El Cu-Cu de los Sueños

I sat outside at the end of my time exploring Monte Alban, unsure of what to do before the bus left, there was still another hour to wait. A man came up to me and started to talk. I was tired, not in the mood for conversation in my struggling Spanish. He said his name was Juan Carlos.

He worked at Monte Alban and knew so much about the area. He pointed out a distant ruin and asked me if I wanted to walk there. We started to walk that way when the bus driver came up and said we could leave early, as we were the only passengers. On the bus, Juan Carlos showed me a book he had written about his place and people, the Mixtecs. It was titled, Cuyotepeji.

I opened it to see an eagle, then a waterfall, and felt a strong feeling, a recognition. I asked if I could buy the book. He said he wanted to sign it. The bus was stuck in traffic so we got off and started walking until we came to the Basilica de la Soledad. We sat outside and ate zanahoria helado (carrot ice cream), and he wrote this, in the front of the book...

Desde un lugar, a una hora cualquiera, "el cu-cu de los suenos" va hiland historias. Para Ana. Esperando lo disfrutes y compartas. El autor, Juan Carlos Peralta.

He told me what he wrote translates as, "At any time, at any hour, the voice of your dreams is telling your story." He explained that he wrote it not just as the voice of your dreams, but as "El Cu-Cu," like a cuckoo clock. A sound that comes suddenly, that wakes you up. He explained that "The voice of your dreams," means visions. Those certain dreams that, whether awake or asleep, stir something deep inside that makes you take notice.

Your visions are telling your story.

I felt a shock wave move through me. I'd only just met Juan Carlos, how could he know? Visions were what brought me here. The vision of riding the city bus, seeing Juquila out the window. The vision of the deer on the bridge and at the BIxby. It was taking notice and following those visions that was creating my story. And now I tell that story here.

As we parted, he said, "Dios es la presencia de la ausencia." God is the presence of absence. Meaning, faith.

No Visto

Spending time with the Cloud People brought to mind things that exist but can't be seen. Cells were once unseen, then came microscopes. Bones were unseen, then came x-rays. Brains were unseen, then came MRIs. 


Our inner ear, located deep inside the skull, cannot be seen from the outside yet it profoundly affects our ability to see. It contains our vestibular and auditory structures, which tell us where we are in space. Knowing where we are in space allows us to go forth into other space. If you don't know where you are, it's hard to travel out from there. The inner ear moves us to see all there is to see. 


I have a love for images, but I'm also drawn to what can't be seen. It's what I love about Japanese tea ceremony, which honors the present moment, something that never fails to be with us but we rarely take time to see. The everyday things of life are strangely unseen and it's usually when we can no longer do them that we take notice. 


Why is it so often hard to see what stands right in front of us?


***And apologies for the formatting problems that continue to be seen here. Formatting looks normal on the template but shows up on the blog with odd spacing and/or font changes. I've also heard that it's difficult to leave comments here. I'll have some time next week to address these issues but if anyone has suggestions on how to do so, please let me know. Thanks!

Monte Albán

Monte Albán was the ancient capital and holy city of "the Cloud People," the Zapotecs.  The Zapotecs did not have legends of migrating to Oaxaca from another place, they believed they descended from the clouds. And they believed that when they died they would return to the clouds. 


It was so peaceful walking around Monte Albán. I loved the softness of the grass and stone, the light rain, the tiny wildflowers. I was filled with quiet awe as I wandered alone through the remains of a once populated and powerful city. 


I climbed to the top of a long set of stairs leading to the sky. I listened to the wind and what was more than wind, finer than wind. A shimmering, glittery hum, a vibration. Vibration, the source of all things, like color, emotions, or a resting place.


The only difference between movement and sound is the velocity of the vibrations (It all takes place in the inner ear). Vibration creates a thought, a thought becomes a sound "Un boleto a Monte Albán, por favor," sound becomes movement, and before you know it, you are sitting at the gateway to the sky, spending your afternoon with the people in the clouds.

Montezuma's Revenge

When I returned to Oaxaca City I had an attack of Montezuma's Revenge. It's hard to know if it was a bug I caught in Santa Catarina Juquila or the result of the vegetable juice I thought would be good for me after a weekend of eating so many sope, forgetting about the potential hazards of eating uncooked vegetables without a skin.


I went to the doctor and found myself part of a study sponsored by the University of Texas for a new antibiotic to treat traveler's diarrhea. I was hesitant because I didn't want to spend my time going back to his office for tests, but the doctor assured me it would not be an inconvenience and I would receive compensation for my time.


He was right. The doctor and his nurse came to meet me at the Hotel Azucenas every time they needed samples, blood tests, or a new entry from my diary that documented the journey from loose to formed. Before the sun rose on the day of my departure, I wheeled my suitcase out to the lobby where I was greeted by the doctor who gave me a $100 bill and a letter from the University of Texas, respectfully thanking me for my participation in the study.


I was delighted that I crossed the border in reverse to earn US dollars, and that I actually  got to experience a doctor making house calls. I also learned that in Mexico Gatorade is pronounced, not Gay-tore-aid, but Gah-toe-rah-day, though pointing and nodding worked just as well.

La Luz de Juquila

The last photo I took before leaving Santa Catarina Juquila catches the essence of the miraculous Virgin, a dance of light and love. The Virgin of Juquila, Mother Earth, Kundalini Shakti; kinetic, creativity, creation. Simply put, she makes things happen.


When I started my road trip in Maine by gathering my first gem of longing, to have time to truly write, I wondered what would come of it. Tuning into that still, small voice within, following that light, I lived a story and told the story. And by writing, I became a writer.


In Yoga philosophy there are four world cycles of time, called yugas, that range from  Satya (golden), Treta (silver), Dvapara (copper), to Kali (iron). Each age embodies a shift in consciousness. In the Golden Age it is understood that all is connected, there is no separation -from each other, the earth and sky, the Divine. In the Dark Ages we pray to something outside ourselves, and only in hard times. Yogis believe we are living in the Kali yuga, the dark ages, now. But what I love is that they also believe we can as individuals embody the Satya yuga. We can be our own golden age while living in the dark ages, even though everything in the external world may be telling us otherwise.

Thich Nhat Hanh says "The next Buddha, the Buddha of the West, will come as the sangha (community)." Many believe the next coming of Christ is not of an individual, but is a shift into Christ consciousness for all. By embodying the golden age, while living in the dark ages, we can each become like a human accupressure point, a being of light. 


The Virgin of Juquila, like a tiny candle that burns brightly, sets the hearts of soul after soul aflame. Flame after flame, link, link, link, we can find ourselves in a whole new way of understanding.


With our free will, we choose what we do with that holy, gnawing, burning fire within, and it is that pivotal ongoing choice that makes our life sacred or profane or unremarkable.    -Joan Shivarpita Harrigan

Por la Mañana

I was awakened early by the most mysterious bells ringing from the cathedral. As I lay in bed I remembered my dreams...tiny piles of paper, folded prayers, and glass bowls. I reached in, pulled out a cross and put it into my heart, then pulled it out to do a limpia. A tiny Juquila skittered down a hillside, a glittering, flickering light. 

I liked the sope so much I had them again for breakfast. The cooks got a kick out of that  and showed me how to make them. Before leaving, I walked to the top of the hill to watch the clouds drift over the cathedral and mountains. I thought about the curandera, Elizabeth, who said the reason to have a candle burning in your home is so negative forces will get confused and attack its light, rather than the light that is you.


Curanderas say when you've had a sudden fright your spirit jumps out of your body, and the deep pressure of slapping your body all over helps it find its way home. I thought about how that was similar to proprioceptive input used in occupational therapy. How many kids with autism can't sense where their body ends and where the rest of space begins. Deep pressure can help them feel their own borders.


I thought about my friend Patti, a physical therapist and yoga teacher specializing in trauma recovery, who went to Thailand to work with people who had survived the tsunami. The villagers told her they had done their rituals and ceremonies and were doing okay, what they were having trouble with was the ghosts of the foreigners who couldn't find their way home.

Posada Los Angeles

I stayed at the bright pink Posada Los Angeles, a block away from the cathedral. I was the only foreigner in town. I dined in the streets on chile relleno, fresh tortillas and sope, a thick tortilla topped with chile and quesillo. I loved the recycling cans, colored and labeled, "All for a clean Juquila."


Deep in the mountains of Oaxaca state, the poverty in Santa Catarina Juquila is intense, but it felt peaceful there, I never felt at all unsafe. I thought about how far people travel from this region to El Norte, dangerously, illegally, to try to make money for a better life. I was told that when they return they no longer fit into Mexican life, but do not fit into the US either. I don't remember it, but they have a word for these people lost between worlds.

Recuerdos de Juquila

Recuerdo means "souvenir," and also, "memory." I believe that in our modern world there's a memory of something long forgotten, a call from deep inside that hasn't been listened to in so long it's become hard to hear. A connection to earth and sky and the purpose of things, an internal rhythm, a stirring that becomes stronger during seasons and stages. When I read "anxiety and depression" again and again in the charts of so many of my patients, I know there's something going on in the world, something not quite right.

Vincent van Gogh writes about that call beautifully, here, in a letter to his brother Theo...


A caged bird in spring knows perfectly well that there is some way in which he should be able to serve. He is well aware that there is something to be done, but he is unable to do it. What is it? He cannot quite remember, but then he gets a vague inkling and he says to himself, “The others are building their nests and hatching their young and bringing them up,” and then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage. But the cage does not give way and the bird is maddened by pain. “What an idler,” says another bird passing by - what an idler. Yet the prisoner lives and does not die. There are no outward signs of what is going on inside him; he is doing well, he is quite cheerful in the sunshine.

But then the season of the great migration arrives, an attack of melancholy. He has everything he needs, say the children who tend him in his cage - but he looks out, at the heavy thundery sky, and in his heart of hearts he rebels against his fate. I am caged, I am caged and you say I need nothing, you idiots! I have everything I need, indeed! Oh! please give me the freedom to be a bird like other birds!

Wholeness

The carved wooden door at the entrance of the cathedral, a family collects holy water, vendors sell white lilies outside.

I love what Robert Johnson wrote here about sainthood. That it's not about being 'good,' but about being whole.

When you are following the will of God there is no choice whatsoever. Here I am not talking about following scripture to the letter. That is one way of being happy, but for most modern people this is not a viable solution. Looking for a manual to tell you what to do, whether that manual is the Bible or the latest psychological theory, is not useful. Listening to the will of God as it manifests within your own psyche, hearing what has been called the still, small voice within - this is the religious life. This cannot be reduced to a tidy formula, but one general guideline is to ask yourself what is needed for wholeness in any situation. Instead of asking what is good or what coincides with our personal interest, ask what is whole-making. Sainthood is the result of wholeness, not goodness.

It was listening to the still, small voice within that brought me to Santa Catarina Juquila. When my rational mind said "It's too weird, too unknown, too far, too Catholic, too risky," when that same mindset said about my entire road trip, "It's too irresponsible, too expensive, too dangerous," the still, small voice within simply said, "Go."

Catedral de Santa Catarina Juquila

I returned from El Pedimento to fulfill the purpose of this pilgrimage, to find the original Juquila. The enormous cathedral sits in a valley, the whole town is built up around her. The blue tents of vendors selling souvenirs, all of Juquila, fill the narrow streets that wind up the mountainside. Wafting incense, white lilies, prayers, bells, and mystery fill the cathedral as the tiny Virgin of Juquila, surrounded by gold, levitates high above Jesus on the altar.

A family on a pilgrimage poses at the entrance of the cathedral. A Juquila doll, a recuerdo, sits on a pew next to a sleeping child. Juquila is everywhere, in every posada, comedor, and tianguis. Everywhere you turn is Juquila. She is childlike, but not a child. She is simple and majestic, tiny and powerful. She is made of fabric and wood, yet fills the earth and sky.

Muchas Gracias

Banners hang in the trees, signs of gratitude left behind from families who returned to thank Juquila for favors granted. I believe ceremony and ritual are something most of us in the modern world long for, though we may not know it. The idea can seem antiquated, confining, and constrained, but it helps us to know when a thing begins and when it ends. When ritual is made personal it can quell a relentless inner whirling and searching.

I love this story of a personally meaningful ritual in "Balancing Heaven and Earth," by Robert Johnson.

One of the finest ceremonies I have observed came from a young friend of mine. This fellow had a dream that he was at a Saturday night party where everything was going wrong. The food was inedible, no one would talk to him, and he was feeling absolutely miserable. We talked this dream over, and he went home and worked on it. He came back the next week and said he realized that Saturday night consciousness had died for him, by which he meant the American ideal of Saturday night as the time to party, get drunk, and have mindless fun with the gang.

Usually this Saturday night syndrome is not as much fun as it is said to be, but I watch most young people try to wring some personal satisfaction out of it anyway. People know they have a God-given right to some feelings of ecstasy, so they are driven to more and more excessive behaviors to get that Saturday night high. The very word Saturday comes to us from the Latin saturnalia, which means an occasion of unrestrained or orgiastic revelry, and the festival of the god Saturn, a Dionysian deity, was celebrated with feasting in ancient Rome.

My friend researched all of this and decided that a sacrifice was called for; he decided to sacrifice the Saturday night syndrome. He hunted around his house for something that would represent this syndrome and decided to go out and buy a Big Mac hamburger. He then took a shovel, went out to the backyard, and buried this symbol of the "fast life" and instant gratification. He did this ceremony with great seriousness to mark a change in lifestyle. Saturday night was never quite the same for this young man again. He was able to reinvest the energy that had been tied up in the old pattern and thereby move on to the next level of consciousness. This is a wonderfully creative, meaningful, tailor-made ritual not found in any book.

Una Puerta

The Virgin of Juquila who survived a fire, una puerta, yes, of course. I have a fascination with those who have miraculously survived a fire. There was Anandi Ma, who, in a deep state of meditative bliss, fell backwards into a fire and did not burn, now there was Juquila, and also, there was me.


When I was twenty seven years old I lost everything I owned and almost my life in an apartment fire. The water heater exploded when I was in the shower. With bars on my windows and no key to get out, my life was saved by a construction worker from Mexico who saw the flames shatter my kitchen window, and a neighbor who, on her hands and knees, never gave up on calling to me from the other side of the bars. My life was also saved by my own spirit that I could physically feel from deep inside would not stop dragging my dying body toward the sound of my neighbor's voice under the smoke. 


"It's a miracle you're still alive," the fire inspector said.


The word virgin means "pure," the Sanskrit word is sauca. This definition of sauca, from "Exquisite Love," by William K. Mahoney, is how I like to think of fire these days.


The word derives from a verbal root that connotes the purifying heat of fire, and thus also a shining, glimmering, brightness and clarity. The image here is of the offertory flame that burns during the performance of sacred rituals. Accordingly, in cultivating sauca, we not only strive to keep our living spaces clean and our thoughts pure; in the spiritual discipline of love we pour all of our impurities into a blazing fire of sorts. This is the flame of God's own love for us. Just as butter that is heated in a pan gives rise to a clear, sweet essence, so, too, our commitment to a pure heart reveals and brings forth the clarity of the soul's foundation in pure love.