Full Circle: Returning to Who We Are

We are edging close to the new Spring Equinox, and what a fantastic way to come full circle in this blog about returning.  Now the Maya and other spiritual souls are gathering near Queretaro, and there will be another Earth blessing. However, I am no longer writing in San Miguel;  instead I am living in the City of Literature, located in the Heartland.

To have been part of the revolving seasons of nature once more was enlightening and challenging.  We are now emerging from the deep sleep of winter's frozen stillness.  The other day I saw a male and female cardinal in a dance near my window, and my heart quickened.  The Earth is soft, receptive to the rain and blustery winds.  Stoic Midwesterners begin to sigh with relief, the curve of a smile threatening their solemn countenance.   In Mexico the sun has warmed its people with glorious light throughout the winter months, but we in the central plains have risen to gray skies for too long.  Our reward is the knowledge that after the darkness comes Light and hope.

This returning is what has made me acknowledge who I am:  daughter of corn, woman of the woodlands, prairie born and raised.  I am sad that my dream of redefining myself as a writer did not find permanence in San Miguel.  Yet when I crossed the border into the United States last May, I thought of the prairie in the throes of Spring and wept.

 I have the Iowa dirt between my toes, and a history of corn in my bloodline.  Throughout my life I have been redefining who I am, but have never changed the core of my being.  The Spring Equinox is about renewal and honoring the cycles of the Earth.  It is about returning to the Light, and being human in this ever-changing planet.  Most of all, it is about offering up our prayers of gratitude, for we have been blessed to witness the bold awakening of our land and hearts.

The Blessed Day

Bring the blessed day

   straight into your anxious heart.

Let no buzz, no hum

   no little plastic device

come between you and the day.

If you are trapped

   inside a cubicle of artificial space

and the outside world

   disappears into a minor beige

reach for the passion of purple

   as it whispers into dusk.

Inhale the smell of freshly cut hay

  scattered tenderly in the wind.

Then weep for the Woman who stands

  on the magnificent Earth

in a temple of white remembrance,

  

 Copyright Corinne J. Stanley 2011

Praying to the Earth

She explained to me that the overnight campers had participated in a nocturnal Bear ceremony, courtesy of a North American tribe.  "Very masculine energy," she added.  "Lots of chest-beating, if you know what I mean."

Gazing around me, I strained to imagine such a ceremony, for there was a tranquility emanating from the walkers of the labyrinth.  "Thirteen times.  The Mayan says you have to walk the labyrinth thirteen times,"  my friend noted, as I began to rise.

"I don't have time to walk it that many times. It's getting close to noon,  Personally, I don't see what the difference is."  Locating the entry into the labyrinth, I began my personal journey of silent meditation.  Close to my left I noticed the Mayan frowning slightly.  The clothes, I thought.  I don't suppose he approves.  But did it matter to God?  I knew the Mayan desired numbers and scientific credibility, but I had decided to simply pray for the earth as I walked.  Pray for the feminine Earth, whose being was wracked with exploitation and disregard.

 I walked seven times.  Seven is a good number, a holy number.  But, when we were poised to begin the official ceremony, and people were needed in the meditation center (thirteen people, to be precise) the Mayan wouldn't let me go.  "Caminaste el laberinto trece veces?" he demanded.  I shook my head, and stepped back while a man with a long braid eagerly entered the meditation circle.

The truth is, I wasn't sure why I had come.  Though I found the event fascinating, especially the champaign glasses that were ringing under the nimble movements of index fingers, I also felt a little out of place.  My spiritual life was usually much more solitary and personal than the Happening on the Hill.
However, people from all walks of life had come together to respect and give their energy to protecting the earth.  I wanted the Mayan's ceremony to work--I wanted to believe in the miracle of leaving a better place for the young people I worked with every day.  So I paced myself in the directed manner as I started the labyrinth once more, and blew into my pre-hispanic rabbit-shaped whistle. At twelve o'clock noon, when the Dakota Indian sounded the conch and another lifted his arms in an invocation to the Spirits, I prayed.

It was the Spring Equinox.  We were on a mountaintop and we were united in our efforts to bring goodness into the world.  My solar plexus once more caved in, and I felt my prayers were heard.

Spring Equinox Begins

We arrived to a plateau half-way up the steep mountain.  There were hippie-like people wandering around a house that looked like one Joni Mitchell used to own in the Sixties--- a round, peaked Berber hut, only set in sunny Mexico.  Since it was getting close to 11:00, we scrambled out of the SUV and quickly followed the owner of the House of Angels up a steep trail.  My friend Yvonne, who was in much better shape than I, deftly followed the man.  I had to pull on any available branches and sometimes crawl.

When we got to the top, an astounding sight greeted us.  The Mayan had chosen this particular place because of its pre-Hispanic history, and to the left, on a higher peak, I observed a stella surrounded by some ruins.  A few people were standing or perhaps meditating at its base.  However, what I wasn't prepared for was the whiteness of it all.  Almost everyone I saw was wearing white--white pants, white skirts, white tunics and huipiles.  The Mayan, in the far distance, was dressed in modest white as well.  I looked down at my green top and bluejeans, somewhat chagrined.

There were little stands selling pre-hispanic ceramic whistles and incense, as well as crystals and bottles of water.  Most of the people were silently pacing a large labyrinth laid out on the flat ceremonial space, but there were a few centers within the labyrinth, also.  One was a type of healing/purification center, where people were receiving treatments.  I noticed one woman smoking a large cigar, and blowing smoke into people's faces as she randomly shouted.  Another  center consisted of a small group of people doing tai-chi and other movements.  On one side of the circle there appeared to be people sitting in a meditation daze, and yet another group was making noises with whistles and drums and champaign glasses half-filled with water.  After taking this all in, I decided to sit next to a woman who looked like a middle-aged, well, Joni Mitchell in fact, with thick blonde braids, remarkably blue eyes and a cigarette stuck between her fingers.

Through the Tunnel

It was curious to me that I had never known of the mountain tunnel outside of the city of San Miguel. Then again, I'd often felt this energetic pull that kept me from venturing far from the city--though much of that energy had been devoted to scrambling for a living.

Using my intuition and a faint remembrance of online directions, I managed to locate the tunnel.  Along the way we passed the presa and I noticed a landscape that had simply evaded my attention all those years of living in the heart of the city.  Water bottles jiggled inside the car and I munched on my Tortitlan milenesa sandwhich as I observed a strange site.  Were those oriental structures sitting on the side of the mountain?  Apparently some religious group had built meditation huts that appeared to have wandered from the Tibetan landscape.  To our right a small group of men were pulling boulders and stones out of the mostly dry Rio Laja, and I wondered what that was about, considering the constant construction in San Miguel.

"Look! Here is the landmark!"  I called out to my companion, just as I was thinking we'd gone too far.  Amazingly, the owner of the House of Angels pulled up at the same moment.

"It's pretty rough on the way up,"  he told us, looking critically at my Ford Focus.  "I have four-wheel drive--do you want to just come with us?"

Later, when Sierra and I were climbing down the mountainside, I realized how serendipitous our encounter was.  Had I ventured up on my own, most probably I would have wrecked my suspension.

Some things are just meant to be.

Spring Equinox on the Mountain

I left the Casa de los Angeles before the Maya had finished his lengthly talk about sun spots and planetary alignments.  Primarily "A" was interested in forming groups of "human pyramids" to cleanse the planet of its humos, and to prepare for the influx of energy at the end of 2012.  His confidence disturbed yet fascinated me.  Because my year of 2010 wasn't exactly going as planned, I wanted to cling to his prophecy of better energies, better worlds for 2012.  Then there was the contracting feeling in my solar plexus area.  What was that about?  Once I had picked up the dirt at el Chimayo, the holy shrine in New Mexico, and the same thing had happened to me.

Later on in the week I got some emails from a group of people who were part of the Maya's concierge.
Apparently people were gathering from all over North America to prepare for the spring equinox in San Miguel.  Some tribe from Montana or the Dakotas had already arrived and set up camp on a mountain top outside the city.  Others were traveling from Oaxaca and the Yucatan.  I didn't think meditating on a mountain top was quite my style, but I admired their efforts to transform the world.  Driving down the increasingly polluted Salida a Queretaro was enough to make anyone desire ecological reform.  If the humos on that road could be cleared by the Maya's group of followers, I would be entirely happy.  Reflecting on their good-will efforts, I decided to enact a little good-will of my own, by returning to the House of Angels with a couple bags of groceries.  The tribes on the top of the hill needed food to sustain their mystical journey.

Curious as I was about the events which the Maya had planned---labyrinths, healing lodges and musical renderings on pre-hispanic instruments--I made plans to sing at the St. Paul's church as usual on the happening day.  However, suddenly my life became an unexpected venture.  My friend Sierra, the free-lance writer from Canada, called me and urged me to reconsider my plans.

"I would really like to go, wouldn't you?  And you do have a car.  Don't you think it will be quite the thing ?"

For some uncanny reason I agreed.  After the tediousness of my solitary writing life, an adventure through a tunnel to find the mysterious ruins on top of a mountain was quite  appealing.  However, I had discarded the map given to me by the owner of the House of Angels.  I only had this sketchy idea of where to go.

"Sure,"  I replied.  "  I will meet you in front of the church at 10 o'clock."

That gave us two hours to get to our destination, on top of mountain where  the Chichimeca ruins lay.

The First Encuentro

I was drawn back to the House of Angels because Chloe told me about the Maya giving workshops in San Miguel. As she related her experiences I observed radiance emanating from her face--she looked as if she were another person, full of tranquility and content with the world.  Was her DNA altering?  Did she also partake in the Jose-inspired massages?

I wasn't interested in the workshop, which for practical purposes was almost over.  However, I was interested in hearing the Maya talk.  Apparently the owner of the House of Angels was a friend and sponsor of the Maya, who was giving a platica at the house in one week.

How lovely to return to the gorgeous premises where I danced my heart out to los Beatles a few weeks before!  Now I was sitting on that same patio, waiting for "A" and the promise of peace that I had observed on Choe's countenance.  Being the good student that I am, I had brought pen and a little notebook to record any interesting facts he might share about 2012.

"A"  was a very scientific and computer-touting Mayan.  Right in tune with the Jose-massages, he spoke about changes at the molecular and atomic level within our bodies.  Claiming to possess sacred knowledge passed down to him from 2500 years of ancestral wisdom, "A" spoke about sun energies, angry people dying on the pyramids when the sun emerged, how important alegria or joy was to our well-being, and how there was a malignant "humo" which affected us negatively.  He stated that ultraviolet rays could activate the DNA changes, and sound could heal us on many levels.  Furthermore, the pyramids were built to clear this spiritual fog, and his mission was to build human pyramids all around Mexico,.  According to "A" planetary forces were going to be  particularly strong in this country.

Since I am now re-reading the notes I took almost a year ago, predominant in my thoughts is how and when my solar plexus began to tighten so greatly that I had trouble breathing.

"Poverty doesn't have to exist"  was the phrase.  How unbelievably interesting.....considering what happened to me afterward.

Feliz 2011 y los Mayas en San Miguel

Feliz 2011: San Miguel y los mayas How did I end up on the mountain top?  When I went to the Waldorf fundraiser party at the House of the Angels, I had no idea that my gesture of support would lead me to that mysterious day of el solsticio encima de la montana.  Now I am a Seventies Girl, so hearing that a Beatles signature band was playing  sent me off and going, money tucked inside my swinging purse, and dancing shoes tight with anticipation on my feet.  Upon arrival I attempted to keep my awe of the elaborate house with inviting balconies and spectacular views toned down.  Of course, I was now transported to the hills of San Miguel from the humble valley where the corn people reside; how could I not feel a tad out of place?  I once was considered a San Miguelense, back in the days when I danced in an improv group, as well as facilitated a translation workshop in the historical Museo de Allende.   I now felt like the foreigner I was.  Yet, amongst the several unknown attendees who were part of the "new wave" of residents, I discovered a few old-timers wandering the vast premises of the House of the Angels.  Evita, owner of la Calaca sat with me to eat the vegetarian deluxe spread included in the entry fee.  White hair flowing and dressed in a lavender huipil to match her stunning eyes, my lovely companion and I conversed amiably as I observed the milling crowd.  In the background on some distant balcony a few guitar sounds warbled in warm-up mode.  Time to get on my feet and discover the source of this welcoming sound, I thought--and that is when I discovered that Claudio had come back to town. When I previously lived in San Miguel, I was somewhat on the fringe of an interesting theatrical crowd, the people who formed the Teatro Anthanor group...Maria de Cespedes, Federico, Susana, Alina, Dan, Jeanne and Claudio, a French transplant with wild, curly hair and a rumpled, artistic look about him. I found him drinking wine on the balcony near the band, and speaking with him lightened my fear that I no longer belonged to my former home.  When he revealed to me that the Cafe Anthanor might be revived, my spirits lifted even more.  Later, I ran into Jose, who was in charge of the DNA-changing massages going on at the second level of the house.  Apparently Evita had already lined up for her free session when I had my first conversation with Jose in years.     "Recuerdas cuando nos bailamos con las mascaras en Xichu--do you remember when we danced with masks in Xichu?"  I recalled fondly.  "Que dias extraordinarios!" But even more extraordinary was the movement of DNA change going on above us. ......more later.

The Party Continues...Sigue la fiesta...

I remember joking with Jose about the massages that were supposed to alter one's DNA.  Then when I went upstairs to investigate, I discovered that he had trained all of the masseuses.  At this moment Evita was headed toward the table and I began to chat with the young girl who was poised to give her a massage.
  "No,  todo es gratis,"  she explained to me.  "Es que estamos cambiando el mundo, poco a poco.  Y si, creemos con certitude que provoca alteraciones en el DNA este tipo de masaje."


So it's true, I thought.  Not only do they believe that they are changing the genetic make-up of the people they massage, they are doing this as a free service.  Although I found this interesting, and it embarrassed me somewhat that I had joked about the DNA-changing, what really bothered me was that Jose didn't want to dance with me.

Now, I understood that his wife was there, with their sweet little girl, but the Beatles music was really pumping from the balcony below.  Besides, why would you be concerned with DNA transformations and not want to dance?  The energy one exudes in movement may not directly affect the genetic code, but it sure as heck lifts the corazon.   When push comes to shove, I am not embarrassed one iota to step out on the dance floor by myself, and raise my cardiac vibrations to a new level.  Hence, when "Get Back" began with the bass guitar thumping that danceable rhythm, off I went to set my soul free on the crowded dance floor/patio, solita, among the Waldorf new wave of san miguelenses.

Nothing spectacular happened after I danced to a few tunes.  I located Evita, who was ready to leave, also, and I left the House of Angels not realizing that both its gorgeous  surroundings and the DNA theme would draw me back inside within a week.  The Maya had come to town.