Brenda's Bicycles

 

My tooth fell off late Tuesday evening. My two front teeth are fancy technological imitations of the real thing—a lifelong story for another day. Suffice it to say that they are both porcelain crowns mounted on titanium implants.

 

I was staring in the mirror as I flossed aggressively around the titanium post between my tooth and my gum. Astonishment momentarily washed across my face as I watched my left front tooth suddenly fall from my mouth, ricocheting noisily off the vanity, bouncing aimlessly on the floor, and coming to a stop on the tile near my feet.

 

Bending over, I quickly located my missing treasure, grabbing it between my thumb and forefinger. I was surprised by how small the tooth actually was. Standing up to study myself in the mirror, I was greeted by a huge gaping hole that stared back at me, right where my left front tooth was supposed to be. In place of my tooth was a tiny hollow silver post sticking out less than a quarter of an inch into the empty space between my other teeth. It was quite the squeamish site—not one that I especially desired to share with others.

 

A large grin formed on my lips as I considered the humorous nature of my predicament—the absurdity of it all. Instead of worrying, I was actually laughing. I could just imagine myself walking around Mexico City with no front tooth, scaring everyone I see.

 

“My friends here know a good dentist,” I pondered, “but will I have time to get in to see her? And even if I do, will she know anything about cementing in an implant?”

 

Taking matters into my own hands, I examined my mouth and my tooth—everything seemed to be whole and unbroken. Carefully positioning the tooth over the implant post, I pushed it snuggly into place. My tooth fit tightly and securely—no wobbling, slipping, not even the slightest feeling of looseness.

 

“Problem solved for now.” I reassured myself. “The tooth seems to be solid. I can take care of this when I get back.”

 

Peace and calm were my companions as I dropped into a comfortable night’s sleep. I deeply trusted that all would be well as I simply turned the issue over to the universe.

 

Early yesterday morning, I prepared for what I expected to be a beautiful and productive day in Playa Del Carmen. My tooth was nothing but an afterthought—still feeling quite snug in my mouth. I was filled with happy thoughts. I was on my way to connect again with Rafael, and later with Michiko—plus I was again stretching my limits. Soon, I would be taking my bicycle on the ferry for the first time, and I had plans to explore all over the Playa Del Carmen area.

 

But something was different yesterday. All day long I was carrying around a little annoying voice, like a two year old throwing a tantrum, kicking and screaming for attention. Perhaps I am exaggerating a bit here, because the voice was really a silent feeling of judgment and expectation that continuously attempted, in very subtle ways, to convert me to an old way of thinking. A few times, the voice came close to succeeding.

 

One of those times was during my morning ferry voyage. I was on the upper level of the ferry, peacefully waiting for us to pull away from the dock, when I noticed a young Latino couple sitting near the front of the upstairs section. On this particular ferry, the upstairs cabin has removable windows constructed of heavy plastic. The windows are in sections that zip together. Each section can be individually raised or lowered, and is attached at the bottom with rope and Velcro.

 

I noticed that the young woman wanted to see out the window, and the young man decided to take matters into his own hands. A sense of judgment began to creep into my mind as I watched him untie the rope and undo the Velcro straps holding the windows in place.

 

“He’s not supposed to do that!” I mumbled under my breath. “That front area is where people sit that don’t want to be impacted by the wind.”

 

As I continued my observation, I noticed that the young man walked to one end of the window section and began to roll it up. He asked the young woman, who was still sitting by the other end, to help him. He was working quite hard on his end, but the young woman did not even stand up in her seat. She just sat there holding the plastic with one hand in the air, acting helpless, making a less-than-half-hearted attempt.

 

Suddenly, I found myself thinking “Oh, Isn’t she Miss Prissy! She is too wrapped up in herself to stand up and take ten seconds to help her husband or boyfriend.”

 

I froze immediately, as if someone slapped me across the face. I had caught myself in the act of uncharacteristic and critical judging—feeling mean and spiteful thoughts.

 

“Wow,” I puzzled, “where the heck did that mean spurt of self-righteous judgment come from?”

 

This was the most judgmental I have felt in eons, and my silent behavior shocked me. Quickly checking myself, I almost instantaneously shifted into the role of impartial “observer” of my thoughts and behavior—rather than actually buying into the reality of the judgment.

 

Past experience has taught me that whenever I slip into such a state of judgment, such behavior has absolutely nothing to do with the outside world—that is just a symptom. No, the real cause is always somewhere deep within me—something that is simply being projected outward.

 

Within seconds, I was asking myself “What is going on with me … I have been so loving and peaceful for months … why am I suddenly lashing out in such a harsh way?”

 

Minutes later, I believed that I released my judgment, but I was still very unclear as to its internal source. As it turns out, the entire day seemed to be a constant reminder of my unsettled internal state. I have yet to fully pin down the origins. Perhaps that is why I am writing.

 

Just a few minutes later, I was feeling annoyed because a young man who works for the ferry company was standing right behind my seat, blocking my beautiful view of Cozumel as it gradually faded into the distance. Feeling annoyed, I decided to change seats, moving toward the front section. Then, a sense of frustration hit me as a strong wind from the now-open windows was blowing stiffly into my face and hair.

 

“I need to remain presentable.” I lectured myself. “I’m going to see Rafael in a while, and I’m going to a meeting tonight. I can’t have my hair all windblown and scraggly.”

 

Soon I had settled for yet another seat, one that didn’t speak to me at all—this seat had no wind and no view.

 

To make matters worse, my left brain was churning away with “What if they lose my bicycle, and I never see it again?”

 

My bicycle was in the ferry’s baggage compartment, and the young man who took it from me never gave me any kind of claim check to verify that it is mine. My silly fears were easily alleviated when we reached the dock at Playa Del Carmen. By the time I was off the boat, my bicycle was already laying on the pier. I spied a young man who was checking people’s claim tickets, then handing them their suitcases. Not being sure of the process, I walked up to him, pointed at my bicycle, and said with a smile, “The bicycle is mine.” Seconds later, I was eagerly walking up the pier with my bicycle in tow.

 

Riding straight to Rafael’s restaurant, I was pleased to see his car parked out in front. Rafael was on the phone when I entered. As he ended his call and came over to hug me, he placed his hand on the front door handle, a signal that let me know he needed to leave.

 

Giving me ten minutes of his time, Rafael and I again connected as if we had never been separated. I eagerly shared plans for my upcoming trip to Mexico City, and he excitedly coached me on things I simply must do when I am there, places I have to go, and sights that I just cannot miss.

 

“How I wish I had some vacation time.” Rafael exclaimed. “I would love to come with you, to show you all of the sights. My family lives there. I know the area very well, and I would take you to many places that most people do not even know about.”

 

As I discussed my desire to participate with his Teacher on the evening that I fly back into Cancun, Rafael readily volunteered to pick me up at the Cancun airport. My puzzling morning seemed to have shifted to the positive; things could not have been going better.

 

As Rafael excused himself to run his many errands, he queried “Are you going to come back to the restaurant this afternoon so we can talk some more?”

 

“If that is what you want, I would love to.” I replied hesitatingly, “I know you are busy and I don’t want to be in the way.”

 

“I should have time to talk this afternoon.” He reassured me. “I’ll call you when I am back at the restaurant.”

 

This simple shift in plans set me up for the rest of my day. I became emotionally attached to the idea of spending more time with Rafael, and spent my entire day trying to make that possible. I worried about riding my bicycle too far away, and fretted over whether or not I would hear my cell phone ring—constantly checking to see if I had missed a call.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I had a beautiful day—yet my morning judgment experience continuously returned to taunt me—letting me know that there is definitely something inside that I need to look at. That little two-year-old in me was still fighting for attention.

 

Ten minutes after setting out to explore the southern Hotel District of Playa Del Carmen, a torrential cloud burst soaked the city. Getting somewhat wet, I had managed to find shelter through the strongest cloud bursts. When the rain began to thin, I pulled out my trusty umbrella and continued my journey.

 

Soon, the rain had stopped completely, but every tree seemed to create its own localized rainstorm as I passed below the dripping branches. Normally, I would have simply surrendered to the joy of the storm—but today my ego was pressuring me to remain presentable as I realized that I had no place to shower and clean up.

 

As the sun returned, I became aware that I was sweating profusely—my face was dripping with moisture, and my pants felt embarrassingly wet, especially around the seat area. I could just imagine people’s reaction to the wet, sweaty, stinky, frazzled monster I would be as I walked into the study group later that night.

 

Over the next two hours I passed by beautiful white sandy beaches, and even a few small Mayan ruins—but I didn’t stop much to enjoy them. The whiney little voice inside was trying to tell me that “It is too hot … or too wet … or there are too many mosquitoes … or this will take too much time.”

 

It seemed that nothing was quite good enough for that little tantrum-thrower, and unfortunately, I listened and gave in.

 

As I rode back toward town, I was caught in yet another wild downpour. Luckily, I found a small covered parking area, but my backpack and body still came away somewhat saturated by the rain.

 

Soon, the dark cloud had blown over and the sun was again bright.

 

Being already well past lunch time, I headed back to Rafael’s restaurant. I secretly hoped he would finish his errands and show up while I was eating.

 

Again, just minutes before I reached my destination, yet another passing storm released sudden torrents of rain before quickly moving on. The idea of remaining somewhat presentable began to seem ridiculously impossible.

 

As I finished eating my salad, it was obvious that Rafael was not coming, so once again I followed my heart in a different direction. Thinking of some abandoned thatch-roof umbrellas in front of a few unoccupied buildings, I decided to ride my bicycle over to the beach. “I’ll sit in the shade, curl my toes into the sand, and spend a few hours studying Spanish.” I told myself as I eagerly rode on.

 

You guessed it. As I arrived, the whole area was occupied by about twenty local hard-hat-carrying construction workers who were taking a long afternoon break.

 

By now, I was almost laughing at how my day seemed to be going. Fully aware of the humor of it all, the absurdity of the day’s events, I remained the observer, completely conscious of the fact that none of this was external. “Something must really be going on inside.” I pondered, as I sat myself down calmly on a shady wall, taking a few deep breaths, attempting to center myself for the umpteenth time.

 

Twenty minutes later, the construction worker’s stood up, one by one, walked away and disappeared into a partially completed hotel just down the beach. The shady beach was now mine, and I eagerly settled in for a few hours of very productive studying.

 

As I grew tired of Spanish Grammar, I resumed my bicycle explorations, this time simultaneously enjoying an audio book on my IPOD.

 

Still having a hopeful expectation of connecting with Rafael, I made one last stop at his restaurant for a 5:00 p.m. snack. I was craving a delicious fruit-filled, chocolate-topped crepe.

 

At 5:45 p.m., I found myself standing in front of Michiko’s neighborhood, trying to remember exactly which home was hers. My cell phone seemed to be the obvious solution. Soon, after a few rings, she answered … and you guessed it.

 

“Brenda, I am so sorry.” She apologized. “I thought I had told you. I am working on a tour at Chichen Itza this week. We are not having a study group tonight.”

 

Before heading back to catch the 6:00 p.m. ferry, I gave Rafael a quick phone call to see what his plans were. “Just maybe,” I thought, “just maybe he will want to talk this evening.”

 

“Brenda, I am stuck over at the government building, taking care of business issues.” He began. “I would love to talk this evening, but I don’t think I am going to have the time.”

 

As I wheeled my bicycle up to the ferry ticket booth at 6:00 p.m., I fully expected to discover that I was too late, that I would have to wait two more hours. To my surprise, my bicycle and I were soon securely on the ferry.

 

As I prepared for bed last night, the ‘old me’ would have found it easy to feel sorry for myself, to slip into the role of victim, whining about my wasted day. By all external appearances, other than a ten-minute connection with Rafael, the entire day had seemed to be an expensive and utter waste of my time.

 

But no, I immediately began to search for the hidden treasures. Years of experience has convinced me that everything happens for a reason—reasons that can eventually be found if I dig deep enough.

 

Perhaps my tooth fell off now, so that I will have time to get it fixed before my journeys take me to places that may not have adequate access to dental care.

 

My experience with judgment on the ferry kept me humble, pointing out the fact that I still have issues to grow through, reminding me that it is time to seriously re-center myself—to refocus on my path.

 

My experiences with Rafael reminded me not to get too attached. Yes, I will have future spiritual encounters, but my path is calling out for me to remain flexible, fluid in my journey, not holding on too tightly to any one place or person.

 

The rain, the mosquitoes, the smelly sweat in all the wrong places, all reminded me that it is my inner state that matters—not the outer state. If I glow in my heart, people will look beyond the rest.

 

The people who “seemingly invaded my personal space” were reminding me that I have no personal space. We are all one, they are all me, and only served to point out to me that an issue of control is still unaddressed. I have a sneaking suspicion that this is all about surrendering personal control in my upcoming trip to Mexico City.

 

Who knows, the miscommunication with Michiko may serve us both in the future, possibly causing our relationship to deepen in some necessary way. I really don’t know—I simply need to trust.

 

After a great night’s sleep, I can only laugh at the bizarre occurrences of the past thirty-six hours—starting with my tooth falling out, and ending with a crazy day, that by all external appearances was a complete waste.

 

But things are never what they seem. I am never upset for the reason I think. I am the one that supplies all of the meaning to my perception. And I choose to see the entire day as a positive adventure of personal growth and insight.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

Energy vibrated through my spine as I devoured an unexpected email yesterday morning.

 

The text portion of Eduardo’s message read simply: “SI TIENES LA POSIBILIDAD NO TE LO PIERDAS”, which translated means “If it is in any way possible, do NOT miss this.”

 

Attached to the email was a complicated four-page flyer, written entirely in Spanish, advertising the twenty-first annual world-wide ceremony of “Dos de Octubre”—a meeting of the sacred feminine circles, celebrating the life of Regina.

 

Exactly three weeks ago, I spent an afternoon listening to Eduardo passionately share stories of Regina, how she spent her childhood years in Tibet, having been given spiritual keys to bring to the native tribes in Mexico, then being martyred after having marched through the streets of Mexico City with her followers on October 2^nd, 1968. I was fascinated as Eduardo shared this story, and a deep desire to learn more about Regina’s life continues to flow through me.

 

While reading Eduardo’s email, a feeling of excitement settled in as I realized I was being presented with an opportunity to experience Regina’s story first hand, with a variety of native people who devote their lives to continuing the unified spiritual awakening that she initiated.

 

On Sunday, a group of people will be walking, dressed in white, from the Basilica de Guadalupe to the Bosque de Chapultepec. This is a reenactment of Regina’s famous spiritual march. After the march will be a six-hour meditation service. Then, on Wednesday and Thursday, the same people will gather in a nearby city, at Regina’s former home,  participating in dance, song, stories, meditation, Temazcales (sweat lodges), and all night vigils.

 

As I wrangled with the difficult task of translating the flyer’s details, my body began to be consumed with doubt and fear—panic might be a more accurate term.

 

Although the flyer implied that the celebration was in and around Mexico City, I could find no written confirmation of such. The names and locations mentioned were all foreign to me. I began to scour the internet, looking for information about the places listed in the email, but most were quite ambiguous, and left me with large gaping doubts.

 

“Why am I feeling so terrified?” I gently queried within, digging more deeply into the origin of my fear.

 

In past travels to unfamiliar places, I have rarely experienced even the slightest feeling of fear. In those prior trips, I have always had sufficient up-front time to research and orient myself. Feeling in charge of my destiny, I consistently armed myself with advance reservations and an excess of information and maps.

This trip was different, however. I would definitely not be prepared, having no knowledge whatsoever of the area. I began to feel partially paralyzed by a barrage of insecurities. As I slipped into my fears, I imagined how lost I would feel as I literally dropped myself off in the middle of a large metropolitan jungle with nearly 20 million residents.

 

“What if I am in the wrong city entirely? Where will I sleep? Will I be able to find the places where I am supposed to meet others? What happens if I cannot find them? If I do find them, will I be welcomed and included, or excluded as an outsider?”

 

But, above all, my biggest fears revolved around language. “Am I fooling myself, or am I actually up to the task of traveling and communicating in Spanish … asking questions … and being able to understand the answers?”

 

In many ways, the emotions reminded me somewhat of how I felt four years ago when my heart literally demanded that I go back to school. Though my current feelings were nowhere near as strong, I definitely “knew” that I am going to Mexico City.” At the same time, my ego/left-brained voices screamed “Hell no you are not… you are out of control … you don’t know what you are doing … there is no way can go to Mexico City this week … you need more time and more planning.”

 

Along with the fear, another thought crossed powerfully through my mind. “How can I possibly expect to travel in other unknown foreign countries if I cannot get over this silly fear? This experience will be critical in gaining needed skills and confidence.”

 

With the internal debate still raging, I headed to the plaza to consume some lunch; I was literally starving. In response to a strong unconfirmed hunch that I would soon be visiting with Eduardo, I opted to ride my bicycle. After satisfying my hunger cravings, I picked up my cell phone and dialed Eduardo’s number.

 

“I would really like to talk to you about this “Dos de Octubre” event in Mexico City.” I began.

 

After a short discussion, Eduardo invited me, “Come over right now, I am home right now and have the free time to talk about everything.”

 

Soon, I was on my bicycle, excitedly zipping through the narrow streets of Cozumel, anxious to pose my burning questions.

 

As Eduardo and I began to talk, my mind was still racing through the doubts and fears of the unknown. Gradually, one by one, he answered every question. In a great act of generosity, Eduardo lovingly gave me three hours of his time, not only in providing answers, but also in sharing more stories, educating me about the places I will visit, describing the types of people who will be there, and summarizing the types of activities in which I may participate.

 

Having seriously considered just hopping onto a bus, I was grateful that Eduardo encouraged me to fly. “The bus will be an exhausting journey of over 24 hours,” he advised, “and the airplane only costs a little more.”

 

Then Eduardo provided me with the name and phone number of a good but inexpensive hotel, right near downtown where I need to be. I will be able to stay there for less than $20 (US) per night.

 

“I worry that I will feel like an outsider.” I confided, looking into his eyes to find some reassurance that I should really go. “I am nervous that the others might resent my presence there.”

 

To this Eduardo laughed and warmly said, “Brenda, There will be a wide variety of people there. Just join the march on Sunday. As you are walking along, start up conversations with people, getting to know them, sharing your story. Just as you and I have become friends, they will befriend and help you too. It will be just like you and I sitting here.”

 

Eduardo had such an air of genuine love and peace in his eyes as he confidently reassured me. His comments buoyed my spirit and my courage. “Yes,” I told myself, “I don’t know why I am so fearful. I have made new friends many times before, and I WILL do it again.”

 

Eduardo even gave me the name of a Mexican lady to look for—one of the organizers who participates every year—and better yet, she even speaks English.

 

After dinner, I began researching, and was amazed at how much information I found about the area. This logistical knowledge somewhat appeased my left brain, and peace returned to my soul. I began feeling very confident about the upcoming trip.

 

This morning, after sleeping on my feelings, I finalized my commitment. There is no going back.

 

I am now the proud owner of a round trip ticket on Aero Mexico. I leave Cancun early this Friday afternoon, arriving in Mexico City just a few hours later. After eight days in the Mexico City area, I will return to Cancun on Saturday afternoon, October 3rd.

 

I have not yet discussed arrangements with Rafael, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I will also be visiting his meditation group later that night before returning to Cozumel.

 

As I reflect back on my fears of yesterday, I actually find my feelings of panic to be quite comical. Throughout my entire life, I have always had some semblance of control—the type of control that comes from having a plan—from trying to be fully prepared.

 

Prior to yesterday, I had not given much consideration to how strongly my ego/left brain still wants to be the captain in charge—calling the shots, knowing where I am going to be and what I will be doing there.

 

It is my deepest desire to learn to completely trust my heart—to be able to step into the dense fog of the unknown with pure loving confidence and trust. While such peace is indeed my frequent partner, I apparently have a little more growth ahead of me.

 

A strong hunch tells me that this week’s events will take me deep into that fog, giving me ample opportunities to practice “experiencing the unknown.” Even though I know very little about what is about to unfold, my fears are now gone, being replaced instead by wonder, curiosity, and excitement.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

As I wait for my ferry on this beautiful Saturday morning, my mind is racing with anticipation. I have absolutely no expectations for today’s events. From a logical viewpoint, my twenty-one month obsession with Rafael’s Medicine Man makes absolutely no sense at all. But, in my heart, it makes all the sense in the world.

 

As I ponder my upcoming reunion, just a little over an hour away, my mind is whisked back to a powerful scene in the movie “The Peaceful Warrior”. The two main characters, “Dan” and his mentor “Socrates” have been hiking up a mountain trail for several hours. Dan agreed to participate in the hike solely because Socrates had told him there was something special he really wanted to show him.

 

As they pause in a meadow, Dan, feeling physically exhausted but still filled with wonder and expectation, queries “Are we almost there? How much further is it?”

 

Socrates slyly grins as he replies, “We are already here, now.”

 

As he looks around, observing the ordinary nature of the small mountain meadow, Dan, feeling quite annoyed, exclaims in a whining tone of voice, “This? This is what you brought me to see? It had better not be that flower over there! Soc, please tell me it is not that stupid flower!”

 

Socrates looks down and kicks a large rock by Dan’s feet and replies, “No … not that flower … this rock.”

 

Dan momentarily fights back the anger, complaining about all his wasted effort, his exhaustion, his sheer disappointment, his ruined expectations.

 

Socrates simply smiles and peacefully says, “Funny, you seemed to be so incredibly happy throughout the entire hike … that is until now. What happened, Dan?

 

After pausing for a few seconds of pondering, the light flashes on in Dan’s mind. He suddenly verbalizes “It is the journey that brings me joy, not the destination.”

 

As I eagerly wait for my ferry to Playa Del Carmen, I have absolutely no expectations regarding my rapidly approaching and somewhat mysterious reunion with Rafael. I could not even begin to anticipate what may or may not happen as we sit down and chat about this or that.

 

But I do have one absolute unwavering anchor of knowledge. The journey that continues to guide me—combined with the peace of here and now—has been fabulous. I would not forfeit one element of it, not for anything.

 

Internal growth and spiritual insights continue to flow into my life on a daily basis—and I have a powerful awareness residing in my heart that my journey has just begun. Regardless of the events that may (or may not) unfold today, I will be forever grateful to Rafael for the adventurous spiritual passion that he has helped to ignite within my heart.

 

Breakfast in Playa

 

Breakfast was great. I didn’t arrive at our meeting place until 10:00 a.m.. Rafael was quite mysterious, never providing me with a time—he had simply written “Meet me at the restaurant on Saturday morning.” Part of me wanted to arrive earlier, but a feeling of peace confirmed that the 9:00 a.m. ferry would be just fine.

 

“Rafael está aquí? (Is Rafael here?)” I asked a young waitress soon after walking into the small deli-style restaurant.

 

Disappearing into the back room, she emerged moments later. “He is coming soon,” is all she said, followed by “Please, take a seat.”

 

While waiting, I took advantage of the opportunity to feast on a late brunch of “Frutas D’Light”. The delicious crepe was perfect, filled with slices of banana and kiwi, covered with slightly-caramelized chocolate syrup and whipped cream, folded in half once—with the remaining half folded yet again. The stuffed crepe was then topped off with additional yummy chocolate syrup and whipped cream. I savored every bite, all the while envisioning what the remainder of my day might be like—actually feeling both peaceful and clueless all at the same time.

 

Moments after the waiter removed my empty plate, as I lightly patted my lips with a napkin, a familiar face walked through the large glass doors. Aside from the fact that he looked a little stressed, Rafael looked just like I remember him. He has a stout build, with a strong upper body—but walks with a strong limp, favoring a leg that was damaged in a surgery while he was still a young boy. His kind dark brown eyes met mine as he walked right toward me.

 

Rafael reached out his hand, which I completely ignored, as I instead embraced him in a warm hug. For a few brief minutes, he fiddled around behind the small bar in the restaurant, taking care of a few items of business before returning to sit at my table.

 

It was as if we never skipped a beat. After discussing his moves to Tulum and subsequently to Playa Del Carmen, our conversation quickly turned to the business at hand.

 

“Today, I am taking you to meet the man we talked about.” He began. “This afternoon, we will leave the restaurant at 1:00 p.m., and I will take you to a class with my teacher. Then, after the class, we will participate in the meditation service.”

 

“Wow.” I silently grinned. “He has this all figured out … I’m glad that I am flexible and did not make any other plans for today.”

 

“I wasn’t even sure if you would remember me.” I stated—but it was really a question.

 

“Of course I remember you.” He lovingly replied. “You don’t make that kind of a connection with very many people. How could I forget that?”

 

“We might not be done in time tonight for you to catch a ferry back to Cozumel.” Rafael continued. “If we don’t, I will find a place for you to sleep, perhaps at my sister’s place. Is that OK with you?”

 

“Yes” was my immediate reply. For a moment, I silently chided myself for not following my tiny hunch to bring makeup and my laptop power cord. I have no pajamas, no toiletries of any kind, no change of clothes, and no makeup … but I realized that absolutely none of that mattered in the least.

 

“You know, Brenda, I just found your email last week.” Rafael seemed to apologize. “I rarely check my email any more.”

 

“I totally understand.” I reassured him. “Your timing was perfect.”

 

I then proceeded to tell Rafael how grateful I am to him for inspiring me on my current path.

 

“You already had it inside of you.” He grinned.

 

“Yes, but you helped me find it there. You helped to uncover parts of it.” I bantered back.

 

We chatted for a few more minutes before Rafael let me know, “I have errands to run and work to do. I will meet you back here at 1:00 p.m., and we can leave from here. Does that work for you?”

 

Fully taking advantage of my two free hours, I set out on foot to see a little more of Playa Del Carmen. After walking thirty two blocks (sixteen each way) to purchase a couple of books (in Spanish) that Eduardo recommended, I now sit on the beach under a small thatched umbrella. I am driven to document every step of this magical journey as it unfolds. In just fifteen minutes I will take my next steps into the unknown. Peace and giggly anticipation are my constant walking companions.

 

The Morning After

 

I’m getting a late start as I begin my writing on this beautiful Sunday morning—the day after an encounter that is both an ending and a new beginning.

 

Ending are twenty-one months of wondering and pondering about Rafael’s mysterious Medicine Man. The anticipation is now replaced by eagerness to participate in a new story, one that is just beginning to unfold. Only time will tell where the plot may yet lead.

 

Miguel just now strolled by—and didn’t even see me. Just happening to glance up at the right moment, I called out to him. As he turned around, his eyes lit up and a large smile formed on his face. For ten minutes we shared recent updates from each others’ lives. Almost two weeks have zoomed along since we last visited, and Miguel made a point of letting me know how much he has missed me.

 

“I think about you constantly.” He reminded me. “Do you still think about me too?”

 

“I think about ALL of my friends, very often.” I began. “I love my friends, and I love you very much … as my friend.”

 

Miguel smiled, and then flashed a sad look in his eyes. “I fear that very soon you are going to go away and I will just stay here.”

 

“But I am going away … and you will be staying here.” I acknowledged while giving him a warm loving smile.

 

Miguel seemed obsessed to remind me. “I love you as a friend, I love you as a person, AND I love you as a woman. I think of you all of the time. How I wish that you could reciprocate those feelings to me.”

 

“Can you reciprocate?” Miguel lovingly asked, his eyes staring deeply into mine, seeming to long for an answer that he already knew was not possible.

 

“No, I’m sorry Miguel, I cannot.” I told him, with deep loving sincerity.

 

It kills me to break Miguel’s heart, yet I know that gentle honesty is the only response.

 

Miguel looked at his watch, indicating that he needed to resume walking to work. “Will I see you here in the plaza this evening?” he queried with warm genuine eyes.

 

“Yes, I will be here tonight.”

 

How could I say “no” after that—even being as tired as I feel today? Besides, I am anxious to practice a little more Sunday night Salsa dancing.

 

But I seem to be wandering from yesterday’s story.

 

Rafael and I got off to quite a late start yesterday, but I was not annoyed in the least—I simply used my spare time to study more Spanish. When he had originally asked me to meet at a restaurant where he works, I had worried, “Won’t he get in trouble for spending his work time talking to a friend?”

 

When we finally drove away from the restaurant at 2:20 p.m., Rafael apologized “I’m so sorry for making you wait … there are just so many things you have to do when you run a business.”

 

In the minutes that followed I learned that Rafael’s brother invested the money to purchase the building only three months ago, and that Rafael and his sister are partners. Rafael is on the go all day long trying to fulfill his responsibilities—both in running the business, and as a single father. “I don’t have time for much of anything else—except I always go to my meditation group every Saturday evening.” He explained.

 

While busily running several errands together, I continually bombarded Rafael with a series of questions, eager to learn anything I could about our upcoming evening.

 

“What spiritual tradition does your teacher follow?” I asked, expecting Rafael to say something like Mayan, Aztec, or Olmec.

 

“It is not like that,” Rafael replied. “My teacher does not follow a certain spiritual tradition. He takes truth from all sources and helps us to understand how to apply it in our lives.”

 

As I reflected on past conversations with Rafael, I quickly realized where my misunderstandings came from. During my first visit to Cozumel, Rafael had taught me a great deal about Mayan traditions and spirituality. Often, during these same conversations, we had discussed in depth many of Rafael’s own spiritual beliefs—but Rafael had never once told me that his beliefs were the same as those of the Mayans.

 

As I ponder similar conversations where Rafael discussed his powerful meditation group and his “Medicine Man” who guides it, I now reflect back and can clearly remember that Rafael never once called him a “Mayan Medicine Man”—the “Mayan” part was a misguided assumption that I had thrown into the mix, based on unrelated conversations.

 

“Maybe Medicine Man was not the proper translation for me to use.” Rafael apologized. “It was just the closest word that popped into my mind at the time. My teacher is a powerful spiritual man, very connected to the universe, and he does perform healings—what he does is quite close to what a Medicine Man does.”

 

I smiled inside at how easily I had let my assumptions fill in the gaps of my understanding. This whole experience causes me to seriously ponder “How much of my life is similarly created by unfounded assumption?”

 

“The answer is easy.” I tell myself. “My entire life, my whole reality, is one-hundred-percent created by my own personalized perception of what appears to be out there.”

 

Back to our conversation, I casually asked Rafael, “So where does the meditation group meet?”

 

I nearly fell off my seat when he replied, “Cancun.”

 

Never having been there, I have been thinking about a possible day excursion to Cancun—just to check out the city, to see what it is like.

 

“So we’re going there tonight?” I asked with surprise. “I was always under the impression that your meditation group met in Cozumel?”

 

Smiling at my confusion, Rafael filled me in. “Every Saturday, I used to take a ferry to Playa Del Carmen, then a bus to Cancun, and then a taxi to my teacher’s home. All that travel was difficult and expensive, but I somehow managed to do it almost every week.”

 

By now I was laughing inside with joyful gratitude. I realized that if I had known these facts a few months ago I would surely have missed out on many incredible experiences of my past three months—experiences that stemmed directly from searching in various different directions—all in Cozumel—until this week that is.

 

“So how is your son doing?” I continued. Even though I had never met Rafael’s son, I felt as if I already knew him. Rafael and I had talked a great deal about him.

 

“He is doing really well. We’re going to pick him up after we finish running errands. He is going to Cancun with us.” A twinge of excitement accompanied the thought that I would finally have the opportunity to meet him.

 

As we drove by Raphael’s home, he indicated that his son was out playing with friends. After a few blocks of searching, I spied three young boys and a young girl talking together in the street.

 

“There he is.” Rafael pointed proudly. “He is the one with the long hair.”

 

As those words streamed from Rafael’s tongue, I had to do a double take as the young girl with long hair approached the driver’s window. He was so pretty! I had a difficult time believing he was a boy. With his beautiful, well groomed, straight black hair, falling just below his shoulders, along with his delicate facial features, and the high-pitched voice of a nine-year-old, I would never have ever believed otherwise.

 

Rafael explained, “My son loves his hair long. The schools have been giving me a really hard time, but I tell them that I support my son having his hair any way that makes him happy, and they just have to get over it. I am not going to make him cut it.”

 

“Good for you!” I congratulated him, while silently beginning to wonder if the universe had guided me into Rafael’s life for perhaps another reason. “Could this beautiful young boy be transgendered, just like me?” I pondered. The thought continues to radiate through my soul today as I write. A strong feeling tells me the subject will likely be breeched in the not too distant future—but only if my promptings take me there.

 

As we drove through Cancun, the journey took us through areas that most tourists rarely see. Our first stop was the home of Rafael’s Medicine Man. Rafael had not yet asked his Medicine Man for permission to bring me to the group. While opening his door, Rafael instructed me, requesting “Please wait in the car, while I go talk to him.”

 

A few minutes later, Rafael emerged, saying “We can’t go in yet, he is getting ready for tonight … but yes, he says you can definitely come to our group.”

 

Then after a short pause, Rafael continued, “He says he can feel your spirit, and that you have an important mission to fulfill in the world. And he also told me that you have something to teach me—but he didn’t say what that is.”

 

Those last two sentences were now stuck in my mind. “I wonder what he meant by that?” I humbly and silently pondered.

 

“We’re going to a very poor area of town.” Rafael prepared me, as he resumed his driving. “My friends Sylvia and Victoria are cooking us dinner. We’re going to Victoria’s daughter’s home.”

 

Minutes later, Rafael turned his car down a bumpy dirt road in a neighborhood very similar to the less affluent areas that I have explored on my bicycle here in Cozumel—roads leading out among the more humble homes.

 

Being filled to overflowing with love and peace, I was prepared for anything. As we entered the small rural home, I could feel that same love being reflected back at me.

 

Looking around, eager to take it all in, I noted that we were in a large room constructed of concrete blocks. To my left was a big rectangular living area, almost devoid of furnishings. Several photos of children hung on the raw unfinished walls, along with a few paintings that appear to have been created perhaps by the same children. Those were the only obvious wall décor. A single large hammock stretched from one wall, ending at a large concrete column just right of center.

 

Everything to the right of the column appeared to be the kitchen and dining area. There was a small refrigerator, a few feet of counter space with a small microwave oven on it, and a gas range. Conspicuously absent was any hint of indoor plumbing or a sink. Nestled right up against the concrete column was a small table with a clean, red and white plastic tablecloth, surrounded by five chairs. In front of each chair, silverware and napkins were carefully arranged on the tablecloth.

 

Peace and love continued to glow in my heart as I responded to Sylvia’s simple request, “Please sit.” Soon we were feasting on chicken with an orange colored spicy Mexican sauce and a large plate of white rice. Each of us was given a glass two-thirds full of Pepsi to wash down the food.

 

Rafael noticed that Victoria was not eating. After asking her why, she protested “I was starving and I already ate earlier. Please, eat up.”

 

I couldn’t help but wonder, “Am I eating her food?”

 

Realizing the only polite thing to do was to continue eating, that is exactly what I did. I devoured everything on my plate. The spicy chicken was actually quite tasty (but a little hotter than I am used to).

 

For most of dinner, Rafael, Victoria, and Sylvia chatted away rapidly, in conversation that completely escaped me. I listened intently to every sound, desperately attempting to pick out the words—but their accents and speed made comprehension nearly impossible for my weak listening skills. Several times, I could tell they were talking about me. Rafael had been filling them in about my journey, then they said something back.

 

Pausing, Rafael turned to me and interpreted in English. “They are saying that you have such a beautiful glow of light and peace in your eyes.”

 

My heart just melted. Hearing this just made me glow even brighter. I was literally basking in the feeling of intense peace.

 

As Rafael and I finished eating and excused ourselves from the table, I noted that Victoria’s daughter and grandchildren then sat down and began to eat. This made me feel a little better as I realized that there must be enough food to go around.

 

Rafael and I sat outside under the shade in front while the family visited and cleaned up. “Do you understand how little money these people have?” Rafael asked. “They consider this a great honor to do this service to us. Tonight’s food was a delicacy for them, and was not cheap.”

 

“I know,” I replied, “I could sense the same thing. I feel very humbled and honored.”

 

Then I began to squirm. “I’m going to need a restroom soon.” I began. “Should I ask to use one here, or would it be better to wait till we go back to your Medicine Man’s home?”

 

“It would be better if you can wait.” He replied. “We’ll be leaving in thirty minutes.”

 

Again, the thought passed through my mind, “I wonder whether they even have indoor plumbing?”

 

Shortly before we drove to our next destination, Rafael’s son and Victoria’s grandchildren were playing together nearby. Out of the blue, Rafael heard one of the children refer to his son as “ella” (she).

 

Rafael smiled and gently corrected the child, “It is ‘he’, not ‘she’”

 

I soon realized that I am not the only one who sees the feminine beauty in this sweet nine-year-old boy.

 

Immediately after walking into the meditation room, Rafael’s Medicine Man greeted me in Spanish. “You are very welcome to our home. I am very pleased that you are here. Please, have a seat.”

 

I understood everything, so Rafael didn’t need to translate on my behalf.

 

Rafael sat down on one side of me, his son on the other, all of us on the front row. Looking around, I saw that we were in a large outdoor room, with high concrete walls. Above us was a thatched roof, around the edges of which were five or six large blowing fans, circulating air all around the inside of the room.

 

On one side of the room were three rows set up for participants, each containing perhaps ten white plastic lawn chairs. Facing us, the Medicine Man had his own lawn chair, a small easel, a table with a variety of large quartz crystals, and a large wicker basket filled to the brim with a variety of fruit.

 

Gradually, around twenty people filtered into the room. While quietly observing, I noticed that everyone addressed Rafael’s Medicine Man as “Maestro,” which literally means “Teacher,” so that is how I will consistently refer to him from this point forward.

 

For about an hour, Rafael’s Teacher led a presentation about the process of manifesting things into our life. Discussing concepts very similar to the movie “The Secret”, the Teacher also briefly summarized the structure of the brain, and emphasized that creating actual change in our life requires that we get our thoughts to pass through our frontal cortex, past our mid brains, and into the emotion-based primitive brain.

 

“When we combine the thinking of our desires with our emotional centers,” he explained, “that is where the real power comes from. That is when our manifestations will come true.”

 

This sounds a lot like what one of my favorite teachers, Gregg Braden teaches when he emphasizes that it is not the words that make a prayer, instead, it is the emotion and beliefs behind the words that adds the power.

 

Amazingly, as the Teacher spoke, I understood almost every word. He was speaking loudly, slowly, and clearly enunciating. My language skills surprised even me. There was no need for Rafael to translate for me at all.

 

In keeping with the day’s discussion theme, the Teacher preceded the meditation sequence by asking everyone to write down three things that they want to manifest into their lives. Then, he asked them to focus on those three things during our meditation.

 

I cannot say that I got much out of my first meditation experience with Rafael’s Teacher. As we began the meditation, everyone put on blindfolds—helping us to have the same effect as if we were in a dark room. For about thirty minutes, the teacher guided us.

 

I frequently flounder during guided meditations. My noisy brain likes to throw temper tantrums, wandering all over the place, not letting me visualize anything. During last night’s meditation, I was distracted and began to have a difficult time understanding the Teacher’s words. At two points in the meditation, I heard blowing noises all around me. My curiosity was peaked as my “Weird” alarms began going off in my logical left brain—causing me to completely lose focus. The confusing nature of what people were doing caused a small amount of judgment to momentarily enter into my awareness

 

As the meditation ended, the Teacher asked each person to share their meditation experience. Some simply made a brief statement, while others described what had taken place for them. Unfortunately, my language skills again evaporated during this phase, as most people’s rapid speaking blew right by my ears as a series of unintelligible sounds. When my turn for sharing arrived, I simply and genuinely said “I am filled with love and peace,” which was definitely still the case. In spite of not really enjoying the meditation, I continued to feel the profound glow inside my heart.

 

About 8:30 p.m., Rafael leaned over and said “I think we can still make your ferry back to Cozumel if we leave now.”

 

As we drove away, Rafael explained that during the remainder of the gathering, everyone divides into small groups and discusses their meditation experiences with each other. “Don’t feel bad about making me miss anything.” He reassured me. “I often leave at this time because I have a long drive and need to get back to the restaurant.”

 

As we sped back toward Playa Del Carmen, Rafael took me by way of the Hotel district, showing off the amazing array of huge elaborate expensive resorts that line the beaches of Cancun. I could only think, “These are beautiful, but Cozumel is so peaceful.”

 

As we slowly rounded a single-lane onramp leading onto the high-speed highway, Rafael suddenly screeched his brakes as a car came headed right toward us. The lady in the other car barely stopped in time. As they rolled down their windows to talk to each other, Rafael lovingly explained to her that she was driving the wrong way on the one-way ramp. As we drove away, Rafael seemed quite shaken by what almost happened, but I just smiled and continued to glow inside. For some strange reason, I did not experience even the slightest amount of fear. Absolute peace continued to resonate within.

 

Before we got too far, Rafael explained to me the funny blowing noises during the meditation. “As we were manifesting our desires,” he began, “we pulled the energy of the manifestation through our seven energy levels—kind of like Chakras. As the energy reaches our mouth, we form a cupping motion with our hands, and blow away any dirty energy which has collected.”

 

After hearing this explanation, I had a frame of reference to relate the experience to other energy work I have witnessed.

 

Our driving home conversation was continuous and rich with meaning as we discussed the evening’s events, explored our spiritual beliefs, talked about his journey in raising his son, and my journey to Cozumel.

 

We also discussed our desire to have more discussions in the future.

 

“You know where and how to find me.” Rafael told me. “I’m at the restaurant almost every day. Don’t email me though, because I rarely check my computer—but I’ll give you my phone number. Please, come on Saturdays and go to Cancun with me anytime that you want.”

 

“I would love to go again.” I told him. “Tonight was a fascinating experience, and I am determined to remain open minded. I want to learn from all traditions.”

 

The last ferry for Cozumel leaves Playa Del Carmen at 10:00 p.m., and we barely made it. Rafael dropped me off two blocks from the terminal (the closest car access), and I ran to the ticket booth. With less than five minutes to spare, I purchased my ticket, ran down to the loading area, and scampered up the ramp.

 

Choosing an upstairs seat, one where the window opened wide, I leaned my head out the window all the way across the channel. With the breeze blowing in my hair, I looked up toward the faint stars above—but my mind was elsewhere. Deeply immersed in the energy of my experience, I was lovingly pondering the fact that in just a matter of a few short weeks, I am now exploring three different spiritual paths all at the same time—gleaning anything and everything that speaks to my heart, and simply loving every moment.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

I’m speechless, wondering how to even begin painting this image. I’m sitting on a wall at the southwest corner of the plaza. As I prepared to write, just moments ago, my attention was captured by the loud beating of distant ceremonial drums. Expecting to find a group of local people continuing to celebrate their nation’s independence, my assumption could not have been further from the truth.

 

Five Native American men, dressed in elaborate ceremonial garb, are entertaining a small gathering of tourists. How I wish I had my camera. It is at times like this when I realize that no picture painted simply with words could ever do justice to the incredible sight right before my eyes.

 

Each of the five is costumed differently, wearing authentic headdresses of incredible workmanship. One has the head of a jaguar, with a bundle of black feathers bursting upward from his crown. Another, the skull of a large bird, with a huge plume of ornate feathers fanning out above his head, like an eagle with its wings spread wide. A shrunken human skull adorns the head feathers of another—giving the eerie feeling of a cannibal warrior.

 

Their body paint is equally unique. One sports an earthen-greenish glow, with intricate Aztec-like imagery painted on his bare chest, arms and legs, his feathered headgear resembling a small Aztec temple. Another radiates a pale orange, with a seeming animal-like glow, painted with leopard spots. The others remind me of a mixture between Amazon jungle cannibals and the not-of-this-earth villains from the movie “The Mummy.”

 

Most wear only loin cloths; one also has thin leather shoulder protectors—like ancient Egyptian armor, cut with square edges in the shape of an upside down pyramid. Earthen in color, this shoulder armor was decorated with emerald green and dark brown spots and rectangular lines. The greenish warrior wears a necklace made from animal claws, and also wears the jawbone of a small fox or wolf as if it were a large bracelet pushed up around his elbow.

 

Several wear a variety of ornate leather protectors around their shins; all wear bundles of dried seedpods tied to their ankles, emitting a rattling sound as they ceremoniously dance and circle the flames.

 

As the drums beat wildly on, the sound of a flute gently wafts through the air as one native warrior dances perilously close to flames that burn in a small ceramic urn. Holding his bare foot just two inches above the flames, he defies the intense heat, standing strongly, with no signs of flinching.

 

The drumming stops, the warriors suddenly become everyday people, encouraging tourists to take photos and leave tips. Even with their smiles and conversation, something about these warriors feels real, authentic. Their costumes, makeup, and body language are so genuine that picturing them as anything else is a stretch, even while I observe it with my own eyes.

 

Now they move on, picking up their drums, their urns, their feathery garb, looking for more tourists—someone more interested in photos and tips. My heart yearns for more.

 

Patiently Waiting

 

Exactly one week has passed since I engaged in my own fire ceremony. Early last Thursday morning, as I sat by my sunrise campfire, meditating with the energy of Mexico’s native spirit guides, I asked that I might be welcomed into their land—that new doors might be opened to me. I could never have anticipated how quickly these doors would begin to form.

 

Tuesday morning, as I sat in my kitchen, reading a relaxing book, I heard a beep and glanced over at my laptop screen. A new email was showing in my inbox. Slightly curious, I set my book aside and strolled over to my computer, not really expecting anything important.

 

My heart jumped with excitement as I recognized the return email address—my new message was from Rafael.

 

In the first few months after leaving Cozumel in December of 2007, I had felt a sense of urgency. I was unable to shake those powerful resonating words, “Brenda, you need to come back and meet my Medicine Man.”

 

Rafael had mentioned that he might move to Puerta Vallarta in six months, and I wanted to act quickly. I desired to return to Cozumel while the emotions were fresh—before he had a chance to move away.

 

Over a period of those first few months, I sent Rafael perhaps three emails, asking “Please tell me when would be a good time for me to come back. I am really fascinated by the thought of meeting your medicine man.”

 

A few months later, I was thrilled to finally find a response in my inbox. But my eager emotions were quickly met with disappointment. Rafael’s email was entirely superficial with stuff like “How are you Brenda? It is so good to hear from you. Please tell me about yourself and your life.” He didn’t even mention the Medicine Man or answer any of my questions.

 

That was the last and only email I ever received from Rafael. I replied almost immediately—but he had never reciprocated—seeming to simply disappear.

 

My internal passion remained clear—I knew deeply in my heart that one day I needed to return to Cozumel—there was literally no doubt in my soul concerning this matter. But my intuition also said “slow down Brenda … it is not time yet … Rafael is not responding because he also knows it is not time … just be patient and trusting … you will yet return … someday when the circumstances will be perfect.”

 

About a year ago, I sent another email to Rafael, letting him know of my continued spiritual growth and my continuing desire to return one day. “Are you still living in Cozumel?” I asked him. “If not, can you give me any information about your Medicine man so I can find him on my own?”

 

Rafael never responded—zip—nada—yet I remained at peace. I trusted my feelings, feelings that continued to simply say “patience … keep waiting … it will happen.”

 

Imagine my feelings just a few months ago as my internal promptings came to life—promptings that told me “now is indeed the time to return to Cozumel.” The feelings were so powerful that I knew I would be here for an extended stay regardless of whether or not I ever heard from Rafael. I was fascinated by the possibilities yet entirely unattached in any way to the outcome.

 

Just in case though, I sent another email in Rafael’s direction, telling him about my plans. This was only my second email attempt in twelve months. I was not in the least bit surprised by his continued silence. Complete peace continued to engulf my soul. Trusting my instincts, I knew that all would work out exactly as it needs to.

 

Three short weeks ago, after I discovered Villa Maya on an inspired jungle bicycle ride, I followed promptings in my heart and made one last attempt at emailing Rafael—still trusting the universe—not really expecting a reply from him.

 

Last Thursday, as my incredible sunrise bicycle journey came to an energetic conclusion, abundant peace permeated my being. A feeling of profound gratitude flooded through my heart, accompanied by the recognition that were it not for Rafael’s mysterious participation in my life I may never have begun my present-day journey.

 

Today, my mind cannot even fathom the thought of a being on a different path, and I have Rafael to thank for igniting the internal passions that continue to inspire me as I step into the unknown.

 

In keeping with his mysterious style, Rafael’s email this week was quite cryptic. “Brenda, meet me in Playa Del Carmen on Saturday morning at <so and so> restaurant on the corner of <such and such> streets. I work there now.”

 

On Saturday morning, I will step into this next phase of my adventure with a deep sense of wonder, still holding absolutely no attachment to any outcome. It is hard to fathom how my journey could become any more energized.

 

Peruvian Possibilities

 

Yesterday, as I explored the streets of Playa Del Carmen, my first goal was to scout the area, to make sure I could find the restaurant where I will be meeting Rafael this Saturday. My second goal was to attend a spiritual support group for “A Course in Miracles.”

 

Eduardo had felt inspired to give me Michiko’s phone number, telling me “Brenda, she is a very spiritual lady … you absolutely must meet her.”

 

It baffles me, but I have always been intimidated by the thought of telephoning a complete stranger. For several days, I avoided the phone call—a call which I knew was inevitable.

 

My heart continuously pressed me, “You know you have to make this call … there is no avoiding it! … get over it already … this is an important part of your path.”

 

My ego resisted, saying, “No … I don’t want to … I feel stupid … she doesn’t know who I am … she won’t want to talk to me.”

 

A few days ago I finally suppressed my silly insane fears long enough to punch in Michiko’s phone number and press the call button. Once she answered there was no going back.

 

As we first began to converse, I had no idea if Michiko even spoke English. After exchanging Spanish greetings, and a few more introductory sentences, I simply asked her. Peaceful calm settled in as her reply was, “Yes, I do speak English.”

 

Through our short phone conversation, I explained who I was, and asked about the “A Course In Miracles” study groups that she hosts. “We have them at my home every Wednesday evening at 6:00 p.m. … Will I see you this week?”

 

Even while knowing that the groups were conducted entirely in Spanish, my peaceful heart responded “Yes, absolutely.”

 

Soon, I surprised even myself when I asked, “Can I come by your home earlier so we can have a chance to visit and get to know each other?”

 

My past self would have died at the thought of being so bold as to ask for extra time from a perfect stranger—but my new self just blurted it out, with no planned forethought. It is amazing what comes out of my mouth when I surrender to my internal voices.

 

“Yes, meet me at 5 p.m.” she responded. I was thrilled and excited by the prospect of meeting yet another new spiritual friend, at the same time clueless as to why I was doing so. Ego tried to convince me that traveling frequently to Playa Del Carmen is too expensive and time consuming—that I was just wasting time and money.

 

Last night’s one-on-one conversation with Michiko was fascinating. In addition to her study of my favorite spiritual path, she has considerable experience in many spiritual traditions—and we briefly delved into many of these. Having a completely open mind, I simply became a sponge—absorbing all that I could.

 

Michiko told me about a friend who has become immersed in Incan spiritual traditions—a friend who now lives in Peru between Machu Pichu and Cuzco. I asked many questions, because the thought of Peru becoming one of my future bicycle stops has been resonating deeply with my soul for more than a month.

 

I was one of four women at the study group. Amazement would be an appropriate term to describe my feelings when I realized that I was able to communicate so easily with these women—in Spanish nonetheless. The evening was delightful, spiritually uplifting, and meditative.

 

As our group discussion came to a close, Michiko took us on a journey through a guided meditation. Visual imagery has never been my strong point, and I expected to struggle with language—but I was pleasantly surprised on both counts. The mediation was powerful, deeply moving, and incredibly relaxing. As Michiko spoke slowly, melodically, I actually understood almost everything. The spiritual peace I experienced was profound.

 

As much as I thoroughly enjoyed the entire evening, it was our short parting discussion that most intrigued me. First, Michiko pointed to her couch and said “Brenda, this sofa folds out into a bed. It is yours any time you are here and want to spend the night.”

 

Then, when I asked Michiko for her email address, she handed me a card and said. “I will also give you my friend in Peru’s contact information. She is a good person to know when you go there. She already has many connections with the local Shamans.”

 

My heart nearly skipped a beat as my mind played back that last sentence. I could already feel the energy of being in Peru with Michiko’s friend, near Cuzco, meeting and interacting with these Peruvian spiritual leaders.

 

After exchanging a round of hugs, I scurried out into the darkness, hailed the first taxi I came across, and zoomed back to the center of town—arriving just in time to catch the 8:00 p.m. ferry.

 

As I look back, pondering the unfolding events of these past few days, I cannot help but be intrigued by the possibilities. Indeed, it seems as if doors are literally forming right in front of me everywhere I go, requiring no effort on my part. It truly seems that all I need do is connect with the silence of my internal voices and quietly step through each door as it swings open.

 

The picture seems so obvious to me now. If Rafael had responded any sooner, I would most likely have stopped searching elsewhere. I might have completely missed out on my memorable experiences with Eduardo and now Michiko—and Michiko seems to be handing me the keys to a future bicycle adventure in the mountains of Peru.

 

As I step through each open door, the anticipation is magical.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

As I commence typing on this beautiful afternoon, I find myself seated in a sheltered but open waiting area; a cool breeze fans my back while turquoise blue waters ripple just twenty feet in front of me. In less than forty-five minutes my feet will walk up a small metal ramp, boarding a large blue and yellow UltraMar passenger ferry, destination Playa Del Carmen. Today’s adventure is a spinoff of my visit last week with Eduardo. As you may recall, he filled me in on a very spiritual woman in Playa Del Carmen that studies “A Course In Miracles.” Tonight, I will attend a study group in her home—a gathering conducted totally in Spanish. This should be quite an interesting experience.

 

Physically slowing down, while continuing to maintain balance, has been my main accomplishment of the past few days. As much as I loved my bicycle adventure around the island, my body was definitely demanding time for rejuvenation. Hardly leaving home on Sunday and Monday, I focused a great deal of effort on studying Spanish grammar, which is still probably my most glaring language weakness.

 

Throughout these two quiet days, I stayed centered and balanced, maintaining positive energy levels while both mentally working and physically resting at the same time. Each time mental burnout began to set in, I gave myself a ‘variety’ break, enjoying recreational reading or listening to an audio-book on my IPOD. As simple as this may sound to some, for me it was a major accomplishment.

 

I’m now comfortably seated on a cushioned high-backed seat, inside the cabin of my ferry, up at the very front of the main level. A gentle swaying motion barely registers with my body’s senses as the ferry rocks back and forth in the light surf. Salty condensation partially obscures the gorgeous view out my large window—a view of an inviting shoreline that becomes increasingly familiar with each passing day.

 

The unfamiliar cold of powerful air conditioning sends chilled goose bumps up my arms and neck. Having become completely accustomed to a steady diet of sweltering sticky humidity, my body actually feels uncomfortably cold. A small smile forms on my face as I ponder the fact that just four months ago, I would have probably remained uncomfortably warm, even in this fresh cool air.

 

National Pride

 

For several weeks I have observed with fascination as the residents of Cozumel gradually began preparations to celebrate their nation’s independence. Exactly 199 years ago today, a small group of people in Dolores Mexico declared their independence from Spain.

 

Several weeks ago, I noticed with interest as local utility crews began to run white electrical wire throughout the downtown area. Up and down each street, the wires running from one light pole to the next were suspended about ten feet above the sidewalks. I finally understood their purpose when a variety of decorations created from green, white, and red lights began to pop up on these same light poles.

 

Street vendors, pulling large carts stacked high with Mexican flags and other green, white, and red merchandise, were common throughout the area. Mexican flags and colors began springing up all over the city—in restaurants, government buildings, the clock tower in the plaza, and just about anywhere else you can visualize.

 

Pardon the interruption, but a few hours have literally zoomed by. I now find myself barefoot; my tired and sore feet are half buried in the cool sand as I sit in the shade of a large green and white umbrella. As I continue my writing on one of Playa Del Carmen’s beautiful white sandy beaches, I can’t help but ponder about an encounter in my very near future.

 

In just three short days I will return yet again to this beautiful beach city to connect with a long lost friend. He finally responded to my email yesterday—I’ll let you guess just who “he” might be. After ninety minutes of exploring the area on foot, I am now adequately oriented, and know exactly where I will be meeting him on Saturday morning.

 

The many Independence Day celebrations in Cozumel have been a delightful exploration into the customs and culture of this beautiful people. Monday evening, I stumbled onto a darling program in the Parque De Quintana Roo (a large park by the government offices). As I approached a small outdoor theatre, I noticed several groups of four and five year old children, all dressed in the cutest of traditional garb. The costumes were beautiful, with the little girls wearing brilliantly colored dresses and elaborate hair scarves, while the young preschool boys were decked out in black velvet slacks and jackets, white shirts, green and red bowties, and black velvet sombreros with looping silver trim. My favorite event was when a group of these young preschoolers re-enacted the “Grito de Dolores” (more on that later).

 

Tuesday evening took on an even more diverse flavor. My new friend JayDee and I found great aisle seats near the stage of the Independence-Day-eve festivities—directly below the balcony at the Palacio Municipal (the local government building). With activities commencing shortly after 7:30 p.m., the stage erupted into a continuous extravaganza of authentic local culture. For three and a half hours we watched as a myriad of singers, dance groups, a theatrical troupe, and two different bands entertained the crowd. Much better than any paid show, this event was staged by the local people, for local people, to celebrate their own culture and traditions.

 

Observing the crowd of families surrounding me was every bit as fun as watching the program itself. A gathering of several thousand people—from elderly grandparents to very young children—and everything in between—gathered together for these official ceremonies.

 

Every year, shortly before midnight on the evening of September 15^th, people all over Mexico assemble for a reenactment of the “Grito de Dolores”—the primary event that sparked their ten-year battle for independence.

 

Shortly before 11:00 p.m., the stage lights lowered as a fantastic band “Hombres de Negro” (Men in Black) finished playing their final musical number. Soon the dark stage was occupied by a cadre of soldiers in full combat uniform, including helmets, some carrying weapons, others carrying large bugle-like horns. The sharp sound of these blaring horns suddenly cut through the dark silence as the soldiers began sounding a traditional march. As the horns sounded, spotlights highlighted a large balcony extending from the second floor of the Palacio Municipal.

 

When the trumpets fell silent, a local female community leader presented a traditional rallying speech, shouting out for the people of Mexico to unite, to pull together. The exact text of the speech given in Dolores, Mexico has been lost—but tonight’s speech is one of many reconstructed versions thought to be very close to the original words.

 

The ceremony was finalized when the Mayor of Cozumel reenacted the actual “Gritos” (shouts). While ringing a loud bell, the mayor repeatedly called out “Viva Mexico” (Long Live Mexico), “Viva Mexico, “Viva Mexico.” I found myself feeling quite emotional as I observed the deep patriotism proudly displayed by all around me.

 

The cultural extravaganza ended as quickly as it began—with the soldiers retiring and the spotlights going dark.

 

Seconds later the skies erupted in a spectacular display of fireworks. Some streamed from the roof of the Palacio, while most were launched from a barge a short distance off shore. The colorful rockets shot high into the sky, creating loud powerful booms as they exploded, almost directly overhead, in brilliant displays of elaborate color.

 

As JayDee and I strolled back toward her car, she filled me in on the fact that a band in the other corner of the large park would soon begin playing—with the music and festivities continuing until 3 or 4 a.m. in the morning.

 

“Not for me,” I thought to myself. “I don’t do all nighters very well—even on special occasions like this.” Shortly after midnight, my head was comfortably resting on my pillow.

 

Today, just seven hours ago, I sat on a low curb along the main waterfront street, enjoying another unique immersion into local culture—the Independence Day parade. In the back of my mind, I had imagined something resembling a hometown U.S. parade—perhaps a few floats, marching bands, commercial entries, and a variety of local flare.

 

Having arrived a few minutes late, I cannot speak for the beginning of the parade, but I must say that I was surprised by the parade’s content. Yes, there were a few bands—but every one of them consisted only of a small group carrying drums and bugle-like horns—each playing the same traditional march song that was played by the soldiers late last night.

 

The vast majority of parade entries—and there were a great number of them—were marching students. It seemed as if every secondary school in Cozumel was represented. Following a group of students carrying the school’s banners, the remainder of that school’s student body marched behind, with each student dressed in his or her appropriate school uniform.

 

While a few student groups marched in a more casual manner, the majority were quite disciplined, stepping forcefully to the repetitive whistle of a drill leader. In many ways, the look and feel of most groups reminded me of a platoon of well trained soldiers. Using a fancy series of high-stepping footwork, these student groups rhythmically stomped their feet to the ground, each group adding their own unique twists. The choreographed arm-swinging movements were equally quasi-military-like. I found the whole display quite unique and fascinating.

 

My favorite entry in the parade was a group of “bomberos” (firemen) near the very end. Decked out in their heavy dark uniforms, including a variety of interestingly-shaped helmets, each firefighter carried a heavy piece of equipment. Many carried axes and large coils of thick ropes, but a few were carrying bulky tools such as a heavy-duty chainsaw, or even a portable circular saw with giant 16 inch blades. I cannot begin to imagine how difficult it would be to march several miles in that heat and humidity, wearing heavy uniforms, carrying such cumbersome equipment. My hat goes off to these men who frequently risk their lives in service to others.

 

Shortly after the parade ended, I zoomed home on my bicycle, loaded up my backpack with needed belongings, and hurried toward the ferry terminal to purchase tickets.

 

The hour is now late, my activities in Playa Del Carmen are now complete, and my return ferry is preparing to pull alongside the docks back in Cozumel. What a wonderful afternoon and evening this has been. I’ll have to fill you in later. For now, I plan to get some much deserved rest.

 

As my unique day of cultural experience draws to conclusion, I am filled with deep gratitude for the abundant freedoms that bless my life. It seems that with every step I take in the direction of shifting my perceptions, my sense of freedom and peace continues to expand.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

On this beautiful Saturday morning, a refreshing breeze is gracing the plaza. The relentless humidity seems to have subsided somewhat and I momentarily feel a slight chill on my lightly browned suntanned skin; how wonderful the feeling.

 

My attention is captured by a few diligent workers assembling a small stage in the plaza, directly opposite the gazebo where I am sitting with my bare feet up on the wall.

 

Tomorrow night, on this very stage, five local singers will compete in the finals of the “Canto Por Mi Patria” (I sing for my country) contest. By sheer luck, I accidentally stumbled across the preliminary competition last Sunday evening as I was searching for the missing band in the plaza. Soon, I found several hundred people gathered under the large Mexican flag, across the street near the water. A feeling of sheer delight radiated within as I witnessed the small home-town version of American Idol. The winner of tomorrow night’s final will proudly sing in next week’s Mexican Independence Day festivities.

 

Today marks the second time I have attempted to write these words. Last weekend I spent three frustrating hours before calling it quits. I was not satisfied with my writing—my thoughts felt impersonal and preachy. But now, with a little humility thrown into the mix, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can give this topic another go around.

 

In my writing, I frequently refer to my internal voices and/or guides. These same inner voices are guiding me to make an attempt at explaining myself.

 

Perhaps to some, I may appear a bit schizophrenic—especially with all my talk about hearing voices and placing blind faith in my intuitions. Others may wonder just ‘how is it’ that I hear and/or feel these voices. To be honest, I sometimes even wonder myself. But one thing is absolutely certain—I completely trust these voices with my life and my destiny.

 

There are many times in my life when these voices have been so incredibly clear that ignoring them would be utterly impossible. Such experiences are extremely powerful life changing events. Intuition dictates that I will yet be sharing a few examples of such profound events in my words today.

 

On other occasions, my guides are so quiet and discrete that considerable internal silence, trust and faith are required to even detect the voices at all. But as I reach the silence, a small familiar peaceful loving feeling lets me know that “yes, I am definitely still connected.”

 

Then there are the times where physical and emotional exhaustion get the better of me. Occasionally, my soul is so disconnected that I dream of just running away, returning to a normal and safe traditional life. But even in these deepest states of disconnect, powerful internal passions tell me that there is no going back. Deep loving spiritual memories of past experiences pick me up again and propel me forward.

 

As I write these words, I am again whisked back to my Monday morning crashing-airplane dream­. As you may recall, at the finale of the dream, I leaned over to my former wife and said the words “I don’t want to go back (referring to Cozumel), but I know I’m supposed to be there, and I am going.”

 

I think I finally appreciate the full meaning of that dream. Even facing the fears of my “seemingly-stable-world” crashing down all around me, I know in my heart that everything is perfect—exactly as it should be. No emergency crews or ambulances need to be called out. There is no doubt that I am exactly where I need to be. Tears swell in my eyes as I ponder these words. While my ego would love to have a few more clues about the future, my soul continues to say “relax in peace, joy, love, and gratitude … all will unfold in its time.”

 

To make the record clear, I am not aware of ever having actually heard a discernable, audible voice from any invisible source. I am unable to conjure up a single memory, occurring in normal waking life, where my physical ears have ever heard such a mystical voice speaking out of the ether. I believe that such things do indeed happen, and I have listened intently to personal accounts shared by others—but such physical hearing has not, as of yet, been an occurrence in my own life.

 

So why then do I keep referring to these voices—and when and how exactly do I hear them?

 

First of all, I want to emphasize that I am not talking about religion here. Having been raised in a deeply religious environment, I grew up with absolutely no concept of the difference between spirituality and religion. I simply assumed that the two were inseparably joined at the hip.

 

Just six years ago, I finally realized that “I can be deeply spiritual—having a deep internal connection with my divine source—outside the boundaries of any type of religious affiliation whatsoever.”

 

Today, I hold no judgment—good or bad—toward any religion. I am fascinated by various beliefs and rituals—yet my heart tells me to permanently align myself with none of them. And that brings me right back to my voices.

 

Perhaps, for the purpose of example, it would be helpful to briefly share a few profound and undeniable experiences that continue to shape my life. The first happened almost four years ago. In that era I was still fearfully engaged in my career as a computer software engineer. In my early years I had derived great pleasure from my accomplishments, and was actually extremely talented at the work I performed. I brought home big bucks, enjoyed a very comfortable lifestyle, and was very content with the growth path that my life was following.

 

Perhaps you picked up on my “fearfully engaged” comment above. In the previous few years, I began to experience a feeling of deep dissatisfaction with my employer, the work I was doing, and the software engineering field in general. I felt deeply trapped in my career, yet I was terrified to consider anything else. I thought I needed the money to survive. Along with my comfortable lifestyle came big financial obligations, the largest of which was continued alimony payments to my former spouse.

 

It was late autumn of 2005. After tiredly enduring a long work day, I was eagerly driving my red Jeep out of the company parking lot, totally clueless about what was about to occur. As I steered my trusty little jeep down the freeway on-ramp, a profound and powerful feeling overwhelmed my entire body.

 

“You’re going back to school to get a masters degree in counseling,” was a powerful thought that boldly emblazoned itself into my heart. Somehow, at a profoundly deep internal level I suddenly and absolutely “knew” this inaudible voice to be true.

 

“Hell no, I’m not!” I exclaimed in sheer terror. “I can’t do that … I have bills to pay … I’m too old … I cannot go back to school at age 52 … my life is comfortable and stable … there is no way!”

 

The whole concept of starting over—giving up my security blanket—literally horrified me. My future was supposed to be predictable and comfortable. I had earned that right.

 

Immediately, gushing tears began streaming down my cheeks as I violently resisted the “knowing” that was pulsing through my soul. Thirty seconds later, my eyes were so filled with tears that I was forced to pull over and park in the emergency lane. I could hardly see the freeway through the flood that was pouring out from my water-logged eyelids.

 

Anxiety-filled resistance dominated my life for about five days. I could not sleep, experienced almost continuous nausea, and was plagued by tight throbbing pounding knots in my abdomen. My physical state resembled that of a firmly entrenched panic attack.

 

Finally, I stopped resisting and began using the internet to research masters programs. Almost immediately, an amazing feeling of calm peace settled into my body. Within two days I was meeting with an admissions counselor at a well-known after-hours university program. Peace and excitement accompanied the signing of papers as I eagerly committed myself to start over as a student in January of 2006.

 

The rest is history. Difficult times were ahead, but I was filled with passion and peace as I plodded through three and a half years of life-consuming homework, research papers, learning team projects, countless hours of reading long boring textbooks, and completing my 1000 hour internship.

 

Two years into my program, after over 29 years of programming, I was unexpectedly laid off. Joyfully, I embraced the experience as a blessing, realizing this was just another way for the universe to gently help me safely finish my transformation process. Again, a deep and peaceful sense of strong inner “knowing” let me know that it was not in my cards to return to software engineering. That phase of my life was over.

 

In early April of this year, just four and a half months ago, I began to ponder, “Just what am I going to do with my life when I finish this degree.” Travelling the world and writing a blog was the furthest thing from my mind—in fact it was not even on the radar scope.

 

I began to meditate and ponder the possibilities. “If I were to eliminate all of the external chatter of the world around me, exactly what would my heart tell me to do right now.”

 

Recording my thoughts in my journal, I let them gel for a day or two. One thing was clear—I felt driven to write and engage in a small amount of travel—but I was still very much caught up in the idea of pursuing licensure as a traditional mental health counselor.

 

Out of the blue, I awoke early on a Saturday morning with clear memories of an incredibly strange and extremely vivid dream.

 

I was in a small comfortable living space. A sense of awareness let me know that I lived in this space. Sitting on my bed in one corner of the “L-shaped” room, I was suddenly aware of a man moving his belongings into the other end. My first instinct was to immediately question “why is this man moving his stuff into my room?” But before I did so, a sense of peace settled into my heart with the simple acceptance of the fact that, “He is moving in for a while.”

 

After a lull in my awareness, I suddenly raised my eyes to the ceiling and was shocked to discover that my entire ceiling was covered by upside-down bicycles, hanging from hooks.

 

Feeling a sense of indignation I called out to the man “You’re not going to leave those there are you?”

 

Again, acceptance quickly overwhelmed me and I peacefully let the issue drop. A strong awareness that “all is well” flooded through my being.

 

Moments later, my eyes were drawn to the floor. Right before my toes was a crumpled up wad of tangled string. “Pick that up and throw it away,” seemed like the obvious thing I needed to do.

 

Bending over, I grabbed the string and began to lift it. As my fingers reached a few inches above the floor, a loud “Buzzzzttttt” sound startled me. The unnerving sound came from within the crumpled string. Fear momentarily caused me to release my grip. “Wow, that must be some large fly,” I thought to myself.

 

Feeling determined, even laughing at my fear, I regained my composure and bent over to try again. This time the “Buzzzttttt” sound was twice as loud, and I felt a burst of air coming from what I believed to be the wings of two large flies. Again, a startled fear caused me to let go.

 

“I’m throwing that away,” I told myself as I bent over for the third time—only to have the same thing happen yet again. This time I recognized that the noise was actually coming from four large honey bees.

 

Again and again, I attempted to pick up the string—each time dropping it in fear as the number of bees seemed to be doubling with each effort. Next there were eight, then sixteen. Too many to count, I simply had an internal intuition that the numbers were doubling with each attempt.

 

Soon, the entire string was crawling with bees, covered in beeswax and saturated with honey—and I was frightened to pick the string up by my fingers. Grabbing a nearby screwdriver, I placed the tip under the sticky mess. Feeling proud of my resourcefulness, I successfully lifted the string into the air.

 

As I began walking down a hall toward the front door, the bees began climbing onto my fingers. Fear momentarily gripped me before a calm memory surfaced “I used to work with bees as a teenager … they will not sting me unless I provoke them.”

 

Peacefully, I arrived at the front door, opened the latch, and flung the bees out into the nothingness that was my front yard. Turning around, as I pulled the door closed behind me, I glanced up.

 

There, sitting on a small sofa directly in front of me was my son, dressed in a dark black suit. I didn’t see her, but a distinct awareness flashed into my mind: “His fiancé is sitting right beside him.”

 

Almost as if on cue, I woke up, and began to immediately scribble down everything I could remember. While writing, the memories flowed with incredible ease and clarity.

 

When I began writing today, I had no intention of sharing the full details of this dream—but this now feels so appropriate. Such vivid dreams have been quite rare in my past, and this one seemed extraordinarily significant—only I had no clue how to interpret the symbolism.

 

Through meditation, discussions with spiritual friends, and looking things up in dream books—the meaning filtered rapidly into a powerful state of “knowing” in my heart. The man in my dream was one of my spiritual guides. He was moving into my space with the intention of being more available to help me. Each of the bicycles on my ceiling was a different color, representing potential spiritual journeys—journeys that I was free to choose and experience. My guide would help me select an appropriate next choice.

 

“Throwing out the string” represented letting go of the bonds that tied me down to my present life commitments. “The swarm of bees” signified the busywork of day-to-day life, and the many community groups that seem to occupy all of my spare time. It was clear to me: “Now is the time to let go of all this—and to move on with my first bicycle ride.”

 

Fear was also a significant part of the dream. In the end, I moved beyond the fear and threw it out the front door along with the bees and the string.

 

The incident with my son seemed to be completely out of place. At the time, he was indeed dating a young woman, but as far as I knew he was a long way from being engaged. About a month later, my heart formed a huge internal smile when my son excitedly called to let me know, “I’m engaged to be married … I asked her last night … we’re getting married on August 15^th.”

 

Within days after this powerful dream, a series of synchronous seemingly-external events cemented a profound sense of “knowing” to settle into my soul. I had no doubt that as soon as I completed my degree, I would put all of my remaining belongings into storage, purchase a one-way ticket to Cozumel, and step into the unknown.

 

Actually, I still have no firm idea why I am here in Cozumel. A strong sense of “knowing” tells me I have several reasons such as: learning to live in the moment—undoing the ego—more completely letting go of my old identity—learning the language and culture—and writing about my journey. While I may not have any idea where these voices are taking me, I feel a need to clearly restate that “I completely trust these voices with my life and my destiny.”

 

So if I don’t actually hear audible voices, exactly what do I hear? To be truthful, I cannot honestly tell you. My spiritual friend David Hoffmeister once described his own voices as a strong sense of knowing accompanied by a subtle confirming “tickle in his heart.”

 

This description comes very close to how I would describe it. I can be anywhere, doing just about anything, and something might suddenly cross into my awareness. Almost immediately, the thought is powerfully accompanied by a deep energizing feeling in my heart. Somehow, in some inexplicable way, I know the thought to be true. Often, the feeling is accompanied by tingling sensations running up and down my spine, or goose bumps all over my body—but usually I simply know the truth in my heart.

 

Occasionally, the experience is brought on by a vivid dream—but more often than not it flows from every day life. A message on a billboard, songs on the radio, a conversation with a friend (or even a total stranger), motivational speakers, books, and powerful memory flashes—all of these (and other things) have triggered profound spiritual “knowings” in my life.

 

The common denominator is that, no matter how the thought is initially triggered, a deep sense of internal aliveness and feeling of truth accompanies the thought as it is literally jerked into my consciousness.

 

Originally, I ignored such experiences a pure silliness—until the powerful life-changing ones began to shake up my life and capture my attention. Gradually, as I fine tuned my spiritual connectedness, I began to increasingly recognize and trust the feelings. Every time that I have surrendered to such feelings—but only 100% of the time—the experience has led me to incredible peace, joy, and personal growth. Not once have I ever regretted trusting these instincts.

 

A powerful lesson I have learned is that my own body is a very sensitive barometer indicating my state of spiritual connectedness. When I sense an energized feeling of quiet internal peace and joy, I know that I am on track. As signals of tiredness, exhaustion, anxiousness, and fear begin to sink their claws into my body, I recognize that I am headed in the wrong direction. In such cases (which are still quite common), I realize I am simply not tuned in to my voices.

 

The ultimate dilemma is that when feeling fearful, sad, depressed, anxious, or lonely—the last thing I instinctively want to do is focus on reconnecting spiritually. Instead, my ego and pride encourage me to wallow in a pity-party of these negative emotions. Somehow I am deceived into believing that I deserve to spend some down time, miserably enjoying these ‘woe-is-me’ blahs. While I am in the middle of it, this whole negative-energy experience seems to somehow provide me with a new identity.

 

Luckily for me, I have been blessed with some incredible therapy experiences along my healing path, and nowadays I rarely succumb to these emotions. Yes, I still trip over many of them—quite often in fact. But when I do slip and fall, my recovery time is usually a matter of minutes or hours—rarely extending beyond a day. In past times, such emotional bombshells would have sent me to the pity-farm for months on end.

 

I was shocked on Thursday—as I meditated among the palms—by just how much fear and paralysis surfaced into my awareness. While spiritual experiences, and living in a state of loving peace seem to now be a common experience in my life—I see that I am still holding back, resisting, clinging to the safety of my past ways.

 

While I long to experience a more intimate spiritual connection with divinity—I see myself shying away when I get too close. One minute I bask in the energetic joy of spiritual aliveness, only to find myself quickly moving to slightly safer territory—subconsciously avoiding the unknown.

 

Yes, it is indeed my light that most frightens me. Profoundly life-changing spiritual experiences have shaped my present path, yet I seem to be secretly terrified of connecting more deeply to that light within me—a light that is within each of us.

 

Case in point—my sunrise bicycle ride on Thursday was an incredible energizing spiritual feast—but yesterday I retreated back into hesitation. It started innocently with, “My body is tired … I deserve a day of rest.” Soon, I began to spiral backward into the same mind-numbing world of avoidance.

 

It was a beautiful email from my dear friend Erma—an email filled with pure love and gratitude—that brought me back to the world of the living. Her supporting words were exactly the remedy I needed to jumpstart my soul—to pull me back out of lazy complacency.

 

Lately, my friend Trish seems to consistently email out messages that perfectly hit the spot. This one was no exception.

 

“It doesn’t matter who you were 20 years ago.

It doesn’t matter who you were 10 years ago.

It doesn’t matter who you were yesterday.

What matters is who you Are…now.

 

You are not a product of your past.

You Are…Divine, perfect and whole –

always, and in always.”

 

 -Archangel Michael

 

As I pondered these words, the message for me was quite obvious. It matters not if I had a deep spiritual experience four years ago, or even yesterday.

 

What truly matters is who I am right now, today, in this present moment. Nothing else matters—for “now” is all there ever is.

 

What a simple thought.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

As my two friendly machine-gun-toting policemen continued walking away in the darkness, heading to the north, I captured a quick photo. You can see the tip of the machine gun hanging in front of the policeman to the right.

This is a photo of the sunrise as the sun began to glow over the horizon. Automatic light controls make the scene appear brighter than it was.

The remains of my hot glowing coals. I placed the ‘copal’ herb onto these coals to produce the sweet fragrant smoke.

This lone dolphin stopped by to see what I was up to with my fire. Again, the lighting is a tad deceptive. It was not this bright out …

Another shot of my curious friend. He swam off to the south shortly after this photo was taken.

A daylight view of my hot coals. I used the dried palm branch above to fan the smoke as I spoke to the spirits of the island.

This image gives a little more accurate perspective of just how dark it still was. My camera made previous photos look a lot lighter.

This is a wide angle shot looking south from my fire pit. At the very point of the beach you can see a large building that I believe is a small tourist hotel.

This photo is from my fire pit looking a little more east, out into the beautiful ocean waters.

This is yet anoter view looking toward the north. Again, at the very tip of the photo is some more development. If memory serves me, I believe this is a tiny portion of Mescalitos. After walking past me, the policemen disappeared in this direction.

Yet another view of the sky shortly after the sunrise.

As I resumed my southward journey, this isolated palm tree caught my eye.

This is a larger grove of palm trees, one of the larger ones that I passed on the trek.

This is a close up view of the same group of palm trees right next to the inland side of the road.

It was not long before I began to notice many signs of recent sea-turtle activity. This big turtle nest appears to be very fresh. The sand looks like it was just barely turned over. Notice the tracks that head back toward the ocean.

This is a zoomed-out view of the same turtle nest. As you can see, the single set of tracks goes all the way back to the water. Someone keeps very close tabs on these nesting sites, and places a red pole by each of them. Every large hole in the sand was dug out by nesting turtles.

In this photo, you can see three sets of turtle tracks. I’m not quite sure if the two on the left are from the same turtle, perhaps taking a different path back to the water.

This is a wider-angled view of the same area as the previous photo. Notice how many nests and tracks there are in the sand. This is quite common in the sandy areas all along the eastern coast of Cozumel.

As I continued riding south, this is another section of palm trees. You can see how weather-beaten they are from the incoming tropical storms and weather systems.

This is a view looking behind me towards the north. The road to the left is the new road, which is wider with smooth pavement. The closest road is the old road, being much more run down. The beach is just off to the right. This double road runs for a few miles down the coast from Mescalitos. Then the new road disappears and all traffic merges onto the old road.

Same as the previous photo, only showing the ocean to my right.

This cute little guy came out to greet me as I pedaled by a small beach-side restaurant facility.

This big beautiful bird was just a short distance further down the road to my right. If anyone knows what kind of bird this might be, I would love to find out. At first, I thought it was a buzzard, but it does not match any pictures I can find on the internet.

Here’s another turtle nest that looks very freshly dug. The sand looks as if it may have just been dug the night before.

Wide angle photo of the same fresh nest. I love this part of the island.

Coming up on a small restaurant and swimming hole called “Chen Rio”. Some of my friends like to come here to swim.

This is the beautiful view looking south from Chen Rio.

A closeup of one of these beautiful palm trees.

Yet a closer view of the tree’s incredible root system.

Part way down the road, looking back toward Chen Rio. The sheltered cove to the right is very calm. Swimming on open beaches on this side of the island can be trecherous, as currents and riptides can be strong.

This little memorial along the beach road is one of several I have noticed scattered around the island.

A view of the road as I continue southward. The beach is just over the trees to the left. This is one of the few spots where you cannot see the ocean from the road.

The shadow of your’s truly crusing down the road, heading southbound, with the sun at my left.

I found this lone flower quite beautiful. This is the only one I saw. Does anyone know what it is?

Continuing down the coastline, probably about half way from Mescalitos to the south end.

This is a little hut on the beach. There are several of these scattered around, but I have never seen anyone in them. Perhaps lifeguards use them during tourist season–to protect tourists who do not know about the rip tides …

From the same spot as the beach hut, looking back behind me and to the north.

Many areas of the eastern shores are rocky, like this area further south.

In t spot, the jungle is very sparse and arid looking.

Coming up on Playa Bonita, the place where I ate lunch on my previous round trip of the island. Today it was not even open yet as I passed by before 9:00 am.

Even closer still to the small restaurant at Playa Bonita. If you look closely, you can see that a large portion of the patio on the ocean side has been washed out. I don’t know for sure, but I assume this was from a large hurricane, perhaps Wilma a few years ago.

These little thatch-roofed structures are on the south edge of the Playa Bonita restaurant. Guests can sit here and the restaurant/bar will give you beach side service. More umbrellas and tables are set out front, right next to the water, if you prefer to be nearer the surf.

This cute little Iguana was sunning itself on the road before I came near. He paused by the edge of the road long enought for me to snap a photo.

This is a close up of a national park sign that is repeated all over the island. Most of the Cozumel beaches are protected reef areas.

Wide angle view of the same sign with the beach behind. Note that the beach is a mix between rocky areas and white-sandy areas.

I saw this for the first time on today’s ride south. On my previous round-trip of the island, I traveled the other direction, and missed this completely.

This is the stand of palm trees where I stopped for three hours. It is the same spot where I stopped on my previous round-trip of the island. The beach is just off to the right.

I just love these root systems. I wrote about this tree on a previous blog entry.

This photo was taken from the spot where my bicycle was parked. It was in this small protected cove where I waded out into the water on my previous venture to this area.

Looking back towards my bicycle from a ways into the palm grove.

This photo was taken from the rocky beach, looking back toward the grove of palm trees where my bicycle was parked. I did most of my meditating just off to the right.

This is a rough rocky tide pool just below my favorite palm grove. Look how sharp the rocks appear. This is no illusion. As I walked on these rocks, I was very aware that a single slip would slice my skin very deeply. These rocks are very jagged.

This is another tide pool in the same area. These rocks are even sharper.

Yet another tidepool in the same general area. These are not like tidepools that you find on the Oregon coast. I did not see any starfish or sea urchins etc… but they are beautiful just the same.

Old conch shells can be found all over the shores of Cozumel. It looks like this rock is probably a petrified version of an ancient conch shell. I cannot imagine what else it might be.

This type of plant grows all over the shoreline—at least by the roads and areas with plants.

If you look closely, you can see a  little cubby-hole a little left of center. Inside are some flat rocks stacked on top each other, forming a small seat. It was here in the cool shade that I spent several hours meditating, singing songs, and listening to music.

This is the ocean view from my little meditation cubby-hole.

These buildings mark the southern end of the main road. However, this is not the southern-most point. Near these buildings is an entrance gate for the Punta Sur (south point) reserve area. I have yet to go there on this trip. There is a beautiful light house and a secluded beach with great snorkeling just beyond the light house. Today, I drank a Coca-Cola at the left-most building and continued back westward on the main road. One of these days, I’ll head into Punta Sur.

More turtle tracks near the south end. This area is where I first began to notice tracks on my previous trip around the island.

One final view of turtle tracks and nests.

In this photo, I am headed west again. The southern tip of Punta Sur is a few miles to my left. This is the old road. The new highway is off to my right. This old road is in much better shape than it was two years ago.

A view of the jungle along this southern road.

Another view in the same general area.

Looking inland, back to the north. In the foreground is the main island highway. The double roads started again near the entrance to Punta Sur.

This is a small sandy beach along the southwestern shores of Cozumel. In this photo, I am looking back to the south, while I was following the road to the north.

Just a little further north, I found this beautiful beach covered in purple wild flowers. Notice a coule of scuba boats out on the reefs. This area is popular with divers.

Another little memorial that I passed on the west side of the island as I continued northward.

This photo was taken from a small rocky area near an area called “Caletas”. A few hundred yards behind me is one of the main marinas on the island. In the distance are two of the three cruise ship piers. The first Carnival ship is parked at “Puerta Maya”, a dock owned and operated by Carnival. The second cruise ship is at the Internal terminal. The ship parked there is called the “Liberty of the Seas”. I have been told this is the largest cruise ship in the word. The third cruise ship terminal on the island is near downtown. The only ship that docks there is the “Disney Magic”.

This is a much closer view of the two cruise ships. From this angle you would never know that these are two separate cruise ship piers. Look how big the “Liberty of the Seas” is … and this photo was taken from considerable distance.

A small group of tourist snorkelers, most likely cruise ship passengers. I tried to snorkle here once. I heard it was a popular spot to see lots of colorful fish–but there were too many boats and people. This is hardly crowded compared to normal cruise ship days.

Photo taken of the same area, slightly zoomed out. Notice the snorklers at the far left of the photo. This area is known as Caletas.

 

Throughout yesterday morning, my mind was preoccupied with one, and only one thought. Busily running errands, I searched several stores until I found matches, a flashlight, and a few specially treated small sticks of wood that claimed to be handy in starting barbeques. By midday, I was gliding southward along the coastline, searching the jungle’s edge for dead branches. Breaking up some of the smaller dry limbs, I soon filled a small plastic bag with kindling.

 

“Yes,” I told myself, “I now have everything I need to build a fire, while still in the dark, on the east side of the island.

 

As I climbed my long staircase, I began to second guess myself. My muscles were consumed with a feeling of soreness and exhaustion. Tuesday afternoon’s deep-tissue massage seemed to be backfiring on me. Many times in the past, I have been told to drink lots of water and to expect flu-like symptoms after a deep tissue massage—but the warnings had always been without merit—until yesterday that is. My upper arms and shoulders felt as if they were bruised, and my body ached all over.

 

For the next eight hours I alternated between long naps and boring television, all the while admitting to myself that I would most likely need to postpone my ambitious plans. But as I prepared for bed, a slight burst of energy gave me hope. After quickly packing my bags, I set my alarm and crawled onto my bed (too hot to crawl into it), hoping for a refreshing night’s sleep.

 

A Day to Remember

 

My 4:00 a.m. alarm seemed to “beep … beep … beep” in my ears much sooner than expected. Quickly hopping out of bed, I was amazed by how rested and alive I was feeling. After giving myself a minute or two to open my eyes, I quickly began scurrying about.

 

A sense of adventure consumed my soul as I eagerly pushed my bicycle out onto the street, locking my front gate behind me. A quick check of my watch revealed that I was actually a few minutes ahead of schedule.

 

For fifteen minutes, frequent street lights brightly illuminated my path—but I soon found myself speeding across the middle of the island in near darkness. The silence was breathtaking—only broken by the squeak of my pedals and the sound of my rough rubber tires gliding on the smooth pavement below. As I glanced down at the ground beneath my wheels I was startled by the presence of a faint, but clear shadow. Looking upward, I was surprised by the brightness of the glowing half-moon. Even in darkness, I was blessed with just enough light to guide me on my journey.

 

By 5:00 a.m., as I passed the San Gervasio turnoff, the faint sound of distant roosters began to break up the silence. Knowing I still had plenty of time, I continued to gently pedal, relaxing and inhaling the energizing nocturnal experience.

 

Soon, I reached the small settlement of Mescalitos, which at 5:30 a.m. was still completely lifeless. Eagerly, I began to follow the road southward, paralleling Cozumel’s eastern shores, anxious to find the perfect place for my communion with nature, fire, and smoke.

 

The vista to my left was magical. The moon reflected brilliantly off the crests of the white surf, while the white sandy shores seemed to literally glow in the dark. About twenty minutes south of Mescalitos, I paid special attention to a quiet internal feeling—a sense of knowing that simply said “stop here … you need to get started on building your fire.”

 

I have to laugh at myself. In the past, I was always the anal one who insisted on following all of the rules. On Monday, when Eduardo encouraged me to build a pre-sunrise fire on the beach, the first thought that popped into my left brain was “Can I do that? Is it really OK to build a fire on the beach?”

 

Eduardo simply laughed, replying “You’re not going to build that large of a fire … don’t worry about it.”

 

He never did actually answer my question, and I still wondered “Can I get in trouble if someone sees me?” 

 

My analytical left brain always likes to fight to make its presence known—even when its opinion is not especially wanted; early this morning was no exception. As I walked my bicycle down onto the beach, I do have to admit that my left brain was still struggling for a voice. “Be sure to find a spot that will be well hidden so no one will see the flames!”

 

I did my best to appease the rule-follower in me, but silently reassured myself “Don’t worry about it … a strong spiritual prompting is encouraging me to do this … everything will be perfect … nothing bad will happen.”

 

After locating a secluded spot between several rocks, perhaps thirty feet from the surf, I set my backpack down in the sand, retrieved my flashlight, and set out across the dark asphalt road to the edge of the jungle. For ten minutes, still in the dark of night, I rummaged among the bushes, locating and breaking several dead limbs into manageable sizes. Minutes later, like the Eagle Scout that I am, I had constructed the perfect fire pit.

 

Being in a hurry, I knew this was not going to be a one-match fire. Stuffing the bottom with paper and all of my special fire-starting sticks, I rapidly lit about ten matches. Determined to get my fire started quickly, I was hoping to have hot coals before the first rays of the sun peeked out over the distant Caribbean waters.

 

Pride filled my heart when, only minutes later, a small but strong blaze was roaring in front of me. The heat caused me to step back a foot or two, as the dancing orange flames reached a few feet into the air.

 

In the corner of my eye I noticed a large pickup truck pass by on the highway. Something about the outline of the truck reminded me of the police vehicles that patrol throughout the island. After a momentary cringe of “what if”, a sense of relief filtered through me as the truck kept going.

 

Ten minutes later, as the eastern horizon was barely beginning to light up with a faint glow, I noticed two military-looking policemen, perhaps a hundred yards away to my south, walking up the beach and headed right toward me. The faint outline of machine guns hanging from straps on their shoulders only added to my adrenaline rush.

 

For a few instants, my whole life flashed before me. Knowing these officers had already seen the fire, I clearly knew that my only choice of action was to quietly wait. Any other behavior would do nothing but stir suspicion.

 

Within mere moments, the logical side of my brain was already entertaining elaborate stories of being arrested for violating some serious protect-the-beaches-from-stupid-tourists ordinance. Being handcuffed and hauled away to solitary confinement seemed inevitable.

 

Taking a few deep breaths, I remained in my centered space. Peacefully smiling, I reminded myself “Spirit brought me here … everything will be OK. When they question me, I’ll just be open, forthright, and honest with why I am here and what I am doing.”

 

Soon, my long and actually quite peaceful wait was over. As the two machine-gun-toting policemen neared my position, they casually passed between me and the mild surf beyond. I smiled at them, they smiled at me, and we both exchanged greetings of “hola.” Without even pausing, they continued their casual stroll to the north. As quickly as they had arrived, they were gone—their black uniforms, along with my fears, fading into nothingness.

 

At roughly the same time that the first sunbeams filtered over the eastern horizon, my little bonfire was rapidly approaching the “hot coals” stage. Using a long stick, I spread the coals, causing the flames to diminish, leaving behind a bright orange-red glow.

 

With both hands I gently untied the top of the small plastic bag that Eduardo had given me—the bag that contained my special ‘copal’ herbs. After pouring the contents into the palm of my hand, I quickly scattered the fragrant smoke-inducing mixture onto the hot coals.

 

For several minutes, I stood in front of the fragrant smoke, meditating and talking to the spiritual guides of the island. “I am so grateful for this opportunity to be here in your country.” I began. “I am here on a spiritual quest, and I ask your permission to pass through your sacred lands.” I continued with things like “Please guide me on my quest, open doors for me, and help me find what I am looking for.”

 

As I ran out of words, I simply stood, facing the ever-increasing glow to my east, quietly inhaling the magical experience. With the rhythm of the surf providing gentle background music, the stars above slowly extinguished, one by one.

 

Before saying goodbye to my now-sacred ground, I carefully buried the coals with six inches of cool white sand. By 7:30 a.m., a fresh breeze was again gently brushing my cheeks as I resumed my journey southward.

 

An hour later, only a few miles from the island’s southern tip, I parked my bicycle in a familiar stand of short palm trees. I had rested in this same spot on my previous round-trip of the island. Perhaps thirty yards to the east, mild surf was gently thrashing on the rocky shores. The morning sun was still cool, and the small palm trees provided ample shade.

 

For fifteen minutes, I attempted to meditate in a sort-of traditional, silent way. Sitting quietly on an uncomfortable flat rock and watching my breathing was simply not floating my boat. The chatter in my brain would not quiet down, as the adventurer in me was exclaiming “Come on, we need to get moving. There are lots of things you still might want to see—Punta Sur, El Cedral, etc…”

 

In frustration, I abandoned my meditation attempt and almost got back on my bicycle—but something inside of me said “NO”.

 

As I pondered the conflict in my soul, a famous quote flashed into my mind. When I first heard it, this quote was attributed to Nelson Mandela at his inauguration address. I later learned that he slightly modified the words, but the quote originally came from the book “Return To Love” by Maryanne Williamson.

 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves; Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are we not to be? You are a child of God. Your “playing small” does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that others won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us; it is in everyone. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. And as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

 

As I pondered this quote, the thought flashed into my mind that I struggled because a hidden part of me was afraid of the thought of connecting with spirit at a deeper level. Part of me was saying “No, you need to maintain some control over your life … you don’t want to surrender completely to spirit because you are afraid of where it may try to take you.”

 

Yes, it was clear that a part of me is terrified by my spiritual quest, silently trying to sabotage my efforts. Shrinking from my own light, I am fearful of where that light may expect me to go; I hesitate to find out, staying relatively shallow, remaining at the “surface levels” of meditation as a defense mechanism.

 

My Monday morning dream flashed back into my mind. (I briefly described it at the start of my last post.) In some ways, the thought of going deeper into my spiritual quest almost feels as if the kamikaze airplanes from my dream are dive-bombing all around me. With each threatening plane, I momentarily freeze—like a deer caught in headlights. At the last minute the threat proves to be meaningless as a small unmanned drone crashes harmlessly a short distance away.

 

After a few minutes of internal arguing, I securely locked my bicycle to a tree, retreated further into the small palm forest, and began some serious spiritual centering. This was not the stuffy forced meditation that never seems to work for me. Instead, I immersed myself with gratitude, and sang song after song—songs whose lyrics speak deeply to my soul. Then I thoroughly internalized my personal mission statement—a collection of inspired words that literally fuel my passion to continue on my path. It is very sacred to me. Perhaps I’ll share it one of these days.

 

Finally, when my supply of memorized songs ran out, I pulled out my IPOD and cranked up the volume through a series of additional songs that make my heart sing.

 

For two and a half hours I basked in a feeling of joyful aliveness and deep spiritual connectedness. Tears repeatedly streamed down my cheeks, energizing tears, tears of gratitude and thanksgiving.

 

When I finally resumed my clockwise journey around the island, I felt enough energy flowing in my veins to sustain a small city. Filled with a calm peaceful spirit, I continued listening to my IPOD while slowly working my way around the remainder of the island. For the final thirty minutes of my ride, I was treated to a delightful shower. Making no effort to get out of the refreshing rainfall, I just kept riding—splashing through puddles, getting soaked through and through.

 

Ten hours after my 4:30 a.m. departure, I completed my glorious fifty mile round trip, filled with as much energy as when I had started. After a quick shower and home-cooked lunch of Shells and Velveeta, I whipped out my laptop and began tapping away. The energy I feel right now is just too good to waste.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

Yesterday morning, I awoke at 6:00 a.m., eager to write down sketchy memories of a strange dream. I was back in Utah. There were three of us standing in a large open field: me, my sister’s husband, and my former spouse. The dream involved a series of small airplanes crashing down from the sky. Each plane seemed to dive from directly above, appearing to be heading right for us—only to veer off at the last millisecond before smashing cockpit-first into the ground about fifteen or twenty feet away. One by one, a series of five or six of these small planes crashed down all around us, forming a makeshift circle of wreckage.

 

I remember sensing fear at first, then relief each time the planes missed. When the seeming destruction came to a halt, the three of us abandoned the scene and climbed into the front bench seat of my brother-in-laws full-size van. I remember feeling a little bit puzzled as to why everyone around who had witnessed the event was simply going on as if nothing had happened—no sirens, no emergency vehicles, not even a gathering crowd of gawking bystanders.

 

As I tried to close the passenger door of the van, the latch was stuck and would not catch. My brother-in-law quickly reached over and resolved the issue, following which I leaned toward my ex-wife and said firmly, “I don’t want to go back (referring to Cozumel), but I know I’m supposed to be there, and I am going.”

 

At this point in the crazy dream, I woke up with a start, wondering “What the heck was that all about?”

 

No obvious interpretation has filtered into my awareness—in fact I have not yet given it much thought. My day yesterday was very full, and I am just now looking back to ponder.

 

After waking up from that odd dream, I was in a bizarre mood, feeling off, stressed, and even stagnant. Knowing I had planned to go to the plaza and write, my heart was rebelling, saying “No, I don’t want to … I want to do something else … I don’t feel like writing … In fact I’m just plain F-ing tired of writing.”

 

Another part of me was pondering a few “shoulds and musts.” One of the first things I did last week was to purchase a local cell phone. My heart was very clear that a phone was needed to continue building relationships with several of my new friends. I longed to reconnect with Eduardo (from the Temazcal), to pick his brain and his heart, to learn more about his spiritual path. I had also received a tip from a lady named Cecilia. “I think I know your Rafael.” she said. “He participates, or at least used to participate, in meditation and healing groups on the island. He is a massage therapist working at …”

 

“I feel silly just calling Eduardo out of the blue.” I argued against my heart. “He probably doesn’t really want to talk to me. Besides, I don’t even know exactly what I am searching for—I just know I am supposed to search. How dumb I am going to feel if I simply waltz into his life asking for his time.”

 

My inner battle continued with, “I don’t want to call the spa where this new Rafael works either. He probably is not ‘my Rafael’ anyway. I just don’t see the Rafael I know as being a massage therapist … but who knows? He sounds like a spiritual sort of guy though, and I really would love a good massage … I have to check it out.”

 

For the better part of three hours, I tied myself into emotional knots with this mental ego-based tug of war while sitting at my kitchen table playing nonsensical and repetitive brain-dead computer games. With every mindless click of my lifeless mouse, my energy drained lower as I too became gradually more lifeless. Moodiness and resistance were depleting all of my energy; I was caught in a downward spiral with no desire to fight my way out of the abyss. My heart wanted to contact both Eduardo and this new Rafael—but self-doubt caused me to do neither.

 

Finally, at 11:30 a.m., while feeling disgusted with myself, I forced my fingers to click the hibernate button on my laptop. Fifteen minutes later my bicycle was parked in front of the spa while feelings of hesitation still fought for a louder voice.

 

“Just do it already!” my soul cried out. Finally, I opened the front door of the spa and walked up to a desk behind which sat a pleasant looking thirty-something Latino man.

 

“Do you have a massage therapist named Rafael that works here?” I began.

 

“I am Rafael,” he replied.

 

Checking in with my feelings, I was soon scheduling an appointment for the next day (today) at noon. Even though this young man was indeed not ‘my Rafael’, I felt a very positive energy in his presence, and knew a massage accompanied by some spiritual discussion would do me good.

 

My mood was lifting—I was slipping more into the flow of my heart.

 

Minutes later, I rode my bicycle to the main town plaza with intentions to resume my writing—but the moment I sat on my familiar shady bench, an internal feeling strongly prodded me.

 

“Get over your fear already … Call Eduardo now! Just make an appointment for one of his Bach Flower therapy sessions and let the rest take care of itself.”

 

The fear and resistance I was feeling were reminiscent of crippling times in my past when I struggled to find the courage to act. As a present day observer, I was puzzled why such fear could still hold me hostage.

 

“No more” I declared, immediately picking up my phone. Five second later, I had punched in the numbers and pressed the send button. The phone was ringing and there was no going back. A female voice answered.

 

“Is Eduardo at home?” I queried. Following a short pause, I heard his familiar voice on the other end of the line.

 

“I would like to schedule an appointment for one of your ‘Bach Flower’ sessions,” I began. Eduardo sounded very happy to hear from me, and I soon had an appointment for 1:00 p.m.—leaving me with barely forty-five minutes to gulp down some lunch and ride a few miles on my bicycle.

 

Amazingly, my depressed mood rapidly shifted to a feeling of energetic aliveness. Having stopped resisting my inner feelings, I knew I was back on track with my heart.

 

To be quite frank, I had absolutely no idea what to expect with “Bach Flower Therapy.” A short two minute search on the internet made it sound a little “woo-woo.” My left brain was trying to convince me how stupid the whole idea was, but my confident internal voices were logically countering with two distinct positives regarding my participation: (1) I would have the opportunity to spiritually connect with Eduardo at a deeper level, and (2) Even if the therapy doesn’t resonate with my soul, the Bach Flower stuff would be another great cultural exploration in and of itself.

 

“Be careful with my favorite plant.” Eduardo gently cautioned me as I prepared to park my bicycle in his yard. Reaching out and touching a few of the tiny delicate leaves, he demonstrated how even the slightest touch caused the leaves to contract and close up. The plant was actually quite amazing—as if it had feelings, muscles, and a nervous system.

 

Soon, we were ascending an external staircase on the left side of Eduardo’s home. As we reached the roof, I was amazed by the peaceful serenity that I felt in his beautiful therapy space. A traditional thatched roof provided cool shade above a small open twelve-foot-square patio area. In the center of the space was a small concrete bed/platform, covered by a thin straw mat. In one corner near the mat was a permanent built-in wooden bench where Eduardo could sit. A couple of sturdy log railings surrounded the enclosure, providing protection, a small amount of privacy, and a touch of ambience. While I could still catch glimpses of the street below, plants and cloth hangings provided considerable privacy and isolation.

 

We briefly reminisced about our Temazcal experience together before Eduardo began to describe Bach Flower therapy and how he would be proceeding. He explained a little of the theory and research behind the unique healing properties of flowers. Then, he showed me how he would be connecting with my energy—using a technique similar to muscle testing—to ask my own body what it needed. Based on my body’s answers, he would prepare a personalized mixture containing flower extracts that my body needs and wants.

 

To the outside observer, this might seem as hocus-pocus woo-woo as my experience with the Brujo (witch doctor) last week. I could plainly see that in the hands of an inexperienced practitioner, or someone lacking a deep spiritual connection of their own, this therapy most likely would be a complete waste of time and effort.

 

However, my encounter yesterday was night and day different from that of last week. From the very beginning of my session with Eduardo, I sensed a deep spiritual connection with everything he was saying and doing. Surrendering my trust completely to the process, I was feeling excited to discover yet another way of experiencing the divine. My inner voices were loudly proclaiming “Immerse yourself in this experience … allow yourself to trust and believe.”

 

For the first forty-five minutes we remained mostly quiet and meditative. I did immerse myself in the experience, while Eduardo focused on silently connecting with my energy, listening to my body’s answers. Here and there, Eduardo would utter a few comments, describing his perceptions. Several times, tears formed in the corner of my eyes while he spoke. I could feel the truth in his words as they resonated with my heart.

 

Somehow, Eduardo picked up on the stress I had been feeling earlier, but rightfully attributed such feelings to the fact that I am going through a complete metamorphosis of existence—tearing down an old identity of rigid structured thinking in order to find my deeper self—to experience a more profound truth. Every word that Eduardo spoke vibrated with the harmony of a familiar melodic song in my heart.

 

As Eduardo explained the flower extracts that my body had chosen, he himself seemed quite moved by the experience. Much of what he shared resonated at a sacred level in my internal being. For a short while, our souls were clearly communicating at a level beyond words. At one point he even made a comment “I could probably learn a great deal from you, Brenda … You could be my teacher.”

 

I lovingly reminded him of his own words at the Temazcal when he said “We are all students … there is much we can learn from each other.”

 

As our session drew near to the end, Eduardo presented me with my personalized mixture of flower extracts—and coached me with instructions on how to utilize it. Throughout the first three days, I was to place three drops under my tongue during every waking hour. Subsequently, I would reduce the frequency to only to six times per day. As my bottle nears the empty state, in about three weeks, I am to return for a course adjustment—a sort of fine tuning—at which time I will be given enough bottles to last for a few months (which is the usual duration of treatment).

 

As strange as this may sound, my soul was singing as I joyously embraced the treatment plan. Feeling I had nothing to lose, and recognizing the amazing power of beliefs, I flipped an internal “doubt” switch to the “believe” position, thinking “Why not?”

 

Before standing up, I mentioned in passing, “I would love to engage in discussion with you sometime, to learn more about your beliefs and spiritual traditions.” I explained how deeply drawn I feel toward learning more, and again mentioned how everything he taught at the Temazcal resonated harmoniously with my own beliefs about God and the Universe.

 

He asked me to describe a little of my own beliefs, and queried about the path I follow.

 

“I joyously embrace a path based on a book called ‘Un Curso En Milagres’ (A Course In Miracles)” I said with a glow in my eyes. “The things you teach are almost identical.”

 

He surprised me with “I have heard of that. I know a deeply spiritual woman in Playa Del Carmen who practices these teachings. She sometimes leads a support group in Tulum. You must meet her before you leave. I will help introduce you.”

 

Minutes later, Eduardo passionately launched into a story about a different woman named Regina who was born in Mexico, to a Mexican mother and a German father. In the 1940’s, while still a baby, Regina’s parents took her to Tibet, where she was raised by Tibetan monks—and was very close to the Dali Lama. The spiritual leaders in Tibet recognized that their era of awakening would soon be ending, and they saw great destiny in Regina as they foretold her future impact in beginning the awakening process in the west.

 

As Eduardo continued with the story, his eyes told a story of deep spiritual belief and conviction—and I felt goose bumps all over my body. In great detail, Eduardo passionately filled me in on the Chinese invasion, how the local prime minister had subsequently rescued Regina and hidden her in the mountains of India. Later she was captured, put into a Chinese prison for ‘retraining’. After a few years of learning Chinese language and culture (and connecting with a spiritual church-bell-ringer who continued her teaching), Regina was released.

 

As a young adult, she felt a deep internal calling to return to Mexico—but knew she must follow spiritual traditions of entering the country from the East. Rather than taking the easier route across the Pacific, she traveled south, around India and Africa, landing on the East Coast of Mexico.

 

At this point, Eduardo paused his story and explained the spiritual importance of entering from the East, and asking the spirits for permission and blessings. A wave of energy surged through my body as I realized I had essentially entered Mexico on a spiritual quest, and I had felt inexplicably drawn to do so at the Eastern-most point in the country.

 

Eduardo, responding to his own internal promptings, suggested: “Brenda, you should go to the eastern shore of Cozumel, build a small fire before sunrise, burn some ‘copal’ in the fire, and have your own ceremony—requesting spiritual guidance and permission to enter. When you do this, many new opportunities will open up to you.”

 

Left brain logic says “How silly” – but my soul was alive with energy as Eduardo spoke those words. I asked him about ‘copal’, and he explained that it is the same herb that we burned at the Temazcal—the sweet smelling root that gave off so much smoke when placed on hot coals.

 

“It is very hard to find on Cozumel,” he said, “I will give you some.” Then he dug into the bottom of a bucket and using his hands, Eduardo scooped a small portion into a plastic bag.

 

Feeling deeply honored by Eduardo’s gift, a profound sense of wonder filled my consciousness as I began to visualize my upcoming ceremony—a ceremony that I knew to be in my future. Already, I could feel myself pedaling my bicycle across the island in the darkness at 4:30 in the morning, eager to build a small fire on the beach before the rising sun. I could see myself meditating in front of the fire, placing my precious copal in the hot coals, and speaking to the spirits.

 

Quickly returning to his story, Eduardo filled me in on how Regina had intuitively known to climb to the top of a specific pyramid, where she met the leaders from the four native cultures in Mexico who, having been equally inspired to come, were there waiting for her. How I wish my memory was better. Two cultures were the Mayans and the Mechicas (or Aztecs). Names of the other two escape me—one of those being the spiritual culture to which Eduardo belongs.

 

In great detail, Eduardo filled me in on the spiritual adventures of Regina, and how she was instrumental in events that he describes as initiating the worldwide spiritual awakening prior to her martyrdom in Mexico City on October 2^nd, 1968.

 

“Many people believe Regina is a myth, that she never existed.” Eduardo explained. But the conviction and excitement with which Eduardo shared his story tells me he believes the story with all of his heart and soul. The familiar resonant energy surging up my spine let me know that I will indeed be exploring these ideas in much greater depth.

 

Throughout our magical discussion, Eduardo and I both repeatedly approached the point of joyful tears. Many times his cheeks were wet—as were mine.

 

Finally, Eduardo said “I need to let you go soon … my children are expecting me downstairs. Normally, this is supposed to take thirty minutes, but I never do it in less than an hour.”

 

Glancing at my watch, I smiled as I noticed that three hours had already come and gone. In deep gratitude, I again profoundly thanked Eduardo for taking the time to share his spiritual stories with me.

 

“Brenda, it has been so powerful to connect with you,” he confided, “I feel as if I have known you my whole life.” Then, as he began to say “I’ll see you in three weeks,” he stopped and corrected himself. “I know we will talk again before that.”

 

For thirty additional minutes, we continued to visit—like two school children who were having so much fun playing that they would not come in from recess.

 

Finally, after three and a half long hours had passed, we exchanged email addresses, phone numbers, and huge bear hugs. As I slowly pedaled through the narrow streets, my heart was glowing, alive and overflowing with an abundance of love and gratitude.

 

A deep sense of knowing filtered into my awareness. “It really doesn’t matter if I ever find Rafael or his Medicine Man. Meeting Rafael so very long ago was merely a preliminary experience—to spiritually open my mind, and to stimulate my curiosity and imagination. Those experiences continue to fuel my internal passion today, without which I may never have returned to Cozumel—without which I might never have found Eduardo.”

 

I totally recognize that Eduardo is just a man—a beautiful husband and father to his precious wife and children. Yet something about him sends a lightning bolt of energy into my heart—not in a romantic way, but in a spiritual way. My discussions with him seem to energize a hidden purpose in my soul, an unknown path leading into my future.

 

In many ways, Eduardo reminds me so much of Rafael, and equally matches my mental image of the Medicine Man that I have envisioned for these many months. Bubbly excitement flows through my veins as I ponder the possibilities of just where my next few steps may guide me. One thing is for certain. I will take each step one at a time, enjoying the magical qualities of each moment, as I gradually remove the wrapping paper of my future.

 

Relaxing Massage

 

Today, just a few short hours ago, I had a beautiful massage from my new friend Rafael. As I lay on his incredibly relaxing table, I followed my promptings to simply enjoy the experience. Somehow, I knew that there was no need for conversation—that this Rafael is not directly connected to my path.

 

After returning to the reception area, as I handed him my payment, Rafael asked me again “Who did you say recommended you?”

 

I briefly summarized the whole story, and then asked him if he knew of any meditation groups in the area. Rafael’s wife, who was standing nearby listening, handed me a card for a Buddhist meditation group here in Cozumel.

 

“I might actually check that out,” I thought to myself. While I indeed believed this statement to be true, a little bird on my shoulder let me know that my primary path will be guiding me elsewhere.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 

As I begin my writing today, I am surrounded by pigeons, beautiful and colorful pigeons. Each proudly displays its own unique blends of brown, black, grey, and white. One even has a hint of purple, while another reflects green sparkles as the morning sun shines on his shinny upper back.

 

A few minutes earlier, as a single pigeon strutted by, I tossed out a tiny fragment of my morning cinnamon roll. Soon, two pigeons were eagerly hanging out just a few feet in front of me, hoping for an additional act of generosity. Pinching off another tiny piece of sweet bread, I flicked it out onto the ground. Gradually my winged admirers multiplied, four, then seven, then eleven. At the height of my popularity, I counted seventeen cooing fans. While eagerly awaiting each tasty morsel, they proudly strutted their stuff, with their tiny little heads bobbing forward and backward, dancing with the rhythm of each footstep.

 

My new flock of friends is very fickle. As I finished off the remaining few bytes of my meager breakfast, they seemed to realize that their own dining session was also ending. Showing no interest in remaining long-term friends, they began to disband as randomly as they had arrived. A few at a time, their numbers diminished, until now, I am again alone with my tiny laptop.

 

Dolphin Delight

 

Activity in the plaza is starting to bustle as I reminisce over yesterday’s incredible adventures. It was a day I will not soon forget, seven hours of wonder-filled sailing and snorkeling with eleven of my new American friends.

 

For two hours we slowly meandered down the picturesque shoreline of Cozumel. The cool ocean breeze was incredibly refreshing as I sat on the front deck of our thirty-foot sailboat while visiting with a few of my new friends. The front sail provided much welcome shade from the bright sun above as we enjoyed our view of the crystal clear blue waters below.

 

As we sailed, a large thunderstorm appeared to be gaining on us, gradually approaching from behind and to our left. But, as commonly happens here on the island, the storm was localized, missing us completely. After a couple of hours, the threatening showers simply blew by to our east.

 

Our first stop was a sandy location called “Cielos” (meaning heavens). This area, very near the southwest tip of the island, derives its name from the abundance of starfish in the depths below.

 

Our boat tied off on a lone buoy in ten-foot-deep waters. Perhaps three-fourths of a mile to our east sat a beautiful white sandy beach. This area of the island has no man-made developments, making the pristine beach appear ever so tempting and inviting. At one point I paddled to a spot about two hundred yards from shore. The water here was only about five feet deep, allowing me to temporarily stand up. As I swam back toward the boat, I began to notice whole, unbroken sand dollars scattered here and there in the sandy bottom below.

 

Something else I noticed were small fish, ranging from two to four inches in length. Even with a discerning eye, these fish were almost completely invisible. Their bodies were thin and flat, hugging the bottom like miniature sting rays without the tail. They had two little bulging eyes on top of their head, and their coloring was literally identical to that of the white sandy bottom. I’m still not sure if it is true, but one of my friends told me that these were baby flounders.

 

In the other direction from the boat, away from the coastline, the bottom was slightly grassy with a few scattered rocks. Throughout this area, large starfish were randomly scattered. I don’t recall ever having seen such perfectly shaped starfish in nature. My previous experience with starfish has been primarily in tide pools along the Oregon Coast, where amongst the sharp jagged rocks, the starfish were usually contorted in a variety of positions as they clung tightly, hanging on for their lives in the cold surf. Here, gently resting on the bottom, these beautiful starfish truly did remind me of stars in the “Cielos.”

 

For me, the highlight of “Cielos” was a large Moray Eel hiding in the cavity of a rock just ten feet from our buoy. Several times I took a large deep breath before using my underwater “dolphin” skills to swim to the bottom, getting as close to the cavity as I dared. The eel was spectacular, with the same beautiful black and white coloring as the one I had seen from a distance on a previous outing near Chankanaab. From my vantage point just a few feet away, I had a clear view. With its upper body in a slight “S” shape, and its mouth wide open, the eel was showing me its profile.

 

After making a couple of “swim-bys,” I opted to leave well-enough alone, realizing that I know nothing about the possible aggressiveness of these beautiful creatures.

 

Our second snorkeling stop was by far my favorite. After sailing a few miles back up the coast, and a little further away from shore, we again leaped from the boat, plunging into the warm currents of “Columbia Shallows.”

 

Reaching depths of perhaps thirty to forty feet, this reef is abundant with living coral heads, many of which rise quite near to the water’s surface. Taking advantage of the strong currents, both boat and swimmers drifted for forty-five minutes as we passed above beautiful vistas of the ocean life below. In the midst of the reef’s wonders, three favorite memories still linger.

 

The first two I have seen before. A large manta ray and a lone sea turtle each playfully enjoyed the aliveness of their natural habitats as they explored the bottom below. By far my favorite memory, however, was that of the shark.

 

As I drifted near the boat, I heard the muffled sound of someone loudly calling out. Momentarily raising my masked face out of the water, I heard the word shark and noticed a few people eagerly pointing behind me toward the depths below.

 

Immediately putting my mask back into the water, I turned around, began swimming against the currents, and anxiously scanned the reef with intense interest. I was not sure exactly what I was attempting to see, and try as I might, I could see nothing at all that even remotely reminded me of a shark.

 

Again popping up out of the water, I asked the lady nearest me, “Where is it?”

 

“You missed it,” she said, “it swam behind the reef over there.”

 

Continuing to swim against the strong current, I gradually made headway back along the reef, while constantly scanning the bottom below. I fully expected, any minute, to see a small shark swim by somewhere in the depths.

 

When I finally saw it, an adrenaline rush filled my entire body. This was no baby. There, swimming along the bottom, perhaps fifty feet away was a large six foot shark. It looked every bit as ominous and dangerous as ones I have seen on television and in movies. As I continued to swim against the current to get a closer view, I was fascinated, not feeling even the slightest sensation of fear. Somehow, I just figured that if we were in any danger the boat captain would be signaling for us to return immediately—which he was not doing.

 

For perhaps five minutes a few of us maintained position, observing the large spectacular creature below. Soon, the shark settled down onto the sandy bottom between two coral heads. After a minute or two of maintaining position amidst the currents, I decided it finally was time to move on.

 

Once I returned to the boat, I learned a little more. The shark below was a “nurse shark.” Just this morning, a few minutes before beginning my morning stroll to the plaza, I engaged in quick internet search.

 

“Nurse sharks are rarely aggressive to humans,” the article casually declared.

 

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “this means that there must be rare times when they do attack humans.”

 

I smiled as this thought added a little cautious perspective—and another small feeling of adrenaline—to the whole experience.

 

As our sailboat began our two-hour journey back up the coastline, I was in seventh heaven. None of us even remotely imagined our next treat. About halfway back to the city, someone noticed movement in the distance. Immediately we were all intently staring at the horizon to see what it was.

 

Up popped two sets of fins—only to quickly disappear. Seconds later, three fins popped out of the water, and then again submersed below the waves. Soon we could clearly see that a small school of perhaps eight dolphins was swimming about a quarter mile off to our left.

 

The captain immediately changed direction and headed right towards the beautiful mammals. Within minutes, they were splashing right in front of us. What happened next surprised every one of us. Being at the very tip of the boat, I had a front row seat. Three or four at a time, the dolphins took turns racing with us under the bow of the boat. For more than a minute, the dolphins engaged in a tag-team race directly below my bare feet. Almost as if on cue, one or two would veer off and more would take their place. They were literally six feet below me, their beautiful gray bodies elegantly swishing forward just inches below the surface of the crystal blue waters.

 

As the dolphins gave up and stopped following, the captain flipped a large U-turn and headed right back toward them. Each time, as we came near, the dolphins resumed their behavior. Everyone else on the boat had grabbed their cameras, but I was so fixated on the incredible energy of the experience that I did not want to leave my post. Finally, after five or six long passes through the dolphin playground, I quickly scampered for my backpack, retrieved my camera, and managed to get a few quick photos before our final pass through the dolphins came to an end. While pulling away, as we watched the dolphins from a distance, many of them began to splash their tails on the water’s surface.

 

“That means they are mating,” someone exclaimed.

 

For the final thirty minutes, I remained at the very tip of the boat. After spying the dolphins, the captain had put the sail away and was driving solely under the power of his engines. Wrapping one arm around the rolled-up sail, I leaned forward, silently inhaling the vista around me. A light cloud cover was protecting us from the heat of the sun. The salty scent of the air, the cool breeze, and the incredible scenery were hypnotizing me. As we neared the shore, my new friend JayDee approached.

 

“I am totally loving this peaceful experience.” I told her.

 

“Yes, it’s almost spiritual.” She replied.

 

“Exactly, for me it is spiritual.” I eagerly continued, “I have been up here in an almost meditative state, just absorbing everything around me. I cannot imagine a more beautiful day.”

 

Three-Legged Joy

 

Earlier this week, on Sunday night, the plaza festivities were eagerly calling to me. Arriving around 7:45 p.m., I was quite surprised to see my friend JayDee sitting on a bench with her father who had just arrived in town for a visit. I snuck right past Miguel and ran over to greet JayDee. She and her father quickly scooted over on the bench, making enough room for me to squeeze in—but before sitting, I let them know that I needed to go talk to Miguel first.

 

As I tapped Miguel on the shoulder, he responded with a huge smile, a brief hug, and a quick peck on the cheek. Immediately, he began to look around for a place where I could park my body, but pointing to my left, I quickly told him, “I’m sitting over there with my friend JayDee and her father.”

 

Seconds later, I was introducing Miguel. For the next forty five minutes Miguel stood and chatted with the three of us. He was happy to report that a friend had driven him all around the island in his Jeep on Saturday. Miguel has a beautiful jeep sitting in his driveway, owned by his son, but does not drive it himself.

 

“I don’t have a license to drive.” Miguel reminded me.

 

Several times before, we have discussed this issue. Repeatedly Miguel has asked if I wanted to drive the jeep, but my response has always been “Yes, I do have a license, but I don’t have insurance to drive in Mexico. I can’t drive your jeep.”

 

Sunday night, Miguel surprised me with, “I think I will get my own license. Then you and I can drive all over the island. My son worries about me. He doesn’t want me to have my own license—but I know I would be OK.”

 

I just smiled—I’ll deal with that situation if it happens. Who knows, I might just let him drive me around a little—it might be fun.

 

Normally the band begins to play by around 8:15 p.m., but technical problems seemed to be delaying their start. At 8:30 p.m., Miguel excused himself with “I think I’m going home to watch television and rest.” I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt like a “fourth wheel.” It was necessary to frequently speak with JayDee and her father in English. I tried to be polite and fill Miguel in on what we were saying … but wondered if perhaps he felt annoyed that I had other friends at the plaza.

 

Fifteen minutes later, JayDee and her father also excused themselves. He had been traveling since the wee hours of the morning, and decided that waiting for a band that may never start was not as important as getting some much needed rest.

 

While sitting alone, I began people watching—but soon switched to watching dogs. Several people from the humane society were taking advantage of the lull in festivities, and were walking around the plaza with dogs on leashes. Each of the furry little “perros” was wearing a little coat that said “adopt me” in bold letters. As I watched from afar, one particular little guy immediately captured my love and attention.

 

Never in my life have I seen a little dog radiate such love, joy, and zest for life. Everyone around this dog seemed to be enchanted by his beautiful countenance and his innocent playfulness. I was so captivated by this delightful little fellow that a few moments passed before I even realized that something was different. He only had three legs. His left front leg was missing.

 

For fifteen minutes, I watched this little guy interact with the crowd. It was plain to see that I was not the only one captivated by his presence. When he ran from one place to the next, he joyfully hopped up and down on his right front leg as he propelled himself forward with his rear legs.

 

Looking at this incredible animal, I did not see a handicap. Instead, I saw pure love, indescribable joy, and complete acceptance of “what is.” I could not help but be amazed as I began to derive a lesson for myself.

 

This little dog did not even have the word “victim” in his doggy vocabulary. It was obvious that his purpose here was to love and enjoy life. Nothing as small as missing a leg was going to stop him from doing just that. Through his positive attitude and pure love, he was literally infecting everyone around him.

 

“Would that we could all approach life with the attitude of this beautiful little dog.” I pondered to myself.

 

As the music finally began at 9:15 p.m., the humane society workers quickly retreated as the center of the plaza filled up almost immediately with people. I was actually sad to see the little bundle of joy disappear with his keepers. That beautiful little three-legged dog gave me a precious gift that can never be taken away.

 

Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved