and stone. In the very center is a tiny silver marker. I stood on each of four directions (N, S, E, and W) meditation in each direction before touching the silver marker. Then I simply sat on one corner inhaling the energy of the area. It was up here that my thoughts were taken to the fact that my parents visited here on their honeymoon in 1946.

Looking up at the pyramid of the Sun.

The remaining photos are from the “Veloracion” ceremonies that took place in a small village called “Aldea de los Reyes”, a few kilometers from the town of Amecameca, about fifty kilometers southeast of Mexico City. This little village sits fifteen or twenty kilometers from two 17,000 foot volcanos.

This is a little plaque on the side of the home where Regina was born and spent the first several years of her life.

This is the tiny little house where Regina was born in 1948.

This is the tiny little chapel where our all night commemoration took place.

This is the mostly-paved street leading up to Regina’s home on the left under the trees.

This beautiful view was visible from our kitchen-tree on Thursday morning. This volcano resembles the profile of a woman sleeping.

This is the second and slightly taller of the two 17,000 foot volcanos. You can see the plume of smoke rising its top. I was treated to a fabulous view of these two volcanos on my return flight to Cancun on Saturday morning.

The celebrations on the inside of the tiny chapel. This photo was taken around 1:00 a.m.. Notice how much copal incense clouds the visibility in the room.

Another view inside the tiny chapel.

The feather headdress is on “Sol” in her wheelchair at the front.

Many of the ladies who carried the thirteen baskets talked about in my last posts.

Sylvia and Sol (remember, not real names) singing in the front of the chapel.

The lady I call Maria in my  recent posts.

The young girl in the red is one of the ones I sang songs with on Thursday morning.

Some of the ladies in the chapel. I just love the glowing smile of the woman in the front on the right. She was glowing all night long as she danced and blew on her Conch Shell horn.

On the left is the lady I call Sylvia in my posts. In the wheelchair is the lady I call “Sol”. Everyone treated her with such incredible love and respect.

A native gentleman holding one of the two cylindrical rods of flowers (created in the flower ceremonies) which he and another woman then used to bless those from the audience who went forward.

Our tents (of those who spent the night). Mine is on the far right with the yellow and blue shopping bag on the ground in front.

The temazcal draped in olive-green canvas, the large fire still burning to the right. if you look at the back left, you can see a large tarp draped over a rope between trees. This is where most of the men slept.

If you look carefully, you can see a pole behind and to the right of the fire with a black scarf tied to it. This is one of the four scarves that I helped to put up during a ceremony on Thursday morning.

One last Friday morning view of the shorter of the two volcanos.

Our outdoor kitchen area directly across the street from Regina’s home.

Following are some short video clips that I took during the ceremonies. My blog site won’t let me upload any longer ones. The volume on my camera appears to be low. Believe me, it was much louder than this …

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This is the second in a set of three photo posts. Photos in this post are of various places in Mexico City.

This is a photo of the Zocalo, looking toward the Cathedral in the background. The Zocalo is the huge main square in the center of the historical district of Mexico City.

Such shoe shiners were common throughout the Mexico City area.

Dancers such as these were on both sides of the Cathedral throughout my first weekend in the city. Aparently, the street entertainers and vendors are only allowed to be here on certain days.

This is not very common, but I caught them driving by the Zocalo after the electrician’s strike.

A huge downpour of rain in the street next to the Palacio Nacional

This statue represents key history for the country of Mexico. The national emblem is based on this event where Aztec warriors witnessed an eagle land on a cactus with a snake in it’s mouth. This event is said to have ocurred in the the area where the Zocalo square currently exists.

Looking across the square from the Palacio Nacioinal towards the opposite corner. You can barely see the Cathedral on the right.

This is the exterior of one part of the cathedral. It runs for the entire long block.

One view of a tiny portion of the interior.

Another inside view. This place is huge. I only took a few photos.

Some of the ornate gold work.

A small portion of a huge mural painted by Diego Rivera. He began painting these murals around 1910 and did not finish for thirty plus years. These murals depict the history of Mexico starting before Hernan Cortez arrived in the 1500s, right up to the 1950’s. These histories are painted through the eyes of the people, often being quite critical of the spaniards, the catholic priests, and government leaders.

I had a two hour, free, one-on-one tour of these murals. My tour guide shared the fascinating stories with me. I was on information overload, trying to absorb it all. I believe this mural depicts Montezuma.

I learned on my tour that the legislature no longer meets in this building. They have newer facilities elsewhere.

This large courtyard is on the interior of the Palacio.

The tourist entrance is guarded by armed soldiers such as this one.

Tenochtitlan is the name of the original (and very large) Aztec city that existed right where the historical center now exists. Most of the ruins have been destroyed and built over with new buildings. A few of the ruins are preserved, set back in just between the palacio and the cathedral.

Some of the ruins of Tenochtitlan. I did not go inside or take the tour.

These performs were performing in a small square just a few blocks from the Zocalo.

More of the same performers.

Such entertainers were common, as well as other types of musicians…

The 2009 Mexico City Marathon ended right at the center of the Zocalo. By the time I snapped this photo, these runners were simply walking to the finish line, merely hoping to finish the race. The front runners had long since passed.

Many runners were collapsed in exhaustion, laying in a variety of places around the Zocalo. I even witnessed one laying on a stretcher being administered oxygen.

This large parade of protesting electrical union workers marched by on a large street when I was exploring. I sat on the curb and watched for more than thirty minutes while thousands of them streemed by, chanting their angry slogans as they marched toward the Palacio Nacional.

More of the same marchers.

Eduardo told me to find this tree — and I did. The search was not an easy one. It is on a small island near the fountain of Don Quixote. I sat across the moat and wrote on my laptop for several hours.

A zoomed out view of the island. The large tree is in the middle of this island. The former shot was a zoom image from the same location.

This is my vantage point from where I took the pictures, and where I did my writing.

A small rainstorm drove me away from my writing. These vendors took advantage of the rain to seel these thin plastic raincoats for five pesos each (about 40 cents)

Nothing stops these vendors from selling their wares … not even rain.

These scouts were just preparing to enter as I was leaving the park.

Shortly after entering the “Bosque de Chapultepec”, I walked up to the Castillo (castle). This is one of the thousands of artifacts on display.

I’m not really sure what this is, but I found it fascinating.

This carriage fascinated me.

As did this one. Both carriages are original, and seem to be right out of fairy tale stories.

This is a view from the Castle. Eduardo tells me that this famous road is the “Masculine path” in the city of Mexico city. The march I did on Sunday from the Basilica de Guadalupe to Tlatelolco is the Feminine path.

This is just one of many fascinating, beautiful decorated rooms in the castle.

An exterior view of a portion of the castle

This beautiful hallwayh of stained glass is on the second floor.

This colorful caldelabra caught my fancy.

This inner courtyard is beautiful. It is in the middle of the castle on the second floor.

This is a glimpse of a large mountain-side housing development on the way out of Mexico City as my tour bus was heading to Teotihuacan. Such housing covered hillsides for many, many miles through this area. One thing that caught my attention is that the homes are almost all grey, unpainted concrete.

I have been taking many photos over the last several weeks, and I’m going to try to post a sampling of them today. Since there are so many, I’m going to post them in three phases.

This first post will contain photos from Independence Day Activities, Some Aztec Dancers in the Plaza, and a few photos taken in Playa Del Carmen

The next two posts will contain photos from Mexico City

On the night before the main festivities, I attended a children’s program. This is one of the young boys in his cute costume.

These are some young children who were being given awards during the program.

More children in the beautiful program.

 

(Note: This is a continuation of yesterday’s post.)

 

The waiting game begins. Remembering how Eduardo told us not to wear any metal jewelry in my first Temazcal, I remove my watch and necklace, stowing them safely away in my tent. I am anxious to begin. The fire burns hot, the pile of large rocks at its base seems to glow a slight orange.

 

After what seems like forever, I watch as Sylvia and her spiritual sisters crawl on hands and knees, disappearing into the small domed enclosure. Soon, Luiz walks over to the fire. Using a tool that looks like a cross between a pitchfork and a large claw, Luiz shifts and stirs the coals, removes a single glowing rock, and walks carefully toward the Temazcal. He calls out the words “Hot Rock” and someone inside grabs the pitchfork as it momentarily disappears through the tiny door. Seconds later, the pitchfork reappears, minus the rock.

 

Luiz repeats the process four more times, until a total of five scalding hot rocks have been sequestered inside the Temazcal. Next, a five gallon bucket of water is handed through the doorway, following which the olive-green canvas is lowered, completely covering the entrance.

 

After what feels like half an hour or longer, Luiz responds to a call from inside the Temazcal. I expect to see Luiz retrieve more rocks, or perhaps to see the women emerge—but neither of my expectations is correct. With my watch put away, I can only speculate, but I continue to watch for what feels like another two hours. After a while, I retrieve my Journal, utilizing the time to record thoughts and feelings. My imagination dances with speculation about the conversations taking place inside—the tears and the laughter as old friends reunite in soul-connecting celebration.

 

Then it happens. Several women emerge from the opening, I notice as others waiting around me rise to their feet, and my heart skips a beat or two.

 

“Am I ready for this?” I silently ask myself.

 

Glancing at someone nearby, I reverently ask, “Is it time for the rest of us to enter?”

 

She smiles and nods her head in a loving gesture, while mouthing the word “Yes.”

 

I line up in the middle of a large group, watching those in front of me lower to their knees. One by one we squeeze through the tiny opening. Veering to our left, we crawl in a clockwise direction, filling in all the empty spaces around the small dirt pit already containing five rocks that are now quite cool. I end up taking a position a little more than a third of the way around the circle, sitting cross-legged with my back rubbing against the wooden branches behind me.

 

As I adjust my legs, trying to find some comfort, others continue to crawl through the opening. With the outer circle already filled, we shift and squeeze, trying to make room for the others. I end up sitting on a small uneven root, one side of the ground being several inches higher than the other—several people form a small row in front of us, making it impossible to stretch out my legs.

 

“This is extremely uncomfortable!” I ponder silently. But then I remind myself, “A little discomfort and fear are not going to prevent me from enjoying this incredible opportunity … I can do this … my excitement and wonder are too great for me to back out now.”

 

Before the first rocks are brought in, Sylvia assures everyone. “This is not a test of suffering and pain.” She begins. “If at any time you need the door opened, or you need to leave, please say so.”

 

I hear Sylvia’s words, but silently commit to myself “I will not be the weak one that asks for relief.”

 

“Why oh why am I sometimes so damn stubborn and proud?” is my next quiet thought.

 

Soon, a pitchfork containing a hot rock is passed through the door, and Luiz, who is now on the inside, receives the handoff. Grabbing the pitchfork handle, he carefully turns it over, allowing the glowing rock to fall securely into an available spot in the center. I don’t count, but several more rocks are similarly brought in. After each rock is in place, one of the women opposite me rubs it with a piece of copal, causing a thick fragrant white smoke to be emitted.

 

Soon the canvas door is lowered and the cramped quarters are now empty of any light. I see nothing as black darkness envelopes me. Sylvia begins talking as I hear water sizzling on the rocks just a few away. Within seconds, I feel the hot steam on my face. Just a minute later, the heat is so intense that I am greatly relieved when a woman to my right asks for the door to be partially opened.

 

As light once again enters my awareness, the heat subsides slightly to a level that I can more easily tolerate. Gratitude floods through me, along with a sense of satisfaction that I was not the weak one.

 

Again, I ask myself “What is this pride all about?”

 

Partway through this first phase, the door is again closed, but the intense heat seems to be more tolerable; it is not quite as strong as it had been.

 

Soon it is time for phase two. First, the door is opened for a few minutes to allow for some cooling. Very soon, a new series of scalding rocks is brought in, one by one. This time, I notice that Abuelita is sprinkling some type of juniper twigs onto each rock as it is placed in the small pit. The dry leaves momentarily crackle and glow orange as they give off an intense unpleasant smoke—so pungent that my eyes hurt and I struggle for breath.

 

“Why is she doing that?” I ask myself. “Doesn’t she know how unpleasant that is for the rest of us?”

 

During this phase, the heat feels even stronger—so intense in fact that I have to lie down—placing my face as close to the cooler ground as possible. A sweet lady slightly in front and to my right asks, “Brenda, are you OK?”

 

“Yes, I am fine.” I reply weakly—not totally believing my own response.

 

Soon, I feel water sprinkling on me as this dear sweet lady repeatedly dips a small juniper branch into the five-gallon bucket of water and splashes it roughly on my head and shoulders.

 

“You don’t need to do that.” I think silently—while at the same time tears of gratitude began to form in my eyes as I feel her genuine love and concern.

 

Deep feelings of relief flow through my heart when I hear someone else ask for the door to be opened—again providing me some desperately needed rest from the intense heat.

 

“Surely, we are almost done in here.” I quietly wonder. “It feels like we have been in here for more than an hour. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

 

Soon, cups filled with refreshing water are being passed around, as someone hands them through the door from the outside. My ration of water rapidly disappears down my throat. As I notice others passing their cup back outside for more, I also follow suit, doing this as many times as I dare. After about five cups I decide I have had enough for now.

 

My heart sinks as more steaming rocks are passed through the door. I am not sure I can handle any more. This time I observe a grandfatherly type gentleman sprinkling dried juniper-like twigs onto the rocks. As the twigs crackle and glow orange I begin to realize that this is part of the ritual. During each phase, a different elder applies various herbs to the hot rocks, creating a fragrant smoke that seems to saturate every pour of my body.

 

Very soon I hear water sizzling on the rocks and the heat is almost immediately unbearable. As I jockey for position on the floor, I realize that most everyone around me is also lying down.

 

Repeatedly, I hear the softly spoken question, “Brenda, are you OK.” And I give the same weak answer, “Yes, I am OK.”

 

My little angel who is watching over my wellbeing continues to splash water on me from time to time. Tears of gratitude run down my cheeks each time I feel the water sprinkle on my head. Not wanting anyone else to see, I quickly wipe the tears away, blending them in with the sweat that is streaming everywhere.

 

My pride takes a back seat as I realized that I am drenched in sweat, squeezed in between three other people, two male and one female. Personal space seems to have no meaning here—we are all in this together—all here for each other.

 

Intense gratitude again flows through my veins as the door is finally opened. Phase three is finally over.

 

“Surely we don’t have time for phase four.” I silently cross my fingers and hope.

 

After a brief respite from the heat, more scalding hot stones are again placed in the center, the door again darkens, and the boiling steam again permeates everything around me. By now, I have surrendered and simply lay calmly on the ground.

 

“I have survived three rounds … I can make it one more.” I reassure myself.

 

This fourth phase seems to be lasting longer than the others. My entire attention is focused on breathing, relaxing, and being present with the experience. Somehow, there is no outside world—only here, right now. Gone are all thoughts about past and future. This present moment is all there is.

 

Quick Change

 

A feeling of desperate eagerness surges through my thoughts as the door opens for the final time. People to my left begin to crawl clockwise, one by one exiting through the tiny door. As my turn arrives, intense relief floods my senses as I feel the cool outside air gently grace my hot moist skin.

 

Standing up, I glance about me. The sun has almost disappeared; the skies are still light, but beginning to fade.

 

“How long were we in there?” I ponder with wonder. It must have been at least two hours—or even longer.

 

Looking back towards Regina’s home, I realize that a whole new group of people have arrived. Unfamiliar faces are standing around on the lawn, chatting and visiting. I recognize a few of them from Sunday.

 

I head straight for my tent, quickly closing the zipper behind me. My skirt and tank top are literally dripping—as wet as if I had jumped into a swimming pool. I remove them and dry myself with a small towel, quickly changing into my ankle-length white dress.

 

Grabbing a small hand mirror in my suitcase, I begin to slap on a quick application of eye liner, and lipstick. My nose, cheeks, and forehead glow a bright red—which I quickly cover with a few dabs of foundation and powder.

 

As I glance at the reflection of my hair, I realize I am staring at a lost cause. After a quick towel dry, I grab a brush and hurriedly remove all the tangles—then I simply straighten my bangs and brush my wet locks back behind my ears.

 

After a quick restroom break, I smile when a kind woman says “Wow, you look very pretty.”

 

My heart is so filled with love that I actually believe her—even though there is no doubt that I am in desperate need of a shower.

 

Realizing that time is very short, and the evening’s activities will soon begin, I rush across the street to the kitchen tree. I grab a small plastic bowl and Tina fills it up with a mystery soup. Not stopping to ask questions, I simply gobble down every bite.

 

All Night Celebration

 

My mind is filled with curiosity as I wonder about the all-night “Veloration” ceremony that is about to begin. As it turns out, I don’t have long to wait.

 

I quickly join a group of about seventy to eighty people that begins to assemble in a large circle around the Temazcal and fire pit area. A woman named Maria takes charge, leading us in the now familiar honoring of the four directions and four elements. Conch shells begin to sound loudly as the drums begin a steady rhythm.

 

With Sol and her wheelchair leading the way, the circle begins to unwind and follow her in single file. The young man in front of me reaches down and grabs one of a stack of buffalo-skin drums, and I quickly follow suit. I am eager to participate fully, and having a drum to play will help keep me awake and alert. I anticipate a long and tiring night.

 

For two blocks we march to the rumbling beat of drums and the penetrating call of conch shell horns. As we round the corner to the small church, I see another large tourist-class bus parked on the street. A group of thirteen women, dressed in white, are standing in a large circle on the church lawn. In front of each woman sits a large basked filled to the brim with unknown treasures, covered with colorful scarves.

 

Still beating on my drum, I follow the group into the tiny Catholic chapel. The structure has the look and feel of being several hundred years old. On each side of a narrow aisle are perhaps eight to ten rows of small benches, each barely wide enough to tightly squeeze in four people. The chapel soon fills up, with many people standing in the rear. I have a cramped seat about four rows back, up against the right wall.

 

Maria stands at the podium, makes a few opening remarks, and then asks sweet little Sol if she has anything to say. With her wheelchair parked in front of the chapel, Sol gives another heartfelt speech about her ancestors, and the importance of these spiritual traditions.

 

Bless her sweet heart, Sol seems to ramble on and on. I catch the loving smiles of Maria and Sylvia as I observe them showing their devoted respect to Sol.

 

Soon, the celebration begins. Taking turns, many different people lead us in a widely varying selection of Mexican folk songs, spiritual songs, fun songs, and serious songs. All the while, I join in with the solid and consistent boom, boom, booming of eight or ten loudly beating drums along with a variety of miscellaneous percussion instruments. Periodically, conch shells, and flutes join the loud mix. Still not having my watch, I have no idea how much time passes. Somehow, I realize that not having a watch makes the time factor seem less important.

 

During the singing, I watch as a series of ceremonies begins to unfold. I do not understand the symbolism of any of them, which simply adds to my wonder.

 

First, the thirteen women from outside file slowly into the chapel. One by one, each places their basket behind a large alter at the front of the church.

 

A while later, in the midst of the loud jubilant singing, Several woman walk to the front carrying many large bundles of long-stemmed red and white carnations.

 

In the meantime, I notice that lines are forming in the front as two spiritual leaders are performing energy cleansing ceremonies using their goblets filled with smoking copal incense. I soon place my drum on the bench and make my way to the front, eager to have my turn being ceremoniously bathed in the white sweet-smelling smoke.

 

While in front, I notice that a group of four or five women are seated with the hundreds of carnations, methodically cutting off the stems of each one.

 

The jubilant folk songs continue; the rhythmic beating becomes almost hypnotic. I can only assume that several hours have passed, but have no way to know for sure.

 

Antonio, standing in front, points at me and catches my eye, motioning for me to come up front. I try to motion to him “No, I have already been up there.”

 

He comes close, telling me “Brenda, you need to go up again.”

 

As I reach the podium, I kneel before a woman who blesses a red carnation, lovingly places it in my hand, and motions for me to add it to a pattern on the floor. Looking down, I see an elaborate swirl of red and white carnations carefully arranged on the floor.

 

“That is beautiful.” I think to myself, still not understanding the symbolism.

                                                     

At what feels to be around 11:00 p.m., Maria introduces a few of the attendees and asks them to share a few words. The first is a spiritual leader from Teotihuacan—where I visited the incredible pyramids on Monday. He and a couple of others share a few brief remarks—most of which passes through the language centers of my brain as mere gibberish. As these speakers finish, and before the next songs begin, I notice Antonio and Maria whispering to each other. Antonio has a huge grin on his face as Maria approaches me.

 

“Brenda,” she begins, “we were wondering if you would speak to the group—perhaps share a few words about who you are, why you are here—and maybe share a spiritual experience or something.”

 

“No” I plead.

 

“Please, please, please.” She asks.

 

“No, no, no,” I respond. “I don’t speak Spanish well enough. I have nothing important to say.”

 

After a one minute exchange, Maria still begging me to speak, and me consistently insisting on ‘no’, Maria gives up and accepts my answer.

 

Sitting in silence, the internal conversation/debate begins.

 

“Why did you say no?” my heart demands. “You know you have to take this opportunity … you know that this is a chance to make more connections … and to strengthen your courage.”

 

“I can’t do that,” my head argues back. “I am an outsider, I don’t speak well, I have nothing to say, I will make a fool of myself.”

 

“Just do it.” My heart demands.

 

I finally realize that “If I don’t speak, I will miss an incredible growth opportunity … I have to do it … my heart will not let me do otherwise.”

 

Before I can approach Maria, the songs resume. Several times the crowd hushes to a whisper as beautiful Sol sings a few verses by herself.

 

Around 12:30 a.m., Maria introduces a short thirty minute break. “There are tamales and water in the next room.” She announces.

 

Walking up to Maria, with Sylvia listening, I hesitatingly tell her, “If you still want me to talk, I will do it.”

 

Both Sylvia and Maria smile in gratitude.

 

During the break, I walk back to Regina’s house to use the restroom. I am surprised to see that the small home has been turned into a religious shrine, with candles, incense, and flowers—and that there are fifteen or twenty people participating in their own separate ceremonies.

 

Before returning to the church, I retrieve my camera from my tent. All evening, I have observed many others snapping photos and capturing videos. Previously under the impression that taking photos would be inappropriate, I am now eager to preserve a few images of my own.

 

As the celebration of songs resumes, I wonder to myself if or when Maria will ask me up to speak. I begin to visualize a short speech, practicing what I will say, which verbs to use, and how to conjugate them.

 

The songs continue, the conch shells, flutes, rattles and drums play on. By now, many people are on their feet, swaying to the music in an effort to remain awake. I repeatedly catch myself beginning to drift off into dreamland—only to pull myself back to consciousness.

 

Finally, at around 2:30 a.m., Maria stands back in front of the group. A long ceremony has just ended—a ceremony in which people from the crowd took turns going up front and offering a short prayer. My ears perk up when I hear my name mentioned in a short introduction.

 

Holding my breath, I walk to the front of the chapel, climb three steps to the center of the stage area, and begin. In less then five minutes, putting my best Spanish forward, I introduce myself, telling them where I am from. Then I summarize the past couple years of my life, describing my spiritual journey and several key events that have guided me to end up in Mexico—including a brief mention of my powerful vivid dream in April. I continue by briefly describing how I met Eduardo in Cozumel, how he shared Regina’s story with me and encouraged me to attend tonight’s commemoration.

 

Finishing off my speech, I stand with my hands on my heart, looking lovingly into the crowd, thanking everyone from the bottom of my heart, sharing my deep love and gratitude, expressing my profound desire and wish that everyone in the world could be here to experience such incredible love, peace, and joy.

 

As I return to my seat, I am glowing with love. I have no idea how my words affect others, but the act of having said them is a deeply powerful event for me.

 

After making another mid-morning restroom break, I slip by my tent to grab my watch. I discover that the time is 3:00 a.m..

 

“How will I make it another three hours?” I ask myself, knowing that there is no way I am leaving the festivities now.

 

I begin to realize that wearing my watch feels like a curse. Watched minutes seem to tick by ever so slowly as I occasionally lay my head against the wall to rest. Sometimes my head jerks and I bounce back to a state of alertness. Standing up, I sway back and forth with the songs in an attempt to keep my sleepy body moving.

 

Around 4:00 a.m., the group from Regina’s house returns to join us, and the chapel is again full. Soon, I notice another ritual beginning to unfold.

 

The women in the front of the room begin to take the carnations from the floor, arranging and tying them to two separate eighteen inch long sticks. Carefully attaching the carnations in circles around the sticks, two cylindrical flower arrangements begin to take shape, each being perhaps six to eight inches in diameter. The finished products remind me of cylindrical sofa pillows.

 

Soon, the crowd of people begins to line up, and two native Americans, one male and one female, begin some type of energy cleansing ceremony using the cylindrical rod of flowers. Prayerfully and reverently, these two place the arrangements on the top of the head, the forehead, the back of the head, the neck, etc. Then the flowers are gently placed on the arms, hands, back, legs, ankles, just about everywhere—all with deep spiritual devotion.

 

As the line begins to thin, I take my place at the end—excited for my turn—eager to experience everything.

 

By the time 6:00 a.m. approaches, I am exhausted. If I never hear another drum beat, I will be happy. The sound of conch shells no longer sends delightful energy through my spine.

 

My body desperately wants to sleep.

 

My head is stuck in analysis mode, trying to figure out the various ceremonies.

 

My heart is alive, radiating with love and joy.

 

While I may not fully relate to the actual ceremonies themselves, I am one with the deep love, devotion, and spiritual union of these incredible people. As I look around the room, I see God everywhere, in every set of beautiful eyes. Every song and dance, every joyful glance, fills my heart with richly overflowing peace and love.

 

At precisely 6:00 a.m., thirteen ladies return to the front of the church, retrieving their beautifully decorated baskets. We all line up and begin to leave the church, still singing, beating drums, and blowing on conch shells. After a two-block dance back to Regina’s home, we circle around the large camp fire, the same one used for the Temazcal, a fire which has burned brightly all night long. For the next ninety minutes the songs and dancing continue as we repeatedly circle around the fire, eagerly awaiting the sunrise.

 

Gradually the skies begin to glow, the stars begin to fade. Finally, as the last twinkling stars disappear into the ever brightening heavens, the singing comes to an end and people begin to scatter.

 

As I reflect on this beautiful experience, my thoughts are drawn to a quote that my dear friend Trish sent to me early last week.

 

“The Divine in You is the Divine in Me.

…is the Divine in him.

…is the Divine in her

 

We are All One.”

 

 -Archangel Michael

 

 

Sleepy Goodbyes

 

According to the emailed agenda, our activities are over. It is 7:30 a.m. on Friday, October 2^nd—forty one years to the day since Regina was killed in the Plaza De Las Tres Culturas at Tlatelolco. Something tells me that many people will continue to hang around Regina’s home—visiting, packing, and cleaning for hours to come—but I am eager to return to my hotel in Mexico City.

 

After quickly packing up my sleeping bag and air mattress, I grab them in my arms and seek out Sylvia. “I want to give these to you so people can use them in future years.” I tell her.

 

Then I give her a huge embrace, thanking her from the bottom of my heart for welcoming me so lovingly into her beautiful community. Our hug endures for more than a minute. Neither of us wants to let go.

 

“Dear sweet Brenda, you are welcome at any and all of our activities.” She lovingly responds. As I look into her eyes, I feel as if I can see deeply into her soul.

 

I set out in search of my friend “Pera”—the one who brought the second bus from Monterey. I discover her and some friends doing one last circle ceremony in front of the church.

 

“Do you think you could drop me off near a subway station in Mexico City?” I ask. Twenty minutes later, I am comfortably seated at the rear of her bus as we pull out of Regina’s beautiful little village. Only minutes later, the gentle vibration of the bus has me falling into a near-zombie state.

 

Around 11:00 a.m., as we drive through the eastern edge of Mexico City, the driver pulls over and Pera calls out to me “Brenda, this is your stop.”

 

After a quick goodbye hug, I soon find myself winding on foot through a maze of streets, asking everyone I encounter for help in finding the subway station. Ten minutes later I succeed, walking at last into a tunnel below.

 

After checking in at my hotel and grabbing some lunch, I settle in for a four hour nap. Then, after another quick dinner break, I again retire for an additional twelve hours. In no uncertain terms, my body lets me know that “Now is the time for some rest.”

 

Around 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I drag my tired bones out of bed and begin my morning race—shower, packing, breakfast, and checking out of my hotel. At 8:30 a.m., I walk one last time to the Zocalo, briefly saying goodbye to the plaza, the Catedral, and the Palacio Nacional, before disappearing into the tunnels below.

 

Thirty minutes and four train connections later, I exit my subway station feeling quite proud of myself. Eight days earlier, I paid ten dollars for a cab ride from the airport to my hotel. Today, I paid only sixteen cents to get back to the airport. What a difference a week, a little experience, and a tremendous boost of confidence can make.

 

Well, actually, make that thirty-two cents. I get off the subway station through the wrong exit. With a lot of walking and a little help from strangers, I learn that I have to go back into the subway and pay another sixteen cent fare to cross under the street. I guess I am still learning.

 

Oops. Once I reach the airport, I walk several hundred yards only to find out that I am in ‘Terminal 1’ and my plane leaves from ‘Terminal 2’. After forty-five minutes of sweating, walking, and a free bus ride, I finally arrive at the correct terminal.

 

But hey, I still manage to connect with my flight having plenty of time to spare. Even still, I think perhaps next time I might take a cab.

 

The Adventure Continues

 

Ten or fifteen minutes after takeoff, I glance out to the valleys below—only to be blown away with an unexpected treat. There out my window, is a spectacular aerial view of the two 17,000 foot volcanoes. For fifteen minutes I absorb every possible angle—first looking from the northwest, then from due north, then from the northeast.

 

“What a spectacular ending to a beautiful growth-filled trip.” I think to myself.

 

My plane lands in Cancun at 1:00 p.m., two hours before the time I had mistakenly given to Rafael. Deciding not to stress Rafael, I take time for a delightful lunch before beginning some writing on my laptop.

 

I call Rafael at 2:15 p.m. to let him know I am on the ground. He is running late. “I’ll call you when I leave Playa Del Carmen.” He says.

 

A couple of calls later, Rafael finally picks me up at 4:30 p.m.. Not feeling inconvenienced in the least, I use the extra time to begin writing about my adventures; the words freely flow.

 

As I finally climb into Rafael’s car, I look back and notice that his beautiful son is sound asleep in the back seat.

 

“I think we have time to go talk to my Maestro (Teacher) before class starts if you want to do that.” Rafael tells me.

 

Eagerly, I reply, “Yes, I would love to.”

 

Soon, Rafael parks in front of the now-familiar home. “Just a minute,” Rafael begins, “I will go ask if he has time to talk.”

 

A few minutes later, Rafael, his son, and I are seated in plastic lawn chair’s in the Maestro’s classroom area, waiting for him to join us for some personal discussion.

 

A certain part of me is hoping to ask questions, asking Rafael’s Maestro if he has any spiritual insights or messages for me, especially after he told Rafael two weeks ago that I have an important mission to fulfill in the world. However, a little feeling inside says, “Just listen to what this man has to say … let the conversation unfold as it will.”

 

The conversation begins with Rafael and his Maestro making small talk, but soon Rafael puts the focus onto me. Without asking if I have any questions, the Maestro begins sharing his spiritual teachings with me. Everything he shares resonates deeply with my own soul. It is as if he is teaching me principals from “A Course In Miracles”—only with slightly different packaging.

 

Periodically, I glance at Rafael, asking him to translate—but for the most part I directly understand the majority of what the Maestro says. Frequently, I acknowledge to the Maestro that I deeply believe his teachings—that the truth he speaks sings to my own soul.

 

The question and answer phase never happens. Something interrupts us, the Maestro has other preparations to make, and soon, Rafael, his son, and I zoom off for a quick bite to eat before the evening class and meditation is scheduled to begin.

 

Unexpected Disclosure

 

As the evening activities begin, Maestro’s lesson unfolds beautifully. He talks about how each one of us is divine. As direct creations of God, we ourselves are Gods—only we have forgotten that fact. Our task here on this earth is to wake up and remember who we really are.

 

Halfway through the lesson, the Maestro drops a bombshell.

 

“Next week will be our last class.” Maestro begins. “I feel called to go off on my own journey, following my own personal path of spiritual growth. I do not know when I will be back. It may be a month or two; it may be a year or longer. When the time is right I will return. When I am ready, I will contact you to resume classes.”

 

I glance over at Rafael. A sad, depressed look consumes his countenance. Rafael has been coming every week for four years. He has a deep passionate love for this man, his weekly classes, and his meditation ceremonies.

 

A feeling of rich peace consumes me. I know in my heart that Rafael will be all right. These types of growth experiences, while they often come as a shock, bring incredible opportunities as they open our minds to new experience, new growth, and new possibilities.

 

As we enter our meditation period, I am overwhelmed with incredible peace and relaxation. Forty minutes seems like five, and the meditation begins to wind down—it is too short—I don’t want it to end. Even as the Maestro resumes talking, my eyes remain shut—my heart longs to stay in this state of peaceful rest.

 

A Glimpse Of The Past

 

Pardon the interruption here, but I need to interject an experience from eighteen months ago. It was my birthday in March of 2008. I was back in Utah, buried in the task of writing a book about my life story. As I dug through old memory vaults of the past, attempting to resurrect emotions long since forgotten, the difficult burden weighed heavily on my soul.

 

A series of seeming “coincidences” led me to schedule an appointment with a lady named Trish. From what I heard, she was very clairvoyant, very connected to the loving energies of the universe.

 

“What can it hurt?” I told myself. I was slightly skeptical, but my little internal Jedi Master voices pushed me forward.

 

The experience was profound—life changing. Somehow, everything she shared with me resonated deeply with my soul, as if she were my own personal guide—and her hints and clues to my future have been incredibly accurate, amazingly so.

 

I have returned to visit with Trish several times, and have never been disappointed. Feeling a tight bond, we have since become friends. In some ways, my path today is a direct result of her helping me find the courage to listen to my own heart—to tune in more closely to my own personal spiritual guides—the ones that speak to me from within.

 

One experience from that first visit with Trish stands out today. Three months had passed since I first came to meet Rafael. My heart had never ceased feeling a strong instinctual pull to return to Cozumel—to meet Rafael’s Medicine Man—but circumstances did not seem to be working out. Rafael was not answering my emails, and I was buried in homework, writing, and preparing to enter my one-year internship.

 

“Will I ever get the chance to return to Cozumel and meet this Medicine Man?” I asked Trish. I expressed a fear that Rafael would move before I could find him.

 

“Yes, I think it is still going to happen,” she began, “but first you need to practice personally connecting with the universe at a much deeper level. It may not happen for many months but I definitely feel the opportunity occurring should you choose to follow that path. When the time is right, you will know it.”

 

After asking me if I knew the Medicine Man’s name, with me answering ‘No’, Trish continued: “I can feel him. He feels like he sits in the mountains … and I’m not talking mountains like these (Utah) … I’m talking like Andes mountains.”

 

When I pointed out to Trish that Cozumel is flat and low, she insisted “I can see the water, and then all of a sudden he is sitting right on top of a humongous mountain … he is definitely an enlightened being … lets just suffice it at that.”

 

An Amazing Ending

 

Rafael leans over and asks if I am OK with staying a little longer. Then everyone sits in silence while I observe one young man who is sitting right next to Rafael begin to write furiously in his notebook. He writes nonstop, as fast as he possibly can—single spaced, cursive writing, filling perhaps twelve notebook pages from top to bottom.

 

Rafael later tells me on the way home that every week, after the meditation, this young man, who happens to be the Maestro’s son, channels a message which is then scribed and read to the group. 

 

Finally, as this handsome young man puts down his pen, he picks up a tape recorder and begins to read the words that have flowed through his pen.

 

As he speaks them, the vast majority of this young man’s words escape my language understanding—but two things jump clearly into my consciousness.

 

The first thing is that this young man’s channeled message repeatedly refers to his Teacher by the name “Maestro Hercules.”

 

The second thing causes my heart to skip a few beats, sending shivers through my entire body—shivers that confirm a powerful and personal message to my soul. The feeling is one of “strong heart knowing”—a feeling with which I am intimately familiar.

 

Four or five times, toward the end of his reading, the young man’s words repeat messages with phrases such as “Maestro Hercules sits on the top of mountains” and “Maestro Hercules resides on the top of very tall mountains.”

 

My mind flashes back to my long-ago conversations with Trish—puzzling conversations that suddenly make powerful sense. My heart tells me that this is the universe’s unique way of reinforcing my own personal journey—letting me know that yes, I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am indeed supposed to be doing—and yes, this man is indeed very enlightened.

 

Then another unexpected statement comes from the Maestro’s lips. “I am feeling a strong prompting that TONIGHT, not next week, is our last class. There will be no class next week.”

 

Rafael soon stands up and announces to the group that the three of us need to be going.

 

Meanwhile, for over twenty minutes I have been participating in a silent internal debate of “Should I still ask the Maestro if he has any personal messages for me?”

 

My head keeps saying “Yes, ask him … you know you want to.”

 

My heart repeatedly counters with “No—at this point, all of the wisdom and inspiration I need will flow directly through me—I do not need to ask him.”

 

I choose to listen to my heart as I approach the Maestro. Putting my arms on his shoulders, I look in his eyes and tell him, “It has been a great pleasure. Thank you from the depths of my heart for the opportunity to meet you.”

 

Next, I give him a huge bear hug—and he hugs back just as tightly. After hanging on for over thirty seconds, we simultaneously release our arms, I again look in his eyes, and see the hint of a few budding tears.

 

Later, as we drive away, Rafael comments, “Wow Brenda, he really connected with you as you were saying goodbye.”

 

All the way back to Playa Del Carmen, conversation with Rafael is beautiful, vibrant, and deeply spiritual. We discuss feelings, insights, meditation experiences, and yes, of course we talk about the Maestro and what happened tonight.

 

As we pull into Playa Del Carmen, we are already fifteen minutes past the time when the final ferry leaves for Cozumel. At my request, Rafael drops me off at a local inexpensive hotel where I spend a quiet night in peaceful reflection.

 

Gratitude fills my heart as I ponder the evening’s events. For almost twenty-two months, my heart has yearned for the opportunity to return to Cozumel—to meet this spiritual man.

 

If I had reconnected with Rafael even two weeks sooner, I would most likely have missed connecting with Eduardo—in turn missing out on my incredible adventure to Mexico City.

 

If I had found Rafael just two weeks later, I would have missed the opportunity to meet the Medicine Man—Rafael’s Maestro.

 

Coincidence? I think not. To me, it feels like divinely inspired perfect timing.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

Getting to the San Lazaro subway station was the easy part. Having already ridden the underground metro several times, I began to feel as if I am a seasoned pro.

 

After a short two-block walk to the Zocalo, I descend a long staircase into the tunnel system below. The subway tunnels are like a small city in and of themselves. All around me, the well lit hallways are lined with mini shops of all types—food, books, souvenirs, magazines, etc. And then there are the people, crowds of people, scurrying like mice in a large maze, hustling off to their individual destinations.

 

Following the signs, I am soon inserting a small magnetically coded ticket into an automated turnstile. I hear a click, slide my suitcase under the metal bar, lift my other bags above my head, and push forward as the turnstile allows me to pass.

 

Walking up to the edge of the tracks, I stop at a yellow line that warns me to go no closer. Soon a speeding train, with a seeming endless long chain of orange cars, screeches past me and comes to a hurried stop. With the sound of rushing air, the doors suddenly slide open and a burst of busy travelers quickly exit, dispersing rapidly behind me. As soon as the rush is over, I feel people closing in behind me, eager to step through the open doors before they close once again. I flow forward with the crowd and moments later I am speeding through a dark tunnel.

 

A lady who entered the train with me begins to call out in a loudly resonating voice. “Glue … glue … five pesos … two tubes of glue … only five pesos.”

 

Such vendors on the trains (and even buses) are very common. I can only imagine that they must spend their whole day riding the transportation systems, getting on at one stop, quickly announcing their product in a loud piercing voice, only to exit again at the next stop. These lone merchants sell just about everything from books, household items, snacks, CDs, and anything else that they think someone in a hurry may want to purchase.

 

Soon, my train comes to a rapid stop. I wait for the hydraulic doors to whoosh open before exiting quickly with a small group of other passengers surging from behind. Pausing momentarily to look up at the signs above, I begin to make my way through a maze of connecting hallways, trusting the signs to guide me. After winding through this maze of tunnels for several hundred yards, I finally arrive at another yellow line, waiting for yet another long orange train, ready to repeat the entire procedure.

 

Many stops later, as I exit the train at the San Lazaro station, I am in unknown territory. Following the crowd like a lost sheep, I climb a flight of stairs and begin to walk down another long maze, only to freeze in a moment of confusion. As I look around me, every sign I see points to another connecting train, but none of them guide me to a street exit—a street where I hope to find a small Volkswagen bus marked with the words “Route 85 – Amecameca.”

 

Before I reach a state of panic, a nice older man, who must have observed my confused facial expressions, approaches me, his wife following closely behind. “Where are you trying to go?” he kindly asks.

 

I explain that I am looking for the bus to Amecameca. He smiles, informs me that I have taken the wrong exit, instructs me to go back down the stairs, take a right, and … blah blah blah. Most of his words sound like gibberish. I begin to feel anxious again.

 

I must appear totally lost and confused by this point, because this incredible Good Samaritan looks at my empty bewildered face, smiles, picks up my suitcase, and says “Follow me.”

 

Five minutes later, after winding down one staircase, traversing a short hallway, and climbing another flight of stairs, this kind man sets my suitcase on the tile floor, points to my right, and says “The buses are that way.”

 

After walking seventy-five yards, I reach another confusing intersection in this ever-expanding maze. In front of me, I see a long hallway with signs advertising large intra-city travel buses, but nowhere do I see any way to exit to the street, where just maybe I might be lucky enough to locate my little “Route 85” rural bus.

 

Seeing my perplexed look, another young man approaches me, asking if I need help. “I’m trying to find the route 85 bus.” I begin to explain.

 

“No, that bus is small and crowded—and starts at a different station.” He begins to explain. “Just go down this hallway and take the large bus labeled “Volcanoes.”

 

I try to protest. “No, I need route 85.” I feel nervous about taking any other route because I am sure I will get lost.

 

“Trust me.” He replies. “This bus will get you to Amecameca, and is much easier … and more comfortable.”

 

Only a few minutes later, I have purchased a ticket for twenty-four pesos (less than $2 US) and am seated in a comfortable reclining seat on a large, air-conditioned full-size bus. Within five minutes, the bus backs away from the terminal, and we are on our way.

 

After about forty minutes, my bus leaves the main highway at a small town called Chalco. Almost immediately we stop to take on more passengers, something we have already done several times before.

 

“Flashlights … only fifteen pesos.” An older lady calls out in a loud voice.

 

I didn’t even notice her get on the bus. Realizing my forgotten need for a flashlight, I dig into my wallet and hand her fifteen pesos, eagerly stowing my new possession in my backpack. As the bus stops again, my little flashlight-angel exits, disappearing quickly in the dust behind the bus.

 

About thirty minutes later, I recognize signs that lead me to believe we must be passing through the small town of Amecameca. As my bus briefly stops at a tiny curb-side bus station, I follow my instincts, gather all of my belongings, hurry clumsily down the steps, and step onto the uneven sidewalk below.

 

As the bus disappears to my right, I begin to anxiously wonder. “Now what? Am I even in the right town? How will I find Aldea De Los Reyes?”

 

After looking around to collect my bearings, I notice three small taxis parked a short way down the street. As I approach them, one of the drivers who are sitting in the shade of a nearby building calls out to me. “Do you need a taxi, lady?”

 

Crossing my fingers and almost holding my breath, I ask with deep anticipation, “Do you know how to find “Aldea De Los Reyes?”

 

The cab driver pauses for a few moments—moments that seem like hours. Perhaps he is trying to understand my accent, or perhaps he is really not sure of the answer.

 

“Yes, I think I do.” He finally replies, in a hesitating way that does not instill tremendous confidence in my heart.

 

My taxi makes a U-turn and speeds out of town headed toward the north. A few minutes later we make a sharp right turn, down a narrow partially paved, mostly dirt road, barely wide enough for two vehicles. After driving about two blocks, I recognize a small church, the same one I had memorized from a photo in my email flyer.

 

“Yes, that is the church!” I silently exclaim with joy as I give myself an imaginary high-five.

 

The taxi driver looks confused, asking me where to go from here.

 

“Turn left right up there.” I instruct him, blindly trusting the instructions that Antonio had given me on Sunday. Two blocks later the narrow dirt road ends at a small brick home. Like a welcome friend, I spy an old plaque on the exterior wall of the tiny home. The words read, “Here in this house, Regina was born at 12:00 p.m. on March 21, 1948.”

 

The gates are locked and the area looks as if it is entirely deserted. The driver looks back at me with a concerned look. “No one is here.” He begins. “Are you sure you want me to leave you here?”

“Yes.” I eagerly reply. A warm feeling in my heart confirms that I am indeed in the right place.

 

I look at my watch. It is 11:55 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I am amazed as I realize that I am actually five minutes early. The only question that remains in my mind is “Where is everyone else?”

 

As I look back on this incredibly easy, faith-filled journey, I laugh at the anxious fear that has tried to consume me for more than a week. An energetic feeling tells me that outside forces provided help and assistance every step along the way. Every time I began to feel lost, a helpful stranger seemed to simply materialize out of nowhere—even providing me with a much needed flashlight.

 

The thought floats through my awareness, “Was my mother here today, inspiring others to guide me along my way?” My heart vibrates with absolute confidence, saying “Most definitely, yes.”

 

Welcoming Hearts

 

Feeling hungry, thirsty, and somewhat alone, I set my belongings down along the side of Regina’s abandoned home, and set off to explore the area. The thought crosses my mind, “What am I going to eat while I am here?”

 

Turning down a small dirt road near the tiny chapel, I find a small neighborhood market. One wall is lined with a meager selection of snacks, the other consumed by two large glass-faced refrigerator cabinets filled with water, soda, and beer. The center floor space is barely large enough for a few people to comfortably stand. After a few moments, I select a bag of cheese-flavored potato chips, a package of chocolate chip cookies, and a cold refreshing bottle of Coca-Cola.

 

Soon, I am sitting on a ledge adjacent to Regina’s home. While munching away on my snacks, trying to take the edge off my hunger, I begin to read. Every once in a while, I hear noises, walk to the edge of the home where I can see the street, realize it is nothing, and return to my ledge for more reading.

 

The worrisome thought crosses my mind, “What if no one else shows up today? What will I do?”

 

“Just trust and be patient.” My heart replies.

 

Finally, I hear a few more noises out near the street. I am too consumed in my book to get up to investigate. The book I am reading is written in Spanish. I am deeply pondering words that point out that most traditional “World History” only presents the history of the white Anglo-Saxon ruling-class of Europe. Almost completely overlooked are the rich traditions and history of the native people in the Americas, Africa, Australia, or Asia. For some reason, the rich history and traditional wisdom of these beautiful people seems insignificant, completely ignored.

 

Moments later, a forty-something Native-American-looking gentleman rounds the corner, finding me sitting on the ground with my back up against Regina’s door. His long hair is a salt-and-pepper gray, tied in a small pony tail behind his shoulder. His large nose has a distinctive native look. He exhibits a slightly surprised look when he first notices me.

 

“Hi, I am Brenda.” I begin, as I thrust my hand out to greet him.

 

“I’m Luiz,” he replies.

 

“Do you speak English” I begin to ask.

 

“Yes, a little, but I can’t talk now … we need to have a ceremony first.”—at least this is what I think he says.

 

I watch as Luiz carefully unlocks the door and then utters a quiet prayer before gently pushing it open. Without going inside, he turns around and motions for me to follow him back to the street. I glance down at my watch. The hands read 2:15 p.m..

 

As I round the corner, I am surprised to see a large tourist-class full-size bus parked on the street—barely leaving enough room for a small car to pass. A group of about twenty five people from Guadalajara gradually climb down the steps of the bus, forming a large circle in the road. A lady named “Tina” comes over and stands by my side, briefly introducing herself.

 

Soon, several men lower a wheel chair to the ground. As they push the chair around to join the circle, I connect eyes with an elderly Native American woman with long graying hair. Her face is wrinkled and her body weak, but her glowing eyes radiate love, her smile exudes peace. Everyone around treats her with devoted reverence. It is easy to see that she is extremely special in their eyes.

 

“We call her Sol”, Tina leans over and whispers in my ear. “She is a little sick and weak, and had her foot amputated.”

 

I look closer and notice that the right leg of her white sweat pants is hanging emptily—but all I really notice is her peaceful look of wisdom and beauty.

 

Soon, everyone is holding hands in a large circle, an urn of smoking copal incense in the center. Sylvia, the leader of the group briefly welcomes us all. I instantly take a liking to her. I remember Eduardo’s devotion to her as he recently described how he once traveled with Sylvia to South Dakota.

 

I should probably make a note here that I am altering names as I speak of people. It is not my desire to violate their privacy in any way as I write about my experiences with them—traditions which are very sacred to them.

 

After Sylvia’s brief words, we take part in what has now become a familiar salute to the four directions, North, South, East, and West. Again, I am confused as we do not honor all the directions in order, and we repeat some of them twice.

 

Next, Sylvia asks dear sweet Sol if she has any words of wisdom to share. In response, Sol begins to proudly speak of the traditions of her ancestors, sharing stories of their devotion and their wisdom. Everyone listens with the utmost respect as Sol speaks for twenty or thirty minutes.

 

After several of the women take turns offering prayers, the ceremony takes a different twist. Forming a single file line, with a woman carrying copal incense and Sol’s wheelchair leading the way, we walk reverently across the grass and silently enter Regina’s house. As Sol and the incense pass through each room, the rest of us follow. After returning to the fresh air outside, everyone begins to scatter in different directions—as if they all have pre-assigned roles and tasks, and are eager to begin setting up camp.

 

After ten minutes of watching, wondering what I can do to help, Sylvia approaches me and says, “I am assigning you to be Abuelita’s helper. Will you do whatever she asks?”

 

How could I say no?

 

“Abuelita” is a term of endearment that literally means dear, sweet little grandma. Abuelita puts me right to work. I instantly bond to her. Being perhaps in her late sixties, she is a plump, energetic, joyful, and endearing gray-haired little Native-American woman standing no more than five feet tall. It soon becomes obvious that Abuelita is in charge of the outdoor kitchen—a kitchen being set up under the trees of a neighbor’s home, directly across the street.

 

Two long wooden tables are arranged in an L-shape, and covered with clean table cloths. Next, three round folding tables are set up and covered in thin colored plastic. Soon, a large portable grill is being hooked up to a large propane tank, and within minutes, small crates of kitchen supplies are being carried from the bus, being hurriedly arranged under the trees with artful efficiency.

 

I join in as a pack mule, making countless journeys back and forth carrying supplies, large twenty-liter bottles of water, and helping in whatever way I can. Once the bus is empty, the chauffer climbs the stairs, closes the door, and drives off, leaving the once-busy street now quiet and empty.

 

A spurt of joy twinkles in my heart as Abuelita asks, “Brendita, will you rinse out this pan?” Adding “ita” to my name, indicates endearment and caring. I take this as a great compliment.

 

Abuelita points me toward a hose. A wall, perhaps three feet tall encloses a five-foot-square pool of greenish-mossy water. The hose runs from a tin roof, ending right above this mystery water. As I open the faucet, a clear stream of water comes from somewhere —all the while my imagination is wondering “Where is this water coming from … and just how clean is it?”

 

Later, we begin to wash dishes in this same hose water. I just smile and trust that all is well. I am comforted when I see that all of the cooking, and even some of the rinsing, is being done with water from the large twenty-liter bottles.

 

While some of us work in the kitchen, I note that many of the men are setting up tents in the grassy area below Regina’s house. Everyone is busy attending to their own tasks—no one remains idle.

 

Shortly before dinnertime, a slight drizzle begins to fall, the skies are looming a dark gray as if a large storm may be threatening.

 

Within minutes, several men and young boys are pulling large tarps through the lower branches of the trees, tying them securely to provide shelter for the kitchen area and for our food. The storm soon blows over.

 

As I begin eating, I imagine just exactly what the food might be—perhaps some type of tostada—a hard flat tortilla shell covered with a mixture of hot spicy chicken-like meat. My mouth begins to burn, and I soon note that everyone else has added a type of sour-cream to their tostadas. My continued hunger is more powerful than my curiosity. As I consume seconds and thirds, I discover that the sour-cream definitely helps to lesson the effects of the hot spices.

 

As dinner ends, several people peel bananas, slice them into thin discs, covering them with cream and sugar. I simply take mine and eat it plain. When offered a greenish-looking thin-skinned tangerine, I too gobble it down with delight.

 

“Is there a place where I can sleep?” I ask Sylvia.

 

Soon, after some brief discussion, Sylvia sends one of the men on an errand. He returns with a small one-person tent. Several of the youth help me guide the poles through the loops, as the flat piece of nylon rapidly becomes a safe hideaway just big enough for me and my luggage. I attach the rain-fly while someone spreads out a small shower curtain for a tarp, and we place my tent on top. I am very content as I inflate my small air mattress and unroll my brand new sleeping bag. All my fears have been quashed—I am here, I feel loved and welcome, and I have a dry place to sleep. What more could I ask for?

 

After dinner, I take the opportunity to sit with Sylvia, Sol, and two other women. I later observe that one or the other of these two women is always at Sol’s side, devotedly attending to her needs. As I talk to Sol, she tells me with a proud smile that she was once a university professor in Mexico City, teaching Theater classes. “I have been an actress, appearing in many films.” She proudly proclaims.

 

As the evening unfolds, I begin to feel a little like a third wheel. Everyone is busily engaged—either connecting with old friends, or working on important tasks. Struggling a little with the language, I simply melt into meditation mode—almost in a trance as I silently observe the unfolding activities.

 

With great interest I watch as the men begin to ritualistically build the Temazcal (sweat lodge).

 

Driving a metal rod in the ground, they carefully rotate a fixed length piece of string around the center pole while drawing a circle in the soil. Then, one by one, these men and boys place exactly sixteen poles. Each pole appears to be a tall thin branch or perhaps the trunk of a small tree—about two inches at the base and narrowing toward the top—rising anywhere from eight to ten feet tall.

 

Each pole is place with ceremony and reverence. First, an exact interval is measured—approximately two feet. Then, a sharp metal rod is thrust several times into the ground and rotated in a circular motion—creating a small hole in the ground.

 

A man carrying a coffee can, reaches into the can, pulls out a small handful of crumbled dried tobacco leaves, pauses as if in prayer, and then drops the leaves carefully into the hole. Next, another man waves a smoldering bundle of sage over the hole. Finally, two men grab the next pole, and using the weight of their bodies, they jump slightly into the air as they force the wider base of the pole down into the ground.

 

About halfway through this sacred ritual, Luiz quietly approaches me. “Brenda, I don’t want to offend you, but do you have a skirt? In this sacred area, we ask the women to show their respect by dressing in a feminine manner. You can just wear it over your jeans if you like.”

 

“Of course,” I reply, as I return to my tent. My heart swells with gratitude as I remember Eduardo’s words advising me to be sure to bring a skirt for the sweat lodge. Soon I emerge from my tent, not feeling especially feminine while still wearing long jeans and hiking shoes under my skirt. I quietly resume watching the proceedings with fascination and reverence.

 

By now, the men have begun bending opposite poles together, securely tying them off with twine in the middle. If a pole snaps under the stress of being bent, someone immediately retrieves an extra wooden pole, while the hole is re-blessed with tobacco and sage. Soon the new pole is bent and securely tied, the sweat lodge gradually takes shape.

 

Feeling extremely tired, I retire to my tent before the Temazcal is completely constructed. Amazingly, I achieve a reasonable amount of rest. Yes, the early morning is quite crisp and cool, but my jacket and sleeping bag keep me snug and warm. Peace and love are my sleeping companions as I excitedly envision tomorrow’s events with the curiosity and wonder of a small child at Christmas time.

 

Morning Drums

 

Trying to sleep in a little, I remain in my cozy sleeping bag as long as possible, drifting in and out of varying stages of restful sleep. Suddenly, I hear drums and chanting.

 

“I’m missing something.” I think to myself as I awake with a start. After quickly changing and dabbing on a bit of makeup, I emerge from my tent, eager to participate. The drumming and chanting have stopped. Looking around, I realize that the drumming was just a sort of alarm clock, telling people that it is time to begin the day.

 

I begin to walk across the road to the outdoor kitchen, looking for something to do. When I am almost there, I hear Luiz calling to me and waving with his hands. “Brenda, come here.”

 

As I draw closer to Luiz, I notice that three horizontal rows of young branches have been tied around the outside edges of the Temazcal, and a door has been formed with small bent wood, opening toward the West—but there is still no canvas covering.

 

As I approach Luiz, he informs me that we are performing another ceremony. He drives a metal rod deep into the ground, perhaps twenty feet due east of the Temazcal. Another man blesses the hole with tobacco and sage. Then, Luiz hands me a yellow scarf, instructs me to form a small pocket on one end, fill it with tobacco, and then tie it such that that the bundle of tobacco is in a small enclosed sack. Next, I am instructed to tie the scarf to the top of the pole, making four knots. Soon, my pole is standing upright in the hole and we move on to a spot due south of the Temazcal.

 

Another woman repeats the same procedure with a white scarf, following which we repeat the procedure two more times, with two additional women, using a black scarf for the west and a red scarf for the north.

 

Next, Luiz retrieves a large buffalo head and places it on a mound of dirt, facing toward the doorway of the Temazcal, halfway between the fire pit and the Temazcal. The fire pit is directly to the South, fully prepared with a large pile of soon-to-be-hot rocks, surrounded by large piled-on layers of wood.

 

Several people then place other items surrounding the buffalo head, creating a type of sacred alter.

 

People begin to head across the road for breakfast, so I follow their lead.

 

As I cross the road, I notice that the twin volcanoes are faintly visible through a light misty fog—perhaps ten to fifteen miles away. Luiz walks over and explains that the larger one on my left is referred to as the “sleeping woman” but its name is really Iztaccihuatl. Luiz points out how, from our viewpoint, the volcano vaguely resembles the profile of a woman sleeping. Pointing further south, to the right, Luiz tells me that the other, taller, and more pointed volcano is called Popocatepetl.

 

As I write about this experience, after the fact, I am amazed to learn from a brief internet search that these two volcanoes rise to the towering altitudes of 17,159 feet and 17,802 feet above sea level, respectively.

 

The active volcanoes are spectacular, quite a difference from the flat terrain I have become accustomed to seeing in Cozumel. As I look closer, I notice that a faint smoke appears to be rising in a twisting column from the top of Popocatepetl.

 

Breakfast is already sitting in a large fry pan. I grab a blue plastic plate and fill my plate with an unknown entity. It tastes like corn tortillas, but has the texture of scrambled eggs. Not being quite sure what I am eating, I fill my stomach nonetheless. I remind myself that I need nutrition, and I can either eat or starve. I choose to eat, again submersing myself in a warm blanket of blind trust.

 

After breakfast, a twenty-something young man—a handsome, wholesome, and incredible soul—retrieves a large cylindrical tube, containing a collection of several flutes. Someone asks him to entertain us, and he joyfully obliges. One of the young women hands me a buffalo-skin drum, perhaps sixteen inches in diameter, and I join in with the festivities.

 

When the young man runs out of memorized tunes, another young woman begins leading us in traditional songs. All the while, a small group of us continue to provide the booming rhythm. For more than an hour, our small group delights in music and song.

 

Temazcal Preparations

 

Around mid-day, I am invited to join a group of women who are creating the crown for the Temazcal. One woman brings a small, bare, wreath, perhaps sixteen inches in diameter, created from a small branch wrapped and tied in a circle using red yarn. This same woman hands a ball of interesting-looking red yarn to Sol. After a few minutes, she retrieves the yarn and begins to unwind it, revealing that every few inches a small piece of colored cloth has been tied into the yarn.

 

One by one, the women in the circle take turns winding the yarn around the wooden wreath. It soon becomes obvious to me what we are doing. The first quarter of the wreath is tightly wound with red yarn containing yellow scrolls of cloth. As my turn arrives, the cloth scrolls are white. Halfway around, the color again shifts to black, finishing the final quarter with red. These colors match the same four scarves which I helped to raise earlier at each compass point.

 

Soon, two of the women crawl on hands and knees, through the low open door of the Temazcal. One of them holds the crown at the top, lining up the colors with their appropriate directions, while the other ties it to the wooden frame of the Temazcal. After crawling back through the door, Luiz and one other man then proceed to cover the entire structure with thick, heavy, faded-green canvas.

 

The reverence and sacred nature in which the Temazcal is treated causes similar feelings of respect to build within my heart.

 

One question now begins to surface in my mind. “Will I be able to participate in the Temazcal ceremonies?”

 

Looking around at the forty plus people, I am keenly aware that the inner sanctum of this holy Temazcal could never possibly contain this many people.

 

Approaching Sylvia in humility, I ask her in English, “Will I be able to participate in the Temazcal ceremony? Is there room inside for me?”

 

She smiles lovingly, and replies, “Yes, of course. But first, you need to give me a chance to enter with my dear sweet sisters, so that we can laugh together, and cry together. After that, we will open up the experience to any children who want to enter, following which, everyone else who desires will be welcome.”

 

My heart is filled with anticipation and anxiety at the same time. “What will it be like inside with so many people? … and will I be able to withstand the intense heat?”

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

(Note: There is so much that I want to write—and so little time to finish. I am posting this preliminary piece today, running from Wednesday morning to mid-day on Thursday. I will continue writing, and post the remainder as it is finished—probably tomorrow.)                                                                                                                                                                               

 

 

In less than one hour I take a blind step into the unknown, literally clueless about what to expect.

 

The “Dos de Octubre” activities beginning today take place at the home where Regina was born, in a village called “Aldea De Los Reyes” (Village of the Kings). This tiny village, is approximately 50 kilometers southeast of Mexico City, on the way to the town of Amecameca,

 

Near the village are mountains with two famous volcanoes, one of masculine energy, the other of feminine. According to Eduardo, these are the same two volcanoes whose energy Regina was sent to awaken as part of her process to initiate a global spiritual awakening.

]

I attempted to get answers from Anna Louisa and Antonio on Sunday, but our communication was difficult, awkward. Finding it nearly impossible to understand their Spanish, I asked them to speak in English. However, their English accents and vocabularies did not exactly facilitate effective understanding either.

 

What I did understand was that nights may be quite cold, there are no nearby hotels, and we will be camping—outdoors. Someone is bringing tents, but we need our own sleeping bags. Also, Anna Louisa told me in no uncertain terms that I should have a coat if I don’t want to freeze.

 

For two days now, I have used moments of free time to scour the area surrounding the Zocalo on foot, in a difficult, but successful attempt to purchase a sleeping bag, air mattress, and coat. Physically, I believe I have everything I need, but emotionally, I am slightly anxious—actually, ‘slightly’ is probably an understatement.

 

Very soon now, I will gather my belongings and check out of the hotel. Not only do I have a small suitcase and backpack to worry about, but now I also have two large shopping bags—one filled with a sleeping bag and a coat, the other filled with my air mattress. With arms loaded, I will walk two blocks to the Zocalo subway station. From there I will take two separate trains, eventually arriving at a station called “Sn. Lauzaro.”

 

After leaving the subway, my task will be to locate a small rural bus, route 85 to Amecameca. I’m not sure, but I believe these will be small Volkswagen buses, crowded with people. I saw many similar transports on Monday during my tour to Teotihuacan.

 

Antonio assures me that the bus driver will be familiar with the location of “Aldea De Los Reyes.” I just need to ask him to drop me off there. Yeah, right.

 

On the back of a piece of paper, Antonio drew me a makeshift map. “The driver will drop you off here,” he began. “Then you will need to carefully cross this busy highway, walk down this small road, take a left, past so and so. There you will find the house of Regina.”

 

Antonio’s directions do not exactly instill a great deal of confidence in my soul—but a warm feeling in my heart confirms that “Yes, I will indeed be OK.”

 

Regardless of what happens, Today, and in the next two days, I will have an adventure to share, incredible stories to tell—and I will grow in wisdom and confidence.

 

I find it highly unlikely that I will have any internet access before my return to Mexico City on Friday, but you can be sure I will be writing just the same. As soon as time permits, I will organize and publish my story.

 

I cannot explain why I am so nervous and emotional about today’s journey—I have successfully faced more daunting fears so many times before—and I do trust my feelings completely.

 

My head is screaming loudly, “What the Hell are you doing?”

 

My heart calmly resonates, “Go for it … all will be wonderful … you will be forever grateful.”

 

I choose to follow my heart. Wish me luck.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

As our small twelve-person bus pulled away from the youth hostel, I could already visualize myself strolling among the ancient pyramids of Teotihuacan (pronounced tay-oh-tee-WHA-cun), absorbing as much of their radiant energy as possible.

 

Yes, you heard me right when I said youth hostel. Friday evening, as I explored the Zocalo, my growling stomach stubbornly insisted on a little bio-fuel. A nearby restaurant called out to me, and I was soon seated at a small round table near the back.

 

While waiting for my food, I began to look around, soon realizing that just ten feet to my left was the check-in-counter for a youth hostel. Looking more closely still, I noticed a tour-sales desk, directly behind my right shoulder. Above the counter, a small sign advertised tours of Teotihuacan for only $32 (US). Seconds later, a small flyer advertising the same tour was securely tucked away in my backpack.

 

Saturday evening, nearly twenty-four hours later, the noisy little Jedi-voices in my mind were silently coaxing me, “You know you want to go on THAT tour … buy your ticket now!” My feet were soon guiding me back toward the hostel. Not more than ten minutes later, I excitedly held in my hand a ticket for a 9:00 a.m. departure on Monday morning.

 

Finding it difficult to believe, Monday morning had already arrived, and here I was excitedly leaving the history center of Mexico City with my new friends-for-the-day. I was part of a group of ten tourists, eight of them being twenty-something adventurers who were staying at one of two different hostels.

 

I sensed an instant connection to three of my fellow travelers: two sisters from Europe, and a young man from New Zealand. I later learned that the two sisters were both Russian-born Germans. The older one currently lives in Switzerland, while her younger sister resides in Berlin. They had barely completed two weeks touring Southern California, Nevada, and Southern Utah, and are headed next  to visit Cancun and Cuba before flying home. The adventurous young surfer-dude from New Zealand has been on the road for several months, visiting Brazil, Peru, and numerous locations in Mexico.

 

Tlatelolco Revisited

 

Soon, I was surprised when my van pulled over and stopped. Isaac our delightful tour guide, took turns speaking in Spanish and then in English. “This is our first stop. Before driving to Teotihuacan, we will visit Tlatelolco.”

 

As my feet found footing on the sidewalk, I looked up to a completely unexpected and amazing view. About seventy-five yards away, right in front of me was the same old church that had fascinated me at the end of Sunday morning’s march. This was the same ancient church I had been studying when I pondered “How I wish I had time to enter and explore.”

 

Directly between me and the church were the partial remains of a large city of ancient ruins—remains of the city of Tlatelolco (pronounced T-law-tay-LOW-L-coh). For nearly an hour, Isaac took us on a tour of the area, describing the history, the culture, and the traditions of the people who lived here.

 

After eagerly entering the beautiful old church, I soon learned that in the 1500s, the Spaniards had destroyed many of the pyramids, subsequently using the same stones to build this religious structure which is more than four centuries old.

 

As we entered the Plaza De Las Tres Culturas (directly adjacent to the church), Isaac took us to the same large stone plaque that I had passed by—while dressed in white—less than twenty-four hours earlier.

 

Isaac proceeded to tell us his version of the story of the massacre of Dos De Octubre. He explained that many thousands of university students and professors had marched to this plaza on October 2^nd, just ten days before the 1968 Mexico City Olympics. They were protesting against the government—a government who mistakenly saw these protestors as being pro-communism. Throughout the afternoon, government troops surrounded the plaza, taking positions on various rooftops in the area. At sundown, the orders were given to open fire.

 

According to Isaac, the government claims that only about thirty people were killed, but many unofficial versions of the story claim that several thousand were massacred. Regardless of what happened, the government covered up the entire event, removing all of the bodies in the dark of night. In the morning, no evidence remained, nothing was ever mentioned in the press or newspapers, and the Olympics went on as if nothing had ever happened. It was almost thirty years later when the stories of that day began to be publicly revealed.

 

In a quiet moment, I asked Isaac what he knew about Regina. “Who?” he asked, before telling me “I have never heard of her.”

 

There is nothing in Eduardo’s stories about Regina that contradicts in any way the official accounts of the day. The loving native Olmec people with whom I will spend the next few days believe deeply in Regina and her spiritual mission. Their traditions speak of how Regina and her followers marched the “feminine road” from the Basilica de Guadelupe all the way to Tlatelolco on that very same fateful day. Regina and her followers were standing for love and peace among the thousands of students on the Plaza De Las Tres Culturas when the soldiers opened fire. The deaths of Regina and those with her were hushed along with the deaths of the students.

 

An hour later, as our van pulled away from Tlatelolco, a deep sense of gratitude radiated from within my soul. For once, I was beginning to fully understand the spiritual, cultural, geographical, and historical significance of events that are at the center of my adventure to Mexico City. Tomorrow, I continue this journey into the unknown as I travel for two days of commemoration at the home where Regina was born.

 

Teotihuacan

 

As our van made its final approach, the amazing Pyramid of the Sun and Pyramid of the Moon dominated the surrounding landscape. The pyramids were energetically calling to me—but the agenda called for patience.

 

Our first stop was at a small restaurant with a large collection of bicycles parked out front. Feeling drawn to a bright red mountain bike with thick knobby tires, I was soon riding with my hair blowing freely in the cool breeze. Our group rode clockwise around the external perimeter of the ruins. These majestic pyramids continued to call out, seductively luring me with their energy. About half way around the loop, we temporarily abandoned our bicycles to engage in our first venture within the confines of the ruins.

 

This first stroll was just a teaser. On foot, we explored the southernmost end of Teotihuacan, a slightly newer section of the ruins. With fascination, I watched as workers were carefully working in fresh open rectangular holes. In places where the soil had already been removed, tops of new ruins were beginning to take shape. I observed one set of workers carefully sifting through the soil with small trowels, meticulously documenting everything they uncovered.

 

Soon we were back on our bicycles, completing our round-trip excursion of the perimeter. This section of the ride was slightly more difficult because we were climbing a gradual incline while approaching the Pyramid of the Moon.

 

A series of five or six gates lead into the pyramids from the perimeter road. As we passed each gate, my young friend from New Zealand kept steering his bicycle toward the inside, only to be called back by the honking of our van that was following behind. My Kiwi friend was every bit as eager as I was to leave the fluff behind and get to the meat of our tour.

 

But a considerable wait still lay before us as we dropped off our mountain bikes at our starting point. Next, we consumed a very slow relaxed lunch that seemed to never end. Then our driver stopped at a local artisan’s shop, a place where local obsidian is carved and polished into the most beautiful of shapes and statues.

 

Finally, at nearly 3:00 p.m., we walked through the gate leading toward the Pyramid of the Moon. Doing an incredible job of mixing culture and history, Isaac guided us through a series of smaller pyramids, residential complexes, and temples along the way to the larger Pyramid of the Moon—which is the smaller of the two large pyramids. Tourists are only allowed to climb about half way to the top, which is about forty-five meters in height—but even from the halfway point, the view was fantastic.

 

Directly below, and running all the way to the distant Pyramid of the Sun, is the “Avenue of the Dead”—a long walkway lined on both sides by continuous ruins of smaller temples.

 

It was only as I was about one-third of the way down this long avenue that I began to feel the incredible power of the ambient energy. Dropping back a short distance behind my group, I spread my arms out to my side, palms forward, and began to imagine the ancient people who lived here. Here I was at last, strolling in the energy of their footsteps.

 

Chills began to flow up and down my spine—chills that continued for the remainder of my visit. With every step, I experienced delightful aliveness, bathing in this divine energy. Imagine my excitement when we reached the Pyramid of the Sun and I heard Isaac tell us, “The remainder of the time is yours to do with as you please. Meet back here at 5:00 p.m.”

 

I had fifty minutes to climb this huge amazing pyramid. Being wider than two football fields at the base, the pyramid rises to a height of sixty five meters (about two hundred feet). The steps leading up were very steep and tall—requiring a great deal of effort and continuous concentration. Occasionally, I took advantage of a welcome handrail that some safety-minded workers had so thoughtfully installed.

 

Right before turning us loose, Isaac mentioned that some people come here dressed in white. “They hike to the very top,” he continued. “Once there, they pray to the four directions on each side of the pyramid—the north, south, ease, and west.”

 

“At the same time,” Isaac continued, “they honor the four elements—earth, water, fire, and wind. When they are finished, they walk to the exact center of the pyramid. A small silver point marks that spot. Their spiritual journey ends when they touch this silver marker, bringing them peace.”

 

As I began my long climb, meticulously placing my feet on each steep step in front of me, my energy levels were strong and constant. Within fifteen minutes I found myself standing on the very top. A refreshing cool breeze was gently blowing from the south, the warm sun providing a gentle but not excessive heat from the west.

 

The top provided a 360 degree view of the fabulous green valleys and surrounding small mountains. But it was the breathtaking view of the Avenue of the Dead, looking back towards the Pyramid of the Moon, that captivated me. Even now, as I attempt to describe the gorgeous image in writing, my words cannot begin to describe the sight. While I studied the ancient pyramid-lined road, energy flowed wildly through my veins as I imagined what it must have been like so many centuries ago.

 

The ancient people of Teotihuacan stood in this very same spot, with the same sun, wind, and stars. Their hearts must have also been filled with wonder and energy as they contemplated their respective journeys into the unknown of their own lives. They were real people, with real feelings, dreams, emotions, desires, and hearts.

 

One by one, in complete silence, I stood facing each direction, arms outstretched, and palms facing forward. In peaceful meditation, I honored each point of the compass, each element of nature, simply inhaling the feeling, being entirely in the moment. Finally, overwhelmed with peace, I walked to the middle, placing my forefinger over the top of the tiny silver marker identifying the exact center of the pyramid.

 

Not wanting to leave, wishing I could linger all day, I remained on the top of the pyramid for nearly thirty minutes, inhaling every feeling.

 

For a few brief moments, my memories flashed to my dear departed parents. My father entered the military in 1942. He and my mother were married in September, during a several-day leave from the army. Almost immediately, my father’s unit was shipped off to the east coast and subsequently to Europe.

 

Four long years later, in 1946 when the war finally ended, my mother and father took a much deserved honeymoon to Mexico City. While I know very little about their adventures here, I do believe that they traveled to Teotihuacan. As I stood on top of that pyramid, my heart momentarily imagined them standing in the very same spot, atop the Pyramid of the Sun. A small feeling in my heart confirmed, “Yes, they were here.”

 

Minutes later, I said my goodbyes and began a careful, gradual descent down the sharp steep rocky steps. Being tempted to look out over the valley, I instead focused intently on each foothold, maintaining the peace inside of me through each tedious step. This same peace followed me throughout the van ride back to Mexico City—and remains deeply embedded in my soul today as I sit writing in my hotel lobby. 

 

Evening Miracles

 

Last night, I whipped out my laptop in the hotel lobby, desiring to catch up on a few emails. To my pleasant surprise, I discovered a message from my cousin’s wife, Vicki—her husband is the son of my mother’s younger brother.

 

Before proceeding, I need to make an apology. I honestly cannot say if I have ever even officially met Vicki. I do know that I would not recognize her if I saw her. Yes, I do know her husband (my cousin), but I have conspicuously avoided him for a very long time—not because of anything he did—but because of my own fears.

 

When I went through my major life transitions almost thirteen years ago, I withdrew from extended family. I was so exhausted from seeking the love and approval of my immediate loved ones, that the thought of trying to explain my path to extended family simply terrified me. Yes, out of fear—fear of rejection, fear of being judged, fear of ridicule, fear of the unknown—I simply disappeared from the lives of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Selling their love short, I found it hard to believe that they would ever be able to lovingly deal with such an outcast as me.

 

While still in the cemetery at my mother’s burial just two and a half months ago, another cousin had asked me for my email, saying “My sister-in-law wants to personally tell you how much she enjoyed your loving speech today—but she had to leave. She asked if I could ask for your email so she can write you a letter.”

 

Vicki’s email was brief, but filled with love. She went completely out of her way to introduce herself and to extend her loving thoughts to someone she hardly knows (me)—a gesture that is deeply appreciated. Her well placed words simply stated how much she enjoyed the loving speech I gave at my mother’s funeral—wishing me health and happiness.

 

Before retiring to my room, I sent Vicki a brief reply. Moments later I rode the hotel elevator in an upward journey—on the way to an experience that literally blew me away.

 

Feeling near collapse, my feet aching, my muscles tired and sore, I put on my pajamas and was laying in bed by 8:15 p.m., ready for some much desired rest.

 

Almost immediately, my little Jedi voices said “You have lots of time to rest, grab your IPOD, listen to some music, and massage your feet before going to sleep.”

 

Seconds later, I was back on my bed with my IPOD in hand. This may sound a little anal, but starting a few weeks ago, I began to methodically listen to a large collection of “beautiful music with a message” that I happen to possess. Not knowing how to do it any other way, I simply began to listen to the songs the way they were arranged—in alphabetical order by artist. A few nights ago, when I was whisked away to tears by the Celine Dion song “Come To Me”, I was just finishing up the “C’s”. Last night, it only seemed obvious that I would resume with the “D’s”.

 

The first song that popped up in my list was by Diamond Rio, titled “I Believe.” While I have heard the song many times before, I had always listened in ‘lazy mode’, never having paid any attention whatsoever to the incredible words. As the beautiful music began to unfold, I was immediately engulfed in the amazing words. My heart was on fire with loving emotion.

 

Beginning to feel a “repeat” coming on, I skipped back and played the song again. This time, my feelings flashed to my mother. This seemed to make so much sense. Twice earlier today, thoughts of my dear sweet mother had flashed into my consciousness—once in Teotihuacan, and again in Vicki’s email. “Yes,” I pondered, “I will listen to the words as if I were thinking about my mother.”

 

As the words streamed through my consciousness, the tears began to flow—not tears of grief or sadness—but tears of joy and deep spiritual connection. I could literally feel my mother’s love permeating my being. In some unexplainable way, I could feel her saying the words, “Brenda, I am so incredibly proud of you. I am still here, and I love you so very much. I am with you always.”

 

As I bawled my eyes out for the second time in just a few days, I soon realized that I have never really had an opportunity to express or even feel the emotions of my mother’s passing. Immediately, I let them flow as I replayed the song, over and over, for more than an hour.

 

My emotions were not those of sadness, they were of joy, peace, love, connection, and of knowing that all is beautiful and perfect. In that precious hour last night, an hour that I will cherish forever, I experienced a spiritual bond with my mother that I never before felt in mortal life.

 

Following are the beautiful words to this powerful song.

 

I Believe

Sung by: Diamond Rio

Album: Completely

 

Every now and then

Soft as breath upon my skin

I feel you come back again

And it’s like you haven’t been

Gone a moment from my side

Like the tears were never cried

Like the hands of time are holding

You and me

 

And with all my heart I’m sure

We’re closer than we ever were

I don’t have to hear or see

I’ve got all the proof I need

There are more than angels watching over me

I believe, Oh I believe

 

Now when you die your life goes on

It doesn’t end here when you’re gone

Every soul is filled with light

It never ends, and if I’m right

Our love can even reach across eternity

I believe, Oh I believe

 

Forever you’re a part of me

Forever in the heart of me

I will hold you even longer if I can

Oh the people who don’t see the most

See that I believe in ghosts

If that makes me crazy, then I am

‘Cause I believe

Oh I believe

 

There are more than angels watching over me

I believe, Oh I believe

 

Every now and then

Soft as breath upon my skin

I feel you come back again

And I believe

 

 

This day could not have been arranged in a more inspiring and beautiful set of seeming synchronicities.

 

First of all, I unexpectedly find myself prompted to be in the city where my parents enjoyed their extended honeymoon so very long ago. Then, while visiting Teotihuacan, a strong awareness permeates my being, telling me “My parents have stood in this very spot.” I’m sure my mother and father were equally inspired by their visit.

 

Then, more than two and a half months after the funeral, the unexpected email from Vicki “just happened” to arrive out of nowhere on this very day. Why not yesterday? Last month? Or next week? The timing was impeccable, almost unbelievable.

 

Finally, why would the Diamond Rio song “I Believe” just happen to be at the top of my play list?

 

No, there are just too many “coincidences” for this to have been a mere random occurrence. Spiritual energy continues to vibrate through my spine as I write these loving words. With all of my heart, I can honestly proclaim that “I believe.”

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

My feet are throwing a temper tantrum. Having been on the move for almost eleven hours, they are demanding a rest. So here I am, seated once again in a quiet corner of the Cathedral adjacent to the Zocalo. As I begin putting my thoughts to writing, a beautiful Mass is barely beginning, the organ is playing, a beautiful relaxing hymn being sung—the peaceful music could almost lull me off to sleep.

 

Outside, in contrast, the Electrical Workers Union is participating in a large, extremely noisy rally. Thousands of union workers are protesting in front of the Palacio Nacional. Speakers on a large stage are blaring out the voices of union leaders who are taking turns rallying the crowd. The echo of the crowd bounces through the acoustically vibrant interior of the Cathedral, but goes largely unnoticed.

 

Basilica De Guadalupe

 

Early this morning, I left my hotel at 6:30 a.m., wearing an off-white ankle-length dress. The outside air was brisk and cool, in the upper fifties, but the unusually cool fall temperatures did not seem to phase me. I was too excited to be concerned with weather.

 

The streets were nearly deserted as I walked the few blocks to the Zocalo subway station. As I neared the Palacio Nacional, small groups of workers were beginning to set up for some type of large event. I found out later that the large downtown square was the finish line for the Mexico City Marathon.

 

After descending a long flight of stairs into the subway station, I looked taking note that I was one of only a few people preparing to hop onto a train. The payment booth was not even open yet, and I was in a quandary. I had no way to purchase a ticket. With a puzzled look on my face, I approached to the uniformed guard at the turnstiles, asking for advice. Seeing my predicament, he smiled and told me to pass through without paying.

 

Seconds later, I was zooming down an underground tunnel, headed toward my first transfer station. In less than ten minutes I was leaving the subway station in a completely unfamiliar section of town. Taking inventory of the area, I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was. The sun was still below the horizon, the streets were dark and deserted. The only thing I knew for sure is that I was about a half mile from my destination.

 

I spied an elderly couple walking into the station and in my best Spanish, I kindly requested their help. Soon, I found myself on a small bus, winding through the local streets, turning here and there, seeming to travel much farther than I had expected.

 

“I would have never found this on my own.” I gratefully reflected.

 

There are actually three churches dedicated to Guadalupe, all located in the same area. The oldest and smallest is called “La Capilla del Cerrito”. It sits at the top of a small hill, overlooking the other two—a medium sized chapel, and the huge Basilica.

 

Grateful for having listened to Eduardo’s advice, I arrived an hour early—at 7:00 a.m. sharp. The skies were still dark as I set foot on a large open square between the lower two churches. I had just enough time to do a little site seeing.

 

Even at this early hour, a Sunday morning Mass was already in session, so I confined my exploration to the entryway, remaining silent and reverent as I observed the devoted worshipers in this massive sanctuary.

 

Forty five minutes later, having barely had enough time to taste the unique flavor of the two lower churches, I began to slowly climb the small hill toward the upper chapel, step after step after step. As usual, I was slightly preoccupied with not wanting to be late—and as usual, I had a long wait in front of me.

 

The view from the top was gorgeous. The skies were no longer dark; the new sun was beginning to shine its warm glow. The beautiful architecture of churches below provided an interesting contrast to the sky-scraper filled skyline just coming into view in the distance.

 

Casually scanning my immediate vicinity, scrutinizing the groups of early morning tourists, I noticed two ladies wearing mostly white. They were all bundled up, one in a thick sweater and the other in a winter coat. I actually felt quite warm, but must have looked strangely out of place in my sleeveless white dress and crocs. Having been so accustomed to the always warm and muggy climate of Cozumel, the fact that Mexico City might require a jacket and long pants never even crossed my mind—well actually, that is not quite true. At 10:00 p.m., on the night before I left, a little internal voice urged me to pack my hiking shoes and one pair of long jeans. Luckily, I paid attention.

 

My shyness is still firmly rooted in my behavior. For a short while, I remained in the background, simply observing. Gradually, a few others dressed in white reached the top of the stairs. As they began to congregate with each other, I slowly inched my way over to join them.

 

I couldn’t say exactly how it happened, I’m not even sure who made the first introduction, but soon, I was hugging and kissing one person after the other, introducing myself to anyone who seemed interested in knowing my name. The number of “people in white” continued to grow, until eventually, there were almost fifty of us.

 

Of the group, only two (Antonio and Anna Louisa) attempted to communicate with me in English; both of them seemed to already be expecting me. At the last minute, Eduardo sent off an email to one of his friends, asking her to look after me—I just love Eduardo.

 

Bless his heart, Antonio partially took me under his wing, but he spoke English with such a thick accent that I had an extremely difficult time understanding him. Anna Louisa spoke English a little better, but she was very busy running the event.

 

Everyone was extremely friendly, but about the only things I could do effectively were hug, kiss (on the right cheek), smile, and say my name—along with a few other basic greetings and facts. For some unknown reason, my brain’s language center seemed to be taking the day off. Any conversation that deviated from the basics seemed to sound like mere gibberish.

 

Most everyone seemed to know each other and all were Spanish speaking natives—except for me, that is. Ages varied, appearing to be evenly spread between twenty-something up to around sixty. Women outnumbered by men by about a two-to-one margin. Except for their white clothing, the group seemed to be a typical mixture of the local culture.

 

As I observed these beautiful people chatting in small groups while joyfully reuniting with old friends, my old and shy self was screaming “Run away Brenda … who do you think you are … you don’t fit in here.”

 

My confident self just glowed from the inside, silently observing, taking it all in.

 

Three women were busy in a corner, starting charcoal fires in small metal goblets, preparing to add copal incense for their cleansing ceremonies.

 

Others were adjusting clothing, removing conch shells from their bags, making last minute preparations of all types. Gradually, I noticed that most everyone had wrapped a small read scarf around their forehead, tied securely with a small knot at the back of their head. Some were also wearing similar red sashes around their waists.

 

Eduardo had given me a heads up to be prepared with a red scarf, but I had put off my search till the last minute. Last night as I returned to my hotel, I had still not found one, and had all but given up. Then, just a block from my hotel, I spied a fabric store. In desperation, I bought a small remnant piece of red cotton fabric.

 

I laughed as I struggled in my hotel room, attempting to tear off a three-inch strip. I was not prepared with scissors, and the fabric seemed to be extremely rip-resistant. Finally—after considerable snipping with fingernail clippers, combined with tugging, and pulling—I had succeeded in my goal. “This will have to do.” I told myself, as I looked at the sorry excuse for a scarf, torn fraying edges and all.

 

As I looked around in the crowd, self consciousness consumed me. Everyone else’s scarves were beautiful. “I can’t wear my ragged, fraying piece of fabric.” I chided myself, feeling embarrassed to even let people know I had brought it.

 

Only at the last minute did I overcome my shame. “Get over it already!” I told myself, as I removed my makeshift scarf that was secretly hidden in my purse.

 

“No one here will judge me,” I reassured myself, “and I really do want to wear this.” Soon, my scarf was proudly in place, underneath my bangs, wrapped around just above my ears, and tied in the back. Minutes later, my self-consciousness had all but evaporated.

 

Excitement flowed through my veins as the ceremony finally began. We all gathered at one end of the small open area in front of the Capilla Del Cerrito. With most of us forming a large circle, Anna Louisa and about ten others gathered in the center. The three women with the copal incense began to cleanse the energy of the conch shells carried by the remainder of those in the center.

 

Energy surged through my spine when the Conch Shell horns first sounded. The powerful trumpet-like sound vibrations literally made my soul dance. Reminding me somewhat of Eduardo’s pre-Temazcal ceremony, we took turns facing in each of the four compass directions. Being totally directionally challenged, and language deaf, I had no idea which way was north or what was being said—but I felt the incredible peaceful energy—and that was all I needed to be content and happy.

 

As I looked around, my awareness peaked when I realized I had switched from being a tourist to instead being the object of other tourists. A large crowd of camera-wielding people quickly gathered. Many were video taping, observing everything with deep reverence. My heart simply smiled at this realization.

 

As we finished our initial ceremonies, the group from the center of the circle placed red scarves on the ground by the chapel, and reverently placed their incense goblets and conch shells resting on these scarves.

 

Having no idea what to expect, I simply observed and followed suit. Soon, the women formed one line, the men forming another. Single file, we silently streamed into the small chapel, pausing before the Catholic alter, bowing on one knee for a moment of meditation, then returning to standing.

 

Then our movements reversed. Everyone slowly began to walk backwards, not turning around until our feet were once again secure on the outside walkway.

 

The silent procession began immediately. With fragrant copal incense and the powerful sound of conch shells leading the way, we began our “caminata”, gradually descending the seeming-endless steps back down to the Basilica.

 

Maintaining our two lines, women on the left, and men on the right, we slowly passed through the large square in front of this massive church. As we neared the steps leading into the street below, I noted with humble appreciation, the approach of one devout believer. A thirty something man was inching his way toward the Basilica, in an upright position, but crawling on his knees.

 

Plaza De Tres Culturas

 

Prior to my leaving Cozumel, Eduardo explained that there are two sacred roads in Mexico City—one being a sacred masculine path, the other being the path of the sacred feminine.

 

Today’s march followed the path of the sacred feminine, from the Basilica De Guadelupe to a place called Tlatelolco. For approximately ninety minutes, we walked in beautiful peaceful silence—except of course for the beautiful trumpet-like sounding of the conch shells.

 

Surrounded on all sides by busy, noisy, hurrying traffic, I simply ignored the ambient distractions. After crossing a few intersections, I quickly recognized a pattern. One woman and one man were assuming the role of traffic cops. As we approached each intersection, these two assumed a position in the middle of the street and began loudly sounding their shells, peacefully signaling oncoming traffic of our presence. As soon as we were all clear, they strolled back toward the front of the lines, only to repeat the process again, and again.

 

Amazingly enough, I only remember three intersections in our several mile walk where the street lights did not line up in our favor—and then there was the marathon.

 

As we neared our destination, the area of Tlatelolco, a policeman signaled for us to all wait. Seconds later, a large truck passed by. On the rear of the flatbed truck were five or six television cameras, aimed directly at a group of runners following immediately behind. Putting two and two together, I deduced that I was witnessing the frontrunners in a marathon—a group of five or six runners all keeping pace with each other. For the next minute or so, the officer allowed us to hurry across the street in small groups, so as to not interfere with other approaching runners.

 

Still in complete silence, our group followed a sign that pointed to a place called “Plaza de Las Tres Culturas” (plaza of the three cultures). For at least a quarter of a mile, our path led us down a quiet sidewalk, away from the main roads. Minutes later, we emerged into a large football-field size plaza. On the far side was an ancient-looking dark-grey stone church. How I wish I had the time to enter and explore.

 

In the foreground, a group of fifteen or twenty youth played some unknown game using an American football. Seeming strangely out of place, their field was not a soft one where they could safely tumble and fall—it was solid concrete.

 

Our leaders led us single file, up onto the concrete field. As soon as we passed by the football-playing-youth, our group turned across the plaza. First we veered left, for perhaps thirty or forty feet. Then, our leaders veered to the right for a similar distance. Continuing in this manner, we zigzagged all the way across the width of the plaza, at one point passing quite closely to a large stone marker. Etched in stone, the beautiful memorial began (in Spanish) with, “To our companions who fell on October 2^nd, 1968, in this plaza.”

 

Suddenly, I realized that I was in the very plaza where Regina had been killed. A sense of humble reverence settled filtered through my being as I came to this somber awareness.

 

Once we reached the far edge of the plaza, we followed a short metal fence back to our left, passing by a few old ruins—ruins of what I am not quite sure. I only know that they are sacred, because as we passed by we were told to throw our flowers on top of one structure. Being somewhat confused until it was too late, my bouquet ended up about ten feet away. Smiling, I easily forgave myself for being a language-confused novice.

 

What happened next was somewhat of a repeat from our beginning. Standing in a large circle, the shell horns again sounded as we repeated our ceremonial acknowledgment of the north, south, east, and west. Then, we held hands as Anna Louisa led the group in a few songs. The tunes were beautiful, and others seemed familiar with the words, but with my brain still on language shutdown, I simply inhaled the energy of the experience.

 

Shortly before 11:00 a.m., the ceremony came to an incredibly loving conclusion. The circle somehow split into two, with each rotating in opposite directions. One by one, we took the right hand of the person in front of us and kissed them on the right cheek. Then we switched and hugged from our left side—heart to heart. Most people were saying things like “Gracias, thank you for being here.” So I replied with similar words.

 

I am an avid hugger—I can hug with the best of them—but I always respond to the cues of the person I am embracing. Many of this morning’s hugs were simply acts of goodwill, but four or five of them were deep, the kind I cherish. As our bodies embraced, I also felt our souls connecting, sharing loving energy, unspoken heartfelt conversations of, “I know you … I love you more than you could know … Thank you for being here.”

 

Twenty minutes later, after a few snacks and continued visiting (during which I mostly observed), a small group of us set out for the subway. Antonio was so gracious in asking if I wanted to tag along. Having no idea what was coming next, I was just along for the ride.

 

Casa De Regina

 

I did not realize it at first, but our next destination was the home where Regina had lived for much of the six months before her death. On the second floor of a secluded hideaway near the Bosque de Chapultepec, Regina’s small bedroom was the sight or our meditation. In one corner was her humble bed, the same one where she slept 41 years ago. Barely big enough for about eight people at a time, those of us that made the trek fit perfectly in the tiny room.

 

Antonio later told me that if larger groups come, they take turns entering the room. The only thing I knew for sure going in was that the schedule given to me by Eduardo indicated that the meditation began at 11:00 a.m. and ended at 5:00 p.m..

 

As we began, I was prepared to be there for the long haul—having no idea what it would be like to meditate for such an extended period of time. Sitting on a hardwood floor, my buttocks and knees were not at all content, but I knew that somehow I would survive.

 

After an undetermined amount of time (I really have no idea—my watch was out of sight), Antonio quietly stood up and left the room. Gradually, a few others began to do the same. Then, two new men entered and joined us.

 

Still wondering what was going on, I continued to meditate in silence, occasionally glancing around to see who was still there. When I realized it was just me and the two new men, I too decided to follow the others, thinking “Perhaps there is something else I am missing.”

 

An overwhelming sense of peace accompanied me as I found Antonio in the hall and began conversing. “This is a personal meditation, for as long or short as you like.” He filled me in.

 

As the others gradually began to leave, several hours before I had expected, I too decided that I could use some lunch and some time to write. Finding my own way back to the nearest subway station, I was soon back in my hotel room, changing into something much more comfortable and less conspicuous—I loved my white dress, but could not exactly imagine myself blending in.

 

Peace still resonated through my heart as I began my next adventure.

 

People People Everywhere

 

Stuffing my laptop into my backpack, I set off to find a quiet place to write about today’s experiences. As I entered the plaza, I was greeted by huge crowds, cheering on runners as they pushed toward the end of their exhausting marathon.

 

Many of the runners, having already completed the race, were stretched out on the ground in all manner of positions, many of them appearing to be in considerable states of exhaustion and pain. Sadly, I noticed one runner lying on a stretcher, being administered oxygen. How anyone could run for more than twenty six miles is still beyond my imagination.

 

Passing through the Zocalo, I headed south, considering the possibility of visiting the “Museo de Bellas Artes” (Museum of Beautiful Arts)—a place that both Eduardo and Marcelino had highly recommended.

 

As I strolled through the streets, barriers had been set up making them for foot traffic only. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were scattered on every block, with intermittent gatherings around street performers of various genres. There were break dancers, acrobatic rope jumpers, organ grinders, violin/cello players, mimes, clowns, and just about everything else.

 

Tugging at my heart strings, I also walked by countless beggars, mothers with small toddlers, people missing arms or legs, and others who were simply down on their luck.

 

As I neared the museum, the crowds simply expanded. A major art exhibit was in town, and a line of people extended outside for hundreds of feet. Passing on the museum, I opted to take a “casual” stroll through a large adjacent park.

 

Did I say casual? Everywhere I walked, there were people, rows of street vendors, loud rumblings of conflicting music, and boisterous talking.

 

The experience was fascinating, but I realized there was no way I would be writing in this park—mainly because there was no place to sit.

 

As I walked away, headed back toward the Zocalo, a powerful thought streamed through my consciousness. “One reason you are here, Brenda, is to learn how to find peace and quiet in the midst of seeming chaos.”

 

With that awareness implanted in my mind, I slowed down, took deeper breaths, and focused on the now. “I am one with all of this.” I reminded myself. “I can find deep peace in connecting with each and every soul here.”

 

Minutes later, a large parade approached from the south. Sitting on the curb to rest, I observed in amazement. The street in front of me was wide, perhaps one hundred and fifty feet or more. As the marching people neared, they were packed in from one side of the street to the other, shouting loud angry phrases in unison. Signs indicated that they were there in support of the Electrical Workers Union—protesting against the government.

 

Expecting the parade to end any minute, the angry marchers just kept coming. After thirty minutes I stood up and left, wondering if the end would ever arrive. There must have been many thousands of protestors—the same ones who ended up rallying in front of the Palacio Nacional a short while later.

 

By now, my feet were killing me, and my heart was eager to write. The Cathedral was calling my name again, not necessarily as a private place, but one where I could sit down, feel peace, and write—all at the same time.

 

As I made my way back through the unending hoards of people, peace was my constant companion. As I lovingly followed my heart, that short six blocks took me ninety minutes. First, another English student singled me out for a practice session. Almost immediately, a local man engaged me in a long drawn out request for assistance. As that conversation came to a conclusion, who should appear in this crowd of thousands but my new friend from yesterday: Marcelino.

 

Marcelino insisted on giving me a personal tour of a few local historical buildings before allowing me to continue my journey toward writing and rest.

 

As I complete my day, more than seventeen hours after it began, I am exhausted but energized at the same time. Who would have thought I could find so much peace in the midst of such seeming chaos.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

In front of me lies a small, green, heavily wooded island, surrounded by a small tranquil moat filled with cloudy dark-green water. As I glance to my left, the smooth glassy water reflects a clear image of beautiful green trees framed by a partly cloudy sky. I find myself in the middle of a large green forest—a place called the “Bosque de Chapultepec” (Forest of Chapultepec)—in the middle of the enormous Mexico City. According to the signs at the park entrance, this is the largest urban green area in all of Latin America. The closest comparison that comes to mind might be Central Park in New York City.

 

My travels yesterday were logistically uneventful. As I crossed the channel toward Playa Del Carmen, Rufino, one of Miguel’s friends, just happened to be on the same ferry—and he strolled over to say hello, sliding down onto the smooth white bench beside me.

 

“Please, do me a favor and let Miguel know that I am going to Mexico City, and will not be back for eight days.” I asked of Rufino.

 

I had searched for Miguel in the plaza, but we never crossed paths before my leaving—and I was appreciative of the opportunity to pass along a second-hand message so that Miguel won’t worry when I disappear for a while. Rufino amazed me as he shared a little about his daily life. He travels to Cancun every Friday to play volleyball with a large group. In addition, every evening, he plays volleyball for two hours at a sports park in Cozumel. On top of that, Rufino runs five kilometers every morning and he goes to the dances on the plaza every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening—dancing almost every dance. Not bad for a man in his late sixties or early seventies.

 

While in the air at thirty thousand feet, flying peacefully somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico, I began listening to some beautiful Celine Dion songs on my IPOD. I was beginning to feel a little stressed and judgmental all over again, and an internal hunch guided me to listen to Celine in an effort to re-center myself, yet again.

 

I was not at all prepared for what happened next.

 

As a beautiful song titled “Come To Me” began to play, my mind drifted back to a conversation I once had with my dear spiritual friend Sue.

 

Sue told me, “Brenda, whenever you listen to a love song, imagine that God is the person with whom you are in love, and sing the words to him.”

 

I had always interpreted this as “Imagine that I am singing the love song to God.” However, this time, something prompted me to listen the other way around, as if God were singing to me.

 

As the beautiful words to this song streamed melodically through my consciousness, repressed tears began to form in the corners of my eyes. These were powerfully moving words, tailored just for me—words to which I had never previously paid attention. My heart wanted to just let the tears explode, but a quick glance around confirmed that “Perhaps this airplane is not the most appropriate place to turn my eyes into a water fountain.”

 

Nevertheless, I made a strong mental note in my heart, saying “Be sure to listen to this song again tonight.”

 

As I maneuvered through the airport in Mexico City, having to stop and ask for help twice, I finally managed to find my way out of the airport. Soon I was enjoying a 127 peso ($10 US) cab ride to my hotel in the center of the historical District of Mexico City, in the middle of rush hour traffic.

 

My hotel is only two blocks south of the “Zocalo” (pronounced sew-caw-low), the name of the main plaza in the historic city center. One source I read on the plane quoted the Zocalo as being the third largest city square in the world. On one side of the plaza is the Palacio Nacional—which would be somewhat equivalent to the US Capitol Building in Washington D.C.; on another side of the plaza is the “Catedral”, which is Mexico’s National Cathedral. The Cathedral’s interior is huge and ornate, decorated with gold, beautiful stained glass windows, and elaborate statue work.

 

Outside, in open areas surrounding the plaza, the sidewalks are lined by street vendors, entertainers, native Aztec dancers, and even people who appear to be performing energy work and spiritual cleansing. As I passed by one practitioner, she was beating the shoulders of another woman with a bundle of herbs, reminding me very much of my recent experience with the Brujo. Others were holding metal goblets filled with hot charcoal, emitting a thick white cloud of Copal incense/smoke, as they chanted and performed energy cleansings on interested passers-by (for a small fee).

 

I was fascinated by all of this, but my feet were killing me, and my intuition said “Get back to the hotel and go to bed early tonight.”

 

As I finally lay my head on my pillow, right around 9:00 p.m., I suddenly remembered my near-tears experience on the airplane. Reaching for my IPOD, I was determined to honor that previous mental commitment.

 

I could never have predicted my experience. I had expected some emotion, but less than thirty seconds into the song, I was rolling around on my bed, thrashing and sobbing. As I gasped for an occasional breath, the flood of tears continued to spring forth with intense internal energy seeking release.

 

Each word rang true with a powerful impact in softening my heart. A subtle awareness filtered into my being, a silent knowing that over the last two weeks I have gradually slipped into a feeling of separation from my divine source—of trying to go it alone. As the incredible song came to an end, my heart was proclaiming loudly, “I am not finished yet—I want to cry some more—play it again.”

 

Again and again, I listened to the repeating words and melody. “Surely I have done enough crying by now?” I questioned, but the tears kept flowing as my peaceful emotional release continued. With each listening, I sensed my heart growing lighter, my as-yet-unrecognized burdens lifting, my internal connection to my divine source strengthening, beginning to glow brightly once again.

 

Heavy weights seemed to be lifting from my heart—hidden weights that I was not even aware I had been carrying. I began to feel increasingly free, free of internal isolation, free from the silly expectations that I place on myself.

 

Perhaps the most powerful realization came in the form of “I am not here in Mexico City to be a tourist. I will not spend my entire time racing from here to there, trying to visit every historical site, museum, cathedral, or government building. Yes, I will see a few historical sites—but my purpose here is internal, spiritual—I am here for the Dos de Octubre celebrations—I am here to refocus within, strengthening my connection with the divine.”

 

After an hour of crying—an hour in which I must have listened to “Come to me” at least ten to fifteen times—I knew the time had arrived to pick up my laptop with the purpose being to capture the lyrics of the song in writing.

 

Come to Me

Sung by: Celine Dion

Album: Miracle

 

I will always love you

No matter what

No matter where you go or what you do

And knowing you

You’re going to have to do things your own way

And that’s OK

So be free

Spread your wings

And promise me just one thing

 

Chorus:

If you ever need a place to cry

Baby come to me

Come to me

I’ve always known that you were born to fly

But you can come to me

If the world breaks your heart

No matter where on earth you are

You can come to me

 

Don’t walk around

With the world on your shoulders

And your highest hopes laying on the ground

I know you think you’ve gotta try to be my hero

But don’t you know

The stars you wish upon

They fall it’s true

But I still believe in you

 

[Chorus repeated here]

 

And those seven seas you sail

Or the winding road you roam

Leave you lost and feeling all alone

Let my heart be your beacon home

 

[Chorus repeated here]

 

 

I struggle with how to proceed from here, because I strongly desire to talk about how each section of the song impacted me. This may be a tad redundant, but perhaps it is best just to repeat each section as I discuss my insights and reactions. Remember, I am discussing these words as if God were singing them to me.

 

I will always love you, no matter what, no matter where you go or what you do.

 

This powerful belief sustains me on a daily basis—but I forget so easily when I neglect my need to remain spiritually centered. After a week of facing a mixture of fear and judgment, I desperately needed to hear these simple words again—I needed them to be imprinted on my soul.

 

And knowing you, you’re going to have to do things your own way.  And that’s OK, so be free, spread your wings.

 

It took me a few times through the song for the truth of these words to sink in. Lately I have begun to stress about “Where do I go next?” My time in Cozumel is winding down, and I know my path will lead elsewhere—I just haven’t quite figured out where that is. My left brain is a tad impatient, wanting me to worry, to make decisions my old way—through logic and planning.

 

Sure, many ideas are bouncing around in my head—from traveling the Yucatan on a bus, going to a Spanish Immersion program in Nicaragua, volunteering in Equador, participating in a choice of several spiritual retreats in Peru, and connecting with the Incan people near Cuzco. But as of yet I have no internal clarity, and the uncertainty has been causing my ego to squirm.

 

All the while, my heart keeps saying, “Brenda, just be patient … several more things still need to happen before your path will be clear … just keep trusting and all will be revealed through your heart.”

 

My emotional floodgates first opened wide when the chorus began. The words reached deep into my heart, all introduced by the phrase “And promise me just one thing.”

 

If you ever need a place to cry, baby come to me, come to me. I’ve always known that you were born to fly, but you can come to me. If the world breaks your heart, no matter where on earth you are, you can come to me.

 

I suddenly recognized that, while I have been diligent and faithful in my path, I have recently neglected my divine connection. I’ve been too busy writing, studying Spanish, and above all things “pursuing a spiritual path”.

 

What an oxymoron this is—too busy pursuing spirituality to take time to nurture my connection to that spirituality.

 

As the words resonated within, my heart cried out with relief, “I don’t have to be strong. Yes, I was born to fly—but the wings on which I want to fly are not of this world.”

 

“Please,” I begged myself, “allow yourself these quiet moments of deep surrender to spirit.”

 

Don’t walk around with the world on your shoulders, and your highest hopes laying on the ground. I know you think you’ve gotta try to be my hero. But don’t you know, the stars you wish upon, they fall it’s true. But I still believe in you.

 

This continues with the theme that I am trying to do it all, carrying the world in my shoulders. It is so refreshing to remember that I don’t have to accomplish anything by myself. As I am constantly reminding myself, my only real work is within.

 

In the past week, my path has begun to feel out of control. At the same time, I realize that I have developed a tendency to subtly alter my daily behavior to correspond with future writing. My heart recognizes that this is backwards. My writing needs to be the result of living my passion—not the other way around.

 

And those seven seas you sail, or the winding road you roam, leave you lost and feeling all alone. Let my heart be your beacon home.

 

When I first heard these words, the sobs again burst forth. The strength with which these words resonated deeply surprised me. In no way whatsoever do I feel alone—I am happy, fulfilled, eager and wondrously engaged on my journey. Yet I now clearly see that I had begun to feel spiritually alone—momentarily separated from the divinity that fuels me from within.

 

Gratitude streamed through my soul last night as I literally felt the inspiration begin flowing again. I sat up and began writing, in my notebook, an imaginary conversation with God. The words came easy, nourishing my heart, helping me better understand my unsettled emotions of these past six days.

 

In a very clear way, I recognized that my passion never left, but my spiritual guidance was momentarily missing. My head was impeding my path, trying to second guess everything. While meditating in silence, the following two sentences flowed from my pen into my notebook.

 

“Not knowing” is the freedom to be present in the wonder of each moment.

“Knowing” assures that I am locked into the past. 

 

As I finish my writing this afternoon, I find myself sitting quietly in the National Cathedral, adjacent to the Zocalo. I have actually been here for over an hour. While writing earlier in the “Bosque De Chapultepec,” the rain began to fall. After putting my laptop away, I grabbed my umbrella and began people watching all the way back to the subway station.

 

Yes, I said subway station. This morning, as I contemplated how to best travel the several miles from my hotel to the Bosque, I stretched my comfort levels. Pushing my limits, I walked into a station, studied the maps, bought a ticket, and kissed my fears goodbye.

 

I was amazed when I learned that for a single peso (eight cents), I could ride anywhere in the entire city, transfers and all. The subways were crowded, standing room only, especially on the way back to the Zocalo during the afternoon rush.

 

Within minutes of my return trip on the subway, as I strolled through the huge square headed toward the National Cathedral, I became an instant movie star. A group of young women, in their second year at a local university, approached me and asked if I speak English. When I smiled and lovingly replied “Yes”, they asked permission to briefly interview me, on camera, for an assignment in their English class. A minute later, the girls were high-fiving themselves for having the courage to talk to me, and for having fulfilled their assignment.

 

Then, a few minutes later, as I strolled through the interior of the Cathedral looking for a warm and dry place to write, I was approached by three other young women, making a similar request. The quiet ones (Miriam and Carlina) took turns aiming a video camera at me, while the bold confident one (Sylvia) began chatting away. For almost forty-five minutes, we talked, mostly in broken deliberate English.

 

What I enjoyed most is the realization that, for the first time in several days, I was back in my element. A sense of joy permeated my being as I responded with unconditional love. It was a pleasure to help these beautiful young women—and they overflowed with gratitude right back at me. When Sylvia asked if we could exchange email addresses, I was more than happy to honor her request.

 

Filled with a sense of renewed peace and aliveness, my heart now flows once again with intense gratitude for my rich blessings.

 

I am back.

 

The world and the people in it are beautiful and wondrous again—I see that love in every one of the thousands of faces I see—on the subways, in the Zocalo, everywhere I look. How truly wonderful it is to realize that I am indeed back, here, now, in the present. All I needed was a place to cry, to release my emotional numbness, and to once again connect to the divinity within.

 

Footnote to a wonderful day

 

As I left the Cathedral, retracing my steps back through the plaza, a young man named Marcelino approached me out of the blue and began talking. What began as a casual chat soon evolved into a fascinating discussion of cultural history. My aliveness and pure love were glowing from within, and Marcelino even commented as such. We both thoroughly enjoyed our impromptu joining.

 

Some ninety minutes later, as we began to say our goodbyes, Marcelino. “I would love to talk to you again while you are here. How will I find you?”

 

Soon, for the second time in less than a few hours, I was exchanging emails with yet-another new friend. How amazing the world seems when your soul is on fire.

 

Bring on tomorrow.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved