(This is the fourth installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
For Saturday’s breakfast, I again find myself in the extremely humble dirt-floor home of Teodora, but this time Juliana is my sweet and talkative host.
“My mother left early this morning on a bus to Dangriga.” Juliana begins. “The doctors say she has kidney stones, and she went to see a specialist.”
“Tell me more about yourself, and about Teodora.” I ask Juliana with great interest.
I soon learn that Juliana, who is 30 years old, is Teodora’s youngest daughter. She married her husband when she was 25 years old, and does not yet have any children of her own.
Lavina, the young 20-year-old who fed me on Thursday is married to Juliana’s brother.
Teodora, age 74, has twelve children—but only eight of them are alive. One son died during a stabbing incident in Punta Gorda. Another son died from a snake bite wound. He ventured deep into the jungle late one afternoon, with intentions to do some night hunting. At around 3:30 p.m., he was bitten by a poisonous snake. He managed to make it home by around 5:30 p.m., but it was too late—there was nothing they could do to save him, as the poison had spread too deeply throughout his body.
As Juliana and I talk about poisonous snakes, I cannot help but reflect back on my own journey deep into the jungle, only yesterday.
Next I learn that Teodora’s husband is named Ansuncion. I am surprised to discover that he is the same sweet elderly man who carried palm branches to help repair the guesthouse roof on Thursday afternoon.
“He doesn’t speak English.” Juliana adds. “He didn’t go to school and never learned how.”
“Most of Teodora’s living children reside here in the village, or somewhere nearby.” Juliana continues. “But right now, my husband, and many of my brothers (including Lavina’s husband) are all in Placencia together, building homes to earn money.”
A Toucan Offer
After breakfast, I decide to get some air by exploring the road that leads out into the wild on the western end of the village. My legs and hips are still quite tight and stiff from yesterday’s strenuous jungle hiking, and I want to loosen them up—but at the same time I realize that I won’t be straying too far from the village.
Just as I begin my walk, I pass Glenda, who is walking in the opposite direction with her three young children.
“Where are you headed?” I asked with curiosity.
“We’re going to our farm to gather some beans.” She responds with a smile.
“Do you take the baby with you?” I ask curiously, pointing to tiny Marlene.
“Oh no,” she giggles, “I’m dropping Marlene and Aaron off at my mothers. I’ll take Willmur with me. He is big enough to help me pull the beans.”
By now, I have learned that Glenda is Dionicio’s youngest daughter. She and Mateus married each other when Glenda was only 16 years old. After nearly ten years of marriage, they have three beautiful children, and appear to be quite happy with their lives together.
Dionicio had previously told me that it is quite common for many of the youth to get married at ages as young as 15 or 16.
“But not all of the youth start at such a young age.” Dionicio had added. “None of my sons have married yet. My older boys are already in their low twenties. They insist that they want to wait a little longer.”
“Many marriages in past generations were arranged by parents.” Dionicio said with a smile, “But nowadays, everyone chooses their own partners.”
As I continue toward the edge of the village, I notice a young woman dumping a bucket onto a large concrete slab near the road, adjacent to the soccer field. The contents appear be yellowish-white seeds of some type, perhaps two inches long, three-fourths of an inch wide, and maybe three-eighths of an inch thick.
“What are you doing?” I ask the beautiful young teenage girl.
“Drying my cacao seeds in the sun.” She replies.
After a short discussion I learn that this young woman’s name is also Brenda, just like me. She harvested these cacao seeds herself. After three days of washing and soaking, she is now setting them out into the sun to dry.
“When they are fully dry,” Brenda tells me, “they will be a dark brownish-red color. I will take them to Punta Gorda and sell them for about $3 (Belize) per pound.”
“But they don’t look very much like chocolate.” I tease. “Do they really make chocolate from these seeds?”
“Yes,” she replies with a giggle as she breaks one open to show me.
I am surprised to see a soft interior with a dark brown chocolate-like color. After requesting permission to capture a few photos, I again resume my walk.
For nearly thirty minutes, I follow a generally westerly heading, constantly climbing up, then down, curving left then right, as the small winding dirt road meanders through the hills in the direction of the next small village, called Pueblo Viejo.
But before I am even halfway to Pueblo Viejo, I opt to turn around. For the first time all week, the sun is quite hot, and the humidity feels like a steam sauna. My muscles have had a reasonable workout, and my eyes have enjoyed some beautiful scenery.
As I approach the boundaries of Santa Elena, a man on a bicycle passes me and then slows down before turning around to speak.
“There’s a fruit tree on my cacao farm,” he begins, “and a whole group of Toucans are gathered in the branches, munching on the berries. They are beautiful birds. If you want to stop by my home after lunch, I can have a couple of my boys take you out there to see them.”
“How far away is it?” I ask.
“Not far at all.” The man responds vaguely.
My experience continues to be that I rarely get a detailed answer when I ask about distance. Invariably, the answer always seems to be something like “Not very far” or “It’s very far.” I still have no concrete notion as to what “not very far” actually means.
“What is your name? … and where do you live?” I politely ask with anticipation, eagerly wanting to take advantage of an opportunity to see Toucan birds in the wild.
“My name is Mathias.” He replies. “I think you were at my mother’s home this morning.”
“You mean Teodora’s home?” I ask surprised.
“Yes, I am her son.” Mathias responds just as we crest the hill looking back down into the village of Santa Elena.
“That’s my home right down there,” he points with his hand toward a distant cluster of huts just above the school building, “right next door to Teodora’s home.”
A sense of eager excitement fills my heart as I thank Mathias for his kind offer. I have long hoped for the opportunity to see one of these famous birds in person—birds which I have seen my whole life on the flat cardboard cover of Fruit Loops cereal boxes.
“Yes,” I tell him happily. “I will come by your house right after lunch.”
Toucan, Toucan … Who’s Got The Toucan?
Lunch at Christina’s turns out to be very similar to Heralda’s breakfast-soup, only this overflowing bowl of mystery delights also includes Jippi Jappa in addition to the ChuChu and whole boiled egg—plus, of course, the usual delicious corn tortillas.
As we engage in friendly conversation, I learn many new interesting facts about Christina’s life. Christina is now 32 years old. Having been married in her late teens, her first son William, who is now 13, is already attending his first year of high school in Punta Gorda. Her only daughter, Anna, is 11 years old, and then of course there is nine-year-old Heraldo who has now been to my home a couple of times to fetch me for meals.
Christina tells me that both she and her husband were raised here in the village. Her mother, who it turns out is Dionicio’s sister, is still alive, and also lives in the village. It takes me a second, but I finally realize that Christina is Dionicio’s niece.
“Many people here in the village are related to each other.” Christina tells me with a smile—a fact that I am beginning to realize on my own.
“What about your father?” I ask.
“Oh, he died from a snake bite when I was a little girl.” She replies casually, almost matter-of-factly.
“I was bitten once too,” she adds, “but they were able to cure me.”
“Do lots of people die from snake bites in the jungle?” I ask, since this is now the second such story that I have heard.
“Actually, no.” She replies. “My father is the only one that I know about.”
“But what about Teodora’s son?” I continue to pry, hoping to learn more.
“My father IS Teodora’s son.” She replies with a giggle.
As the conversation progresses, I also learn that Antonio, the pastor at the Church of Christ, is Christina’s younger brother. In fact, all four of Christina’s brothers live in the village. The family connections begin to boggle my mind. I have a hard time keeping everything straight.
One question I refrain from asking is how, or whether, people manage to avoid intermarrying with close relatives such as cousins. I decide this type of question is best left unasked. In my heart, I know that the answer does not really matter in the slightest.
As 1:30 p.m. rolls around, I find myself eagerly walking up to Mathias’s home.
“Are you ready?” he asks, as he walks out his front door. “I’m going to have my daughters take you to the farm.”
Soon, three young girls are escorting me back toward the western edge of the village. Elaine, the oldest, appears to be in her mid to upper teens. She is polite, but seems very shy and reserved. Blearny, perhaps nine or ten, and Rachel, perhaps four, complete the trio. I notice that tiny Rachel has no shoes, and Blearny’s flip flops are coming apart on the toe strap. Blearny and Elaine take turns carrying Rachel part of the way, but soon, she is again scampering around on the rocky dirt road in her bare feet.
After ten minutes, we enter a small trail that leads away from the road, heading into the jungle on the north. Seconds later, we emerge into a large hillside field covered with what must be several hundred Cacao trees. The trees are short and stumpy, as far as trees go, not reaching more than ten to fifteen feet in height. Scattered around the lower branches and trunks of these trees, huge cacao fruits are growing, directly attached by small stems hanging from the smooth bark. The fruits are almost cylindrical, being around ten to twelve inches in length and perhaps four to five inches in diameter. Some are green, while others are a bright reddish brown.
Almost immediately, Blearny takes a dull kitchen knife and whacks away at one of the fruits until it breaks free from the trunk. Then, while holding the fruit in one hand, she begins chopping away at it with the knife in her other hand.
I swallow a lump in my throat as I envision that any second now, her hand might slip, causing a bloody accident.
Soon, after nearly giving up, Elaine grabs the knife and takes over. After several firm chops, a one-inch thick fiber-filled outer shell has been removed, revealing a white lumpy fruit on the inside—the surface of which almost looks like brain tissue with its little bumps and fissures.
Blearny and Rachel immediately begin chewing away at the white meat of the fruit, discarding the large seeds onto the ground. Well, actually, Rachel just eats right through the chocolaty seeds.
Meanwhile, I am focused intently on the trees above, anxiously scanning the branches, hoping to find my beautiful long-billed friend-to-be. But no Toucan birds dot the horizon—none, nowhere. In fact, there are hardly any birds at all. Back and forth, we wander through the trees, quietly watching and listening, but our search ends in vain.
Almost forty minutes later, as I say goodbye to the girls back at Mathias’s home, I ask for permission to return to the farm by myself, perhaps in the morning. The idea of seeing Belize’s national bird has captured my fancy.
Tortilla Treats
After a long relaxing nap and a productive afternoon of Spanish studying, I observe as Mario, one of Irma’s sons, slowly walks up to my guesthouse doorway. I had started to wonder if I would be getting dinner tonight, as the time was already almost 5:40 p.m.
As we pass by the soccer field, I notice about 18 men and older boys actively running around and kicking the ball, while a handful of other young men watch eagerly from the sidelines. I long to simply stop and observe—but it is time for my evening meal, and I cannot delay. As the soccer field disappears behind me, I make a mental note of the fact that there are no females anywhere in the area—neither on the field nor among the spectators.
As I enjoy my dinner of Jippi Jappa, half-scrambled-half-fried egg, cabbage, and tortillas, Irma tells me that her husband is out playing soccer with other villagers. I had not even thought to previously ask her about her husband.
“They will play until it gets dark,” Irma tells me, “after which they all go to the river to bathe before returning home. The men and boys like to play soccer several evenings each week. My husband joins them when he can.”
“I went to Punta Gorda today.” Irma continues. “I am sorry that I am so late. I had some extra corn to sell in town, and I am just now getting a late start on dinner.”
I watch in fascination, as Irma repeatedly grabs small handfuls of corn dough—dough that I assume came from Christina’s mill. One by one she flattens the pieces of dough into thin round circles and slaps them on a circular metal griddle strategically placed above a low fire at her side. Twenty seconds later, Irma flips the edge of the tortilla with her bare fingers and skillfully turns it over. In another twenty seconds, she again grabs the tortilla, placing it in a towel-lined bowl right in front of me.
“Don’t you get burned when you touch the griddle like that?” I ask with amazement.
“No, I know how to do it just right so that I don’t burn myself.” She proudly replies.
By now, I have already observed many Mayan women doing the same thing—cooking their tortillas over an open fire, using only their bare hands. All of them seem to be very fast and efficient in the process.
As a noticeably thin dog stares from an open doorway to my left, I watch with surprise as Irma throws a tortilla in the hungry dog’s direction. Soon the little guy is eagerly munching away on his treasure.
“You feed tortillas to the dogs?” I ask with a puzzled look.
“Yes,” she replies. “That is what we feed to both our dogs and our cats. They like them a lot.”
Seconds later, Irma throws a small wad of moist uncooked tortilla dough to a group of baby chicks gathered just inside her doorway.
“The chicks like to eat the corn meal raw?” Irma remarks with a smile.
As I finish my delightful visit with Irma, the skies are already quite dark. With the dim glow of sunset having almost completely disappeared, the long stroll back to the guesthouse requires considerable attention and focus. I now understand why Dionicio likes his guests to be fed before dark.
After lighting my oil lamp, I briefly enjoy a fanciful display of fireflies from my front porch—but soon the darkness becomes blackness. As I close the front door behind me, the remainder of my evening is meditative and relaxed as I simply listen to my IPOD while gradually surrendering to the urge to sleep. With no lights to speak of, I find myself again sequestered beneath my mosquito net, head on pillow, eyes closed, mind drifting off to never-never land.
A Flash Of Fear
Sometime in the wee morning hours, I awaken with a start. Scattered remnants of a weird dream still remain in my consciousness.
In the dream, it is late evening, and I have been wandering in a snowstorm. Realizing that I am beginning to feel lost, I turn around and begin following my footprints, hoping to figure out where I am.
Soon, I find myself in a small neighborhood. A snowball fight is ensuing in front of me, so I playfully grab a handful of snow to join in. After throwing a few well-aimed balls of tightly packed snow, I dart off behind a house to evade a few men who begin to run towards me. Diving over a small hedge, I quietly hide while they search.
Soon, another woman leaps over the same hedge. Several men see her, grab her, and strap her down to a portable stretcher. Then one of the men sees me hiding and grabs my arm.
“What are you going to do to me?” I blurt out alarmingly … right before I wake up in my pitch black room underneath the flimsy cover of my mosquito net.
Just then I hear something rubbing forcefully against the lower outside of the guesthouse, somewhere close to my bed.
For a brief moment, the fear of my dream carries over to the present moment. Then my mind magically flashes to an image of a homely little dog that has been repeatedly wandering around the guesthouse. The poor dog looks so uncomfortable. He wheezes frequently, and often appears to shake. But most of all, he gives the impression of being covered in fleas—a thought that has caused me to constantly avoid him, judging him, meanly shooing him away when he tries to come close. I feel a twinge of guilt each time I chase him away, but I justify my guilt by rationalizing that I don’t want his fleas climbing all over me. In the back of my mind, I know that I am in the process of learning a new lesson here.
I have frequently watched as the little dog unceasingly rubs his body up against poles, trees, and walls, seemingly desperate to satisfy an overwhelmingly itchy body.
“Surely that bumping against my wall was just the scratching dog,” I calmly reassure myself.
But I do have to admit that I am extra cautious and observant, shining my tiny dim reading light in every direction as I step out into the pitch black yard to use the outhouse a short while later.
Just what could be the meaning of this weird sequence of events?
I am not totally sure. A hunch tells me that perhaps the universe is telling me that I need to face more fears and inhibitions—that I need to retrace my steps a little, be more playful, and not assume the worst in an upcoming situation that may at first seem frightening. Only time will tell.
One thing is certain however. The feeling of the weird dream and noise continues to linger with me for a few hours, not completely disappearing until daylight begins to replace the thick blackness around me.
First Meat
Up until this point, all of my meals have been vegetarian (except perhaps the lard in my refried beans). So I am oddly surprised when Sunday morning breakfast at Dionicio’s includes a touch of meat—a raw hotdog cut into chunks and mixed with my morning eggs. Then my lunch at Glenda’s is almost identical—more hotdog chunks mixed with scrambled eggs—but this time she includes some home grown beans and white rice. To keep the weird shift in meals going, Dinner at Christina’s includes a few pieces of bony chicken added to a yam soup—but the chicken meat is almost non existent. I think the pieces I am given may have been from the neck. Regardless, what few tiny pieces that I manage to access with my spoon are very tough.
Yes, I said spoon. For almost all of my meals I was given a single spoon with which to eat. Occasionally I was also given a fork.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that yams are one of those foods on my mental list that I have always known that I hate, yet refused to even taste.
Feeling quite proud of my growing food accomplishments, I actually finish all of the yams—every single bite—and they are not as yucky as I expect.
Educational Balance
After Sunday morning breakfast, Dionicio and I engage in another delightful discussion. First he tells me that a friend has discovered some small Mayan ruins on his farm.
“I’m going to go with him next week to take a look.” Dionicio proudly tells me. “Maybe we can take visitors out there, possibly bringing more tourism money to our village.”
How I wish I could go with Dionicio on such a trek to a newly discovered buried pyramid—but alas, I know that I will have left the village by that time. I choose to remain silent regarding my interest in the adventure.
Our conversation then shifts to education—specifically high school education.
“How many of the youth in the village go on to high school?” I ask Dionicio.
“Most of the boys that test well choose to go on for higher education,” Dionicio begins, “but many of the girls pass up the opportunity. Here in Santa Elena, we only have one girl that goes to High School. I tried to convince others to go, but they did not want to bother.”
“I believe education is very important for the girls,” Dionicio continues. “A few years ago, I decided to start a scholarship program where I donate $1000 (Belize) every year so that four girls can get a high school education.”
“Some people have criticized me,” Dionicio adds, “because I am giving the money to girls in neighboring villages. They complain that I should be keeping the money in Santa Elena—but I have tried, and I can’t find any girls here in the village that will attend.”
“I would love to achieve more balance in our schools, helping more girls to expand their education about the world.” Dionicio concludes. “But many of the girls just want to get married, thinking that they have no need for an education.”
Dionicio then diverges to a variety of topics—conversation in which I am mainly a reflective listener. In the course of nearly an hour, he touches on spousal abuse, crime problems in Belize, littering, and health issues.
“Here in Santa Elena, we have no mosquito problem whatsoever.” Dionicio brags proudly. We keep the village clean, not allowing any empty containers or litter to collect standing water that will help to breed mosquitoes.”
Then he tells me something that causes me to ponder deeply.
“Here in Santa Elena, we have not had any cases of Malaria or Dengue Fever.” He adds. “But in a few other villages, even villages with guest houses, there have been several cases.”
Crossing Bridges
“I’m about to hike back up to Mathias’s cacao farm to see if I can find some Toucans.” I tell Dionicio.
“Sometimes a few Toucans perch in the trees right here above the stream by my home.” Dionicio responds. “If I see them, I will send someone to get you.”
Soon, as my conversation with Dionicio comes to a natural conclusion, I excuse myself and begin my quick walk to the cacao farm. But, as before, I come up empty handed. The beautiful Toucans again choose to not grace me with their presence. Thirty minutes later, I am back in the center of Santa Elena, ready for another exploration.
Having heard many people talk about the beautiful pools and waterfall in nearby Rio Blanco National Park, I make a spur-of-the-moment decision that now is the time to check out exactly what everyone has told me about.
Within minutes, I am off. This time I hike in the other direction, along the dirt road heading east in the direction of the village of Santa Cruz. I have been told that the park is only a twenty minute walk. My goal is to spend a couple of hours exploring the park while still allowing time to return to the guesthouse before lunchtime.
The scenery on the east end of Santa Elena is every bit as lush and beautiful as other vistas that I have experienced. My twenty minute stroll seems to pass ever so slowly. The blue skies are clear and cloudless, providing no shady relief from the hotly burning sun. As I round a wide bend in the road, wondering if I will ever arrive, I suddenly see a homemade painted sign that reads “Rio Blanco National Park.” Behind the sign are a small gravel parking lot and a two-story wooden building that is tightly shuttered.
Signs tell me to pay a $10 entrance fee at the office, but the door and windows are locked, and I find no boxes or slots into which I can slide my money.
“I guess this is a gift from the universe.” I decide, as I follow the signs down a five minute trail that leads toward the falls.
Because we are in dry season, the falls are quite small and subdued. In fact, there are two separate tiny falls in what I understand is normally a wide panorama of one large waterfall. But nevertheless, as I arrive above the falling water, I am not the least bit disappointed. The combination of a calm deep pool, the jungle trees towering above, and the small gushing water in front of me provide an excellent and peaceful photo op.
Several people had told me that swimming in the pool is great fun, but for today I opt to simply be an observer, checking out the scenery while enjoying the trails.
Soon I am off exploring those trails. My first destination is a small cable bridge constructed last year by Dionicio’s now-deceased son. From a distance, the small cable bridge does not appear to be threatening in the least. I approach with the utmost confidence, expecting to casually stroll across while enjoying the beautiful view perched atop the slowly flowing river.
“Yeah, right” I exclaim as I finally climb to the top of a tall platform on the near end of the long bridge. I seriously consider simply turning around and climbing right back down the ladder to the ground below.
But the adventurer in me says “Go for it!”
Four small cables stretch about 150 feet across the canyon, suspended above a calm slow-moving shallow river about 20 feet below. The cables are stretched tightly, attached to the trunks of tall trees on either side. Small boards nailed into the tree trunks hold the cables in their place.
Two cables form the left side of the bridge, with the other two cables forming the right side. Between the upper and lower cable on each side, smaller cables weave up and down, binding the upper and lower cables together, forming a type of makeshift side.
But it is not the structure of the sides that make me nervous, it is their height. As I begin to step out over the water, the upper cables do not even rise to the level of my hips, while the space between the left and right sides is barely wider than my body. Most of my 5’6” frame is sticking out above the cables, making me feel as if I could fall over the edge at any moment.
But my most anxious of feelings are stirred when I observe the boards that constitute the bottom footpath of the bridge. Long ten-inch-wide planks are wired to both sides of the lower cables. The planks are no more than three-fourths of an inch in thickness, and the grain of the wood runs lengthwise, parallel to the bridge itself. Past experience tells me that three-quarter-inch boards, when dried and subsequently placed under stress, can easily split and tear along the grain of the wood. Common sense tells me that the bottom of this bridge, while still intact at this moment, is not necessarily all that solid. Any section of the bottom could split open under sufficient weight or stress.
Confidently, I step onto the first board, bending over to grab the upper cables down low on either side. After three steps, I find myself crawling slowly on my hands and knees. The further I crawl, the more I feel the bridge bouncing under my weight. Finally, as I am about two-thirds of the way across, I slowly raise myself back to a crouched position and boldly, but slowly, make my way across the remainder of the distance on foot.
My adrenaline and heart-rate levels have definitely spiked as I step onto the far platform and climb down to solid ground below.
The small thirty minute “Jippi Jappa” nature trail on the other side of the river is peaceful and beautiful—but nothing can compare to my prior adventure through the jungle with Mateus and Timoteo.
After exploring for the better part of an hour, I slowly and carefully make my way back across the rickety cable bridge—this time managing to nervously stay on my feet for the entire distance.
As I arrive back at the guesthouse shortly after 11:15 a.m., I remove my hiking shoes and discover a small green disc that feels anchored to my skin just above my ankle. Carefully and boldly, I push my fingernails together under the head of the tick, and yank it out of my skin—throwing the little parasite onto the ground below.
On a humorous side note, two days later I found an identical little green disc stuck to my skin. As I prepared to remove this second tick, it simply fell off by itself. I laughed when I realized that the tick was not really a tick at all—it was a tiny sticky seed pod. Oh, the silly things that our imaginations can make us do!
Exhaustion becomes the theme of my afternoon. After repeatedly attempting to study Spanish after finishing lunch, I finally succumb to the lure of sleep, and take a long nap that does not end until after 4:00 p.m..
Dancing With Angels
For two days, several of the youth had been telling me that they would be reenacting “The Lord’s Supper” at church on Sunday night.
“We will be starting at 5:00 p.m.,” they repeatedly told me.
“I plan on being there,” I answered each time, eager to learn what they mean when they say “reenacting The Lord’s Supper”.
So as soon as my 5:00 p.m. dinner is finished at Christina’s, I rush off to the chapel, while Christina gathers up her own small family to do the same.
I am snugly seated in my favorite seat on the back row by 5:30 p.m., but the remainder of the chapel is 95% empty. Timoteo is already playing the organ, and Dionicio Junior has already begun his loud microphone praying—but most village residents are nowhere to be seen.
As I glance around me, I am amazed by the beautiful decorations. Huge palm leaves are placed in front of each open window frame, and smaller palm leaves are hanging on the wall between them. Attached to each palm leaf are clusters of yellow balloons. Suspended across the front of the chapel, hanging from the ceiling, is a large archway constructed from multicolored balloons, with a purple grape-like cluster of balloons hanging down on one side. The front of the stage area is likewise decorated with palm leaves, balloons, and beautiful flower arrangements.
By 6:30 p.m., the chapel is filled to capacity. Twenty more chairs have been stacked in the rear, and the crowd is standing room only. All of the children have gradually been asked to stand so as to make room for the adults to sit. Over half of the village must surely be present in this tiny building.
One of the most unique things I observe is that many mothers have brought their sleeping babies to church. Each young baby or toddler is wrapped up and tucked inside a white cotton carrier of some sort, allowing the baby to sleep in a horizontal position. Four such baby carriers are hanging from hooks on the main chapel doors while the tiny tots remain fast asleep.
The slow music, chanting, hand waving, and swaying, continue for most of the next hour. Songs with repeating words, mostly in Spanish, continue to be chanted over and over. After having deciphered many of the words, I gradually begin to sing along.
Most of the service appears to progress in much the same manner as on Thursday night, however the songs and the sermon seem to last longer. It is not until after 8:15 p.m. that the sacrament services finally begin.
After Pastor Antonio pronounces some blessings, in Mayan or course, two young men walk through the crowd with baskets of broken bread and serving trays containing tiny mugs filled with wine. It is not until everyone in the room is holding their bread and wine, that Pastor Antonio leads the actual ceremony. First everyone puts the bread in their mouth and slowly chews. Finally, at Pastor Antonio’s signal, everyone drinks their small portion of wine.
After the sacrament service, another round of slow music begins, accompanied by crying and sobbing women, deeply engulfed in their version of Holy Spirit emotion.
I wait patiently. It is the lively dancing and clapping that I am eagerly anticipating. I am anxious to release my inhibitions, to lose myself in the moment, to participate more openly. But in no way am I prepared for what happens next.
As I stand with my hands at my side, I feel a little bump against the back of my right hand. Looking down, I notice a tiny little girl run by with a giggle on her face and a glowing light in her eyes. As soon as I turn my head, I feel another bump. She has run back the other direction and tapped me again. Over the next five minutes the bumps become more and more predictable and frequent.
After each connecting touch of our hands, I make eye contact and exchange a glowing loving look with this little angel.
Soon I feel a hand briefly holding mine. As I look down with a huge smile, the same little girl shyly smiles, releases my hand, and disappears back into the crowd.
Again her hand grabs mine, only to fall away all too quickly. But after several more teases, she hangs on and does not let go.
Hand in hand, we glow and giggle at each other while dancing and swaying to the high-tempo rhythm.
As I glance around, I notice two other beautiful young girls watching with a look of envy in their eyes. Soon one of them approaches. I casually remove a single finger from the first little angel’s grasp and extend it into the open air. The second little angel takes my cue, and soon grabs on. Now I have two darling little angels giggling while hanging onto my right hand.
Minutes later, the other girl slowly approaches, I stick out another finger and she grabs on. My heart is overflowing with love—pure, energizing, rejuvenating, glorifying love.
Within minutes, I have six little angels hanging onto my fingers. The original little girl has switched to my left hand, while each of my five fingers on the right hand is attached to a glowing and giggling little girl.
Almost immediately, I feel the little girls pulling me toward the front of the room. Most of the chairs in the front six rows have been removed to make room for dancing, and these little angels push me up into the middle of it all.
Hands begin to change places. At one point, three beautiful little boys join the mix as eight children simultaneously hang on to my fingers while jumping with joy.
For almost an hour—until the final music ceases around 9:45 p.m.—I wordlessly exchange an amazing radiating energy of joyful unconditional love with these beautiful little children. Their contagious angelic smiles and adorable giggles magically transform the world, both within and all around me. I cannot imagine a more beautiful experience. My heart is wildly alive. My soul dances with unimaginable joy.
As I walk to the front door after the services are over, the little girls follow me outside.
“Take our picture pleEEEeease,” they giggle and beg.
No begging is necessary. Soon, my camera is out and I am snapping photo after photo of these innocent glowing faces—capturing memories of a loving experience that I will carry with me for eternity.
As I finally lay my head on my soft dark pillow, after an incredible Sunday evening, I know that I am already in heaven.
Love Is All You Need
This morning, as I rested in bed at the early hour of 4:00 a.m., the Beatles song “All you need is love” began flashing through my mind, consistently refusing to depart from my peaceful relaxing thoughts. After a few minutes of attempting a return to sleep, a feeling in my heart resonated powerfully, telling me that “All you need is Love” will be the theme of today’s writing.
Earlier today, as I searched out the lyrics to this Beatles classic from my youth, I realized that I have never really listened to the words. In a powerful way, the lyrics remind me that everything is possible in this world when genuine love is fully embraced.
With apologies to the songwriters, I have chosen to conserve space by omitting the song’s many filler words.
All You Need Is Love (Abridged words)
Sung by: The Beatles
Written by: Paul McCartney and John Lennon
[Entry words omitted …]
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It’s easy
There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made
No one you can save that can’t be saved
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time
It’s easy
[Chorus omitted … (twice) ]
There’s nothing you can know that can’t be known
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown
There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be
It’s easy
Chorus:
All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need
[Final words omitted …]
With each amazing day, the universe continues to convince me that these words are more true than I could ever possibly imagine.
Whatever we attempt with pure unconditional love, can indeed be done.
Whatever we sing with pure unconditional love, can indeed be sung.
Whatever we make with pure unconditional love, can indeed be made.
With a genuinely loving heart, all the mysteries of the universe can indeed be known, everything that can be seen will indeed be shown.
But more amazing than anything is that we soon realize that we are learning to be our true divine selves, and that there is nowhere that we can be that is not exactly where we are meant to be while traveling on this path through our temporary home.
It really is that easy—that simple.
Genuine unconditional love—the fabric that holds the universe together—is the golden key to unlocking an unimaginable realm of unlimited possibilities and joy.
On that late Sunday evening in Santa Elena, just two short weeks ago on March 7, 2010, I truly witnessed, in a very personal way, the amazing power of pure unconditional love.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved