As I stick my key in the door of room number nine at the little Mirador Del Lago hotel in Flores, I have only three things on my mind.
First, I am exhausted, desperately needing a nap. For three nights in a row, my sleep has been minimal and inadequate.
Second I am eager to enjoy a reunion with my friends Marty and Carolyn. After recently reconnecting via email, we discovered that our itineraries will overlap—we will all be in Flores at the same time.
Third, I cannot seem to shake my confusing emotions and feelings regarding my experiences with Francisco, my little self-proclaimed Shaman friend in Tikal. Everything happened so quickly last night. I want to talk about the experience, and I want to write about the amazing synchronicities—yet I am hesitant to do either. Embarrassment and shame attempt to work their way into my psyche, telling me that I am nothing but a crazy victimized fool for having trusted Francisco.
But I conveniently bury such emotional debate, focusing instead on more pleasurable naps and reunions with friends.
The period of Tuesday evening through early Thursday morning proves to be a delightful opportunity to catch up with Marty and Carolyn—my Canadian friends that I met in Belize—the same friends with whom I shared a three-day sailing adventure, followed by several days in Placencia.
What a joy it is to swap travel stories and share experiences. After a delightful joint daytrip on Wednesday, we spend a fun afternoon exploring the markets in Santa Elena in the oven-like, grilling sun. Our time together is a wonderful distraction from the confusing feelings that continue to quietly fester inside.
My new temporary home, Flores, is a tiny island in the middle of Lake Peten-Itza in northern Guatemala. This small town, being about five blocks in diameter, is connected to the rest of the world via a small causeway that leads to the larger town of Santa Elena on the lake’s outer shoreline.
For most of Thursday I am too exhausted to even think about writing, so between naps I focus on organizing and uploading photos.
Good Friday, Bad Intestines
Early Friday morning, as I finally force myself to begin typing, I soon hear a band playing in the street. Upon investigating, I immediately immerse myself in a delightful distraction—a morning procession—a Good Friday reenactment of Jesus Christ walking through the streets of Flores carrying a burdensome cross on his back.
The large statue of Jesus with his heavy cross is mounted atop an ornately decorated wooden platform. About sixteen men carry the platform on their shoulders while slowly meandering through the cobblestone streets of Flores, gradually proceeding in a full circle around the entire island. The procession is led by a group of angelic-looking young girls, all dressed in white, carrying lavender flags. The parade is followed by three more platforms, one with some type of priest or disciple, one with Mary, the mother of Jesus, and one with another woman. And then, of course, there is a large group of local devoted Catholic parishioners following alongside and behind.
Every few hundred feet, the band stops, the little angelic girls turn around, and the platform of Jesus bows before a street-side altar. Then, for several minutes, a small worship service ensues, with a speaker and a prayer. As the devotional service concludes, the entire procession resumes movement toward the next decorated altar, just a short distance down the narrow street.
Over and over, this process repeats itself. Frequently, the procession pauses briefly while a man carrying a tall pole pushes and manipulates low hanging electrical wires, creating safe clearance for the tall platform to pass safely below. Nearly two hours later, the platforms and statues are all resting inside a small Catholic church that dominates the tiny hill at the very center of Flores.
By mid morning, as I once again resume tapping on my keyboard, my stomach and intestines begin to enter a full stage of noxious rebellion. Feeling physically yucky, emotionally exhausted, and unable to concentrate on writing—I surrender to my body.
During brief periods of intestinal stability, I venture out on short trips into the hot sweltering streets of Flores. I am delighted to witness a series of “Alfombras” being constructed—the most beautiful of all being artistically created right in front of my hotel.
An “Alfombra” as they are called, is a type of celebratory carpet created on the street. Beautiful mosaics with elaborate designs are created on the cobblestone street, using carefully laid out layers of colorfully died sawdust. I am amazed as I watch the progress of the dedicated artisans tediously creating their masterpieces.
Some alfombras are entirely created from sawdust. Others combine fruits, corn tassels, candles, incense burners, and little statues.
But all are beautiful, having been laid out in honor of the crucified Christ, whose body will be carried in procession along the cobblestone roads later this evening.
By late afternoon, my intestines begin to mostly stabilize, but physical exhaustion dictates that I will attempt no more writing today. Instead I will simply enjoy the remaining Good Friday activities.
Late on Good Friday evening, a second procession makes its way around the island of Flores. This procession treads right over the top of these beautiful alfombras, trampling the creative works of art beneath a great number of passing feet.
The procession is led by eight men in dark black flowing robes. These interesting men each wear a black pointy cone-shaped hat, completely covering their heads, with holes cut out for their eyes. A small white skull sits ominously above the forehead of their masks, directly above and between their eye holes. These dark death-like outfits remind me of Ku Klux Klan costumes—except of course they are black rather than white.
Each of these men continuously swings a black ball hanging from their hand by a two-foot chain. The black ball is some type of incense burner, giving off white smoke with the scent of copal.
Behind these eight death announcers, a very large platform is again carried atop the shoulders of devoted men. The platform is draped heavily with black fabric. At the rear of the platform is the crucified Christ, lying on a bed in his white clothing, with Mary leaning over him. Mary wears a black robe covering a deep-red dress.
As before, I follow this procession to its conclusion as the marchers trample one beautiful alfombra after another, eventually ending up at the small church in the center of Flores.
Return to Yuck
Saturday, as I make my second attempt at writing, I continue to feel a deep hesitance to documenting my experiences with Francisco, so I make a compromise with myself.
“I will simply write until I finish my first-day experiences in Tikal.” I tell myself.
My long day of writing flows smoothly, but still, I feel anxious, dreading the words yet to come. By day’s end, however, I feel quite peaceful with my latest blog entry entitled “Resistance is Futile.”
As Easter Sunday begins to unfold, I courageously engage in continued writing, still experiencing a mild feeling of dread about facing unexplored emotions.
By late Sunday afternoon, I am again stuck in the yuck as I struggle to find words to describe my second mid-Monday-afternoon encounter with Francisco—an encounter that I know was meant to happen—an encounter to which I was peacefully guided by internal voices. But it was also an encounter that left me deeply confused—an encounter that created a huge array of conflicting and opposing emotions that have not yet been allowed to fully surface.
By 3:30 p.m., my intestines are consumed with wild physical churning from within. At the same time, feelings of exceeded boundaries and victimization attempt to find their way into my consciousness—telling me that I was spiritually violated by Francisco, telling me that I should be angry, embarrassed, and shameful. Angry voices seek expression, telling me that I was a doormat who had become sucked up and tricked by ego—angry voices telling me that Francisco was just a manipulative fraud.
Minutes later, the diarrhea is so intense that I cannot write any further. I turn my laptop off and sit numbly in my physical discomfort.
“What is going on?” I ask myself. “I need to write about this in order to seek clarity, but it appears that my body will simply not allow me to write any further.”
Finally, by around 5:00 p.m., I get the message. “I have some seriously stuffed emotions that need to surface—and I cannot continue without first returning to an internal state of peace.”
A Pillow and a Bottle
“Francisco, you are a manipulative, dirty old man!” I yell at my pillow in a quiet subdued voice, allowing my emotion to surface.
Simultaneously, I take an empty water bottle and repeatedly hit it firmly on the pillow, creating a loud sharp thud with each whack.
After years of assisting in a powerful experiential therapy group run by my LMFT friend Paul, I have learned that the fastest and most effective way to deal with emotional trauma is to process it in a right-brained, experiential way. Emotional trauma is not stored in the left brain, and simple left brain talking does very little to resolve such deeply internalized emotions.
“How dare you cross over proper spiritual and ethical boundaries, making me feel victimized!” I exclaim with tears in my eyes.
For more than ten minutes, as I allow such angry feelings to come up and out, I know that deep down I don’t really believe any of the words pouring out of my mouth—but the emotions are real and I must express them in order to release them. Since I am in a crowded hotel, I keep the volume relatively low.
But the crocodile tears continue to flow just the same.
Soon, I realize that Francisco is not the real target of my anger. I shift my focus.
“Brenda, how stupid can you be?” I hit the pillow again.
“You got stuck in ego. You wanted so badly for Francisco to be a true Shaman, that you ignored many of your own inner feelings.” I hit the pillow yet again, tears still flowing freely.
“You stupid idiot! You became a doormat!” I continue. “Your ego wanted so badly for Francisco to be a Shaman that you ignored internal guidance—the guidance flowing within that told you that his words did not fully line up what your heart was saying. You could have been raped!”
At this point in my processing, I am still assuming that something bad happened—that what happened should not have happened. My cloudy emotions insist on placing judgment, to find someone or something to blame.
After continued verbal expressions, my churning emotions finally feel heard and listened to. I am much more relaxed, and know that the real answer to my healing lies in going much deeper. It is time to question all of the surrounding beliefs in an unattached manner.
I know that it is not the events themselves that are causing my reaction—it is my perception of those events that causes me to experience heartache.
Two Cans of Coke
As dinnertime has long since passed, I follow an unexpected feeling that guides me to walk over to a small store where I purchase two ice-cold cans of Coca Cola. My unsettled stomach is craving the cool refreshing liquid, and dinner sounds repulsive. I know that consuming caffeine this late in the evening will affect my sleep, but my internal guidance is strong on this one. I quickly chug both cans.
Then I enter a deep meditation in which I begin to examine everything I thought I knew about Monday afternoon’s events in Tikal.
As expected, the caffeine keeps my mind pondering into the wee morning hours. While the process proves to be very tiring, it is also deeply healing, restoring me to a state of firmly entrenched peace.
During this process, I explore my beliefs and perceptions, one at a time.
Qualifications of a Shaman
“Does becoming a Shaman require a degree in a western university, with an emphasis on ethics?” I ask rhetorically.
“Of course not,” I easily answer, “that is silly.”
“Should a Shaman be taught by another Shaman in order to say that he is a Shaman himself?” I question sincerely.
“Probably,” I answer, before digging deeper into my beliefs.
But I soon recognize that the mere act of having a trained Shaman for a teacher does not guarantee that someone will turn out to be a good Shaman themselves. The student must be deeply spiritual and internally connected with the divine energy around him or her. Such qualities are difficult to teach or to learn from a book, no matter how good the teacher or the book.
And then of course, who is to say that the teacher was a qualified, spiritually inspired Shaman in the first place?
And then I ask myself the biggest question of all.
“Is it possible for someone to have a personal relationship with the divine, to have deep spiritual connections, to be blessed with the intuitive powers and abilities of a Shaman without having any formal teaching at all?”
Personal experience dictates that I must answer this question with a resounding and unequivocal, “Yes”.
“So, is Francisco a Shaman?” I ponder.
I realize that the answer no longer matters in the slightest. The answer would be purely an ego trip.
I have no doubt whatsoever that I was guided to have my short afternoon of interactions with this sweet, humble old man—and that is all that matters—period.
Shaman Ethics
“Who gets to define ethics for a Shaman?” I ask myself.
“The western world?” I shudder at that thought.
“And just what makes it wrong for someone who calls himself a Shaman to request a mutually agreed upon physical relationship with someone to whom he feels a deep connecting bond?” I ask further.
“I see nothing wrong with that,” I have to answer honestly, “as long as the woman is willing, emotionally capable of making that decision, and is not being coerced or manipulated in any way.”
It only seems obvious that Francisco was interested in pursuing a further physical relationship with me, but never at any time did I feel as if I were in any danger. Francisco may have pushed a little bit, as many men do, but he always honored my boundaries when firmly placed before him.
“I was always fully empowered and in absolute control of my behavior.” I remind myself.
Ego Subtleties
“Did I desperately want Francisco to be a Shaman?” I ask myself.
“Of course I did,” I reply. “And I readily admit that such a thought went right to my head—right to my ego.”
“But did I ever really stop listening to my internal guidance?” I ponder.
It takes a while to review my behavior and thoughts, but the answer is definitely, “No. Throughout the experience I was always searching for internal guidance, and doing everything in my power both to recognize and to follow it.”
I may have missed some guidance here and there, but my intentions and actions were entirely pure and honorable.
Yes, I reached a point of feeling intensely confused—but the inner confusion came from the fact that my guidance seemed to be coaching me to do things that conflicted with long-held beliefs.
In the midst of my experiences, firmly entrenched beliefs were being called into serious question. Ego desperately wanted me to behave in a pre-programmed defensive way, putting up walls, defining right and wrong, maintaining the status quo of unquestioned beliefs.
It was spirit that was peacefully and consistently encouraging me: “Brenda, Forget everything you think you know about what this experience should look like … lower your defenses … open your mind … allow the events to flow and unfold a little further … trust me … you will be alright.”
The Amazing Power of Belief
“How did I feel when I believed that Francisco was a true Shaman?” I ask myself.
The answer is so easy. “I was euphoric, shedding tears of joy, pinching myself to see if this was really happening to me, floating in the clouds—I felt a peaceful feeling of unconditional love.”
“How did I feel when I questioned Francisco’s status as a Shaman?” I continue.
This response is also obvious. “I felt victimized, deceived, angry, hurt, judgmental, dirty, manipulated, and fearful—I felt a complete absence of love’s presence.”
“And what is the difference between these two intensely polarized emotional reactions.” I finish my inquiry.
“Just a simple belief.” I respond. “My conflict was created by a simple shift of belief.”
Sleep At Last
As I finally fall asleep on Easter Sunday evening, I am not even close to finishing my latest round of writing, and I am very tired—but I am in deep peace.
I fully recognize that I still have many belief parasites to identify and to release, but my state of peaceful trust is restored. I am once again fully in tune with the fact that everything that happened in the jungles of Tikal was perfect, inspired, and designed for my growth. I was always in the hands of spirit—in each and every instant.
A Sense of Accomplishment
The day after Easter, I finally finish writing about an incredible day of emotional struggles and triumphs that occurred just one week earlier in the jungles of Tikal. I joyfully write about the up and down roller coaster ride that guided me to an incredible full moon surrounded by towering and energizing temples.
As I hit the “publish” button on my blog, peace sits beside me, joy holds my hand, and tired giggles float through my mind.
Yes, I faced my fears. I processed my emotions, wrote genuinely and honestly about my experiences, and came away with a feeling of unconditional love and integrity.
I can clearly see that a tiny little chisel is beginning to crack away through a whole new steel vault of protected beliefs. I wonder if I really want to see what is behind that vault.
Creepy Crawling Snakes
As I look around, I realize that I am in what reminds me of a childhood bedroom. As I sit in the middle of my bed, with the room lights fully lit, I look down toward the hardwood floor below.
Suddenly, I see the huge boxy head of a large snake crawling out from under my bed. The bright orange-brown snake continues to crawl away from the bed, not seeming to pay me any attention, slowly approaching the wall about five feet away and to my right. The snake’s colorful patterned body, while only about six to eight feet in length, is quite large, being at least eight inches in diameter.
The snake’s huge head, while not quite as colorful as its body, is even bigger. Its very large square jaw must be at least ten to twelve inches across.
I am very shocked and startled, but do not experience a great deal of fear.
Somehow, I recognize the appearance of this familiar-looking snake. I cannot quite place the memory, but I seem to know from past experience that this snake is very poisonous.
In my observations I notice that the rest of the room seems to have no furniture. It is just me, my bed, and this intimidating snake.
Suddenly, I call out.
“MOM, DAD, HELP ME.” I yell at the top of my vocal capacity. “There is a poisonous snake in my room.”
I yell out as loud as I can, but feel as if my voice is going nowhere.
In my mind, I can already imagine my father rushing into my room with a sharp shovel, sneaking up behind the snake, and chopping off its ugly head.
I wait for an answer, but none comes.
“MOM, DAD, HEEEEELLLLPPPP ME.” I attempt to yell even louder. “There is a poisonous snake in my room.”
Even though I am yelling at the top of my lungs, I am quite surprised by the fact that I do not feel especially afraid.
With no answer from my parents, I repeat my yelling call several more times, wondering why my parents are not rushing to my rescue. While I am not really all that frightened, I am determined that I want my father to rescue me. I firmly resist leaving the safety of my bed.
Still no answer comes from the other room.
Finally I grow impatient with waiting. I glance at the snake in the far right corner of my room, and confidently hop down on the left side of my bed, scampering quickly into the hallway, passing speedily into my parent’s bedroom.
As I do so, I suddenly have the clear awareness that I am very young, perhaps only ten to twelve years old.
As I walk into my parent’s bedroom, they are wide awake, peaceful, and quietly chatting on top of their bed. My father has a large smile on his face as he is munching away on what appears to be either a large hotdog or perhaps a taco wrapped in a large flour tortilla.
“I was calling you. There is a huge snake in my room. Why didn’t you answer me?” I ask with surprise, seeing that they are wide awake, less than ten feet away from where I was yelling.
Just then, I look down at the floor and notice a tiny snake, perhaps one quarter of an inch in diameter and maybe a foot long. Instinctively I strike the snake repeatedly with a heavy chunk of sturdy ruler-shaped wood that I just happen to be holding in my hand. The tiny snake’s body disintegrates in a flying mass of wet juicy spray.
As I begin to look up again, I notice yet another almost identical little snake. Again, I instinctively smash it to smithereens as it splatters all over. I feel no fear whatsoever.
I glance around my parent’s carpet, and see yet a third tiny snake crawling toward me. My father gets off the bed and walks closer for a look.
“What is it?” I ask my father, as I suddenly remember that he just recently returned from a long trip in the jungles of Thailand—a place where he surely saw many snakes.
“It is a “blah blah mongoose blah blah snake.” My father rattles off quickly. The only word I recognize is mongoose.
“Is it poisonous?” I ask quickly.
“Why yes, they are very poisonous.” My father responds casually, matter-of-factly.
As I quickly smash and splatter this third snake, I awaken from my dream.
Search for Meaning
I turn on a light and glance at my watch. I can barely make out the numbers 1:37. After a few moments I realize that I am in my hotel room in Flores. Early in the morning on Wednesday, April 7, I scramble to record every detail before the memories fade.
After putting my notebook away, I lean back on my pillow, wide awake, determined to meditate into some type of answer.
As I scan my memory for the possible meaning of snakes, the first thing that pops into my mind is that the snakes represent ego and fear. I play around with small analogies—large ego beliefs are still crawling around under my childhood bed, holding me captive, trying to frighten me. I am watching them, observing them, but not especially afraid—yet I am hoping for someone outside of myself to rescue me from those ego beliefs—perhaps my parents—perhaps a Shaman.
But no such external rescue will come. This is my own journey, something which I must face alone. The true healing will come from within, not from an external source.
This morning, as I look up the symbolism of snakes in an online dream dictionary, I am struck by three possible meanings that strongly jump out at me.
Forbidden Sexuality, Transformation, Rebirth
Transformation and Rebirth both jump out at me, coming from the symbolism of a snake shedding its skin, being symbolically reborn.
But snakes also have a phallic connection that is associated with forbidden sexuality. As I think about it, so did the food item that my father was eating—whatever it may have been.
As a tender-hearted young twelve-year-old boy, frightened in my bedroom, I was terrified by the unwanted much-hated male appendage that hung between my legs. I felt so incredibly alone in the world. I so desperately cried out to God for help, for some type of rescue. I wanted to cry out to my parents, but was incapable of raising my voice to be heard. I desperately wanted to smash that little snake—a snake that felt like a huge ugly monster hiding out under the bed in my lonely bedroom.
And yes, as far as I was concerned, even though I possessed one, snakes were evil, ugly, and poisonous.
Even as I type these words, my eyes stream with tears while painful suppressed emotions burst forth, gushing down my cheeks.
Yes, this was one life-long issue that I needed to face alone. I could not rely on my parents, family, or anyone outside of myself to rescue me from the painful identity struggle that raged in my heart in that childhood bedroom so very long ago.
Throughout the decades, I have indeed gone through amazing transformation as I have sorted through the difficult feelings of that frightened twelve-year-old boy, smashing one tiny snake at a time, gradually turning my biggest fears into deep spiritual growth, transformation, and rebirth.
But even now, that big oversize phallic snake is still the big frightening elephant in the room, so to say.
I hated the snake that followed me around through much of my life, and I am still pretty much disgusted by snakes wherever they may be.
My encounter with Francisco, in the jungle of Tikal early last week, forced me to deal with some deeply suppressed firmly-held beliefs regarding men and sexuality. Over the years since my physical rebirth, I have gradually locked these beliefs away. My time with Francisco put a small dent in the walls of that steel vault.
As I look up the meaning of mongoose in the dream dictionary, I am shocked to read that seeing a mongoose in a dream (my dad’s description of the tiny snakes) is associated with a defensive wall to hide anxieties or shortcomings. The description ends with “You may be struggling through issues with your sexuality.”
Beliefs around sexuality are among the few beliefs that I have hoped to keep safely hidden in a vault. This morning’s dream has me wondering if that will be possible.
And then, as I go back to reread the “Creepy Crawling Snakes” section above, with this new found meaning in mind, I am actually quite embarrassed. This could be an interesting journey ahead.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved