Note: This is a continuation from my previous blog titled “An Impassable Switchback.”
With a new feeling of hope, I get up Thursday morning and double-check my guidance.
“Yup, I clearly feel that I am supposed to fly back to the United States for a few weeks,” I ponder with confidence. “I will fly out of Cancun on November 8, 2012, and return back to Cancun on Monday, November 26.”
Soon, after purchasing my tickets online, I hop onto a small public boat and head to Panajachel for the day. I need cash to pay the rent for an extra month, and I have a few last minute shopping errands to finish as well.
Friday I begin to organize lists – packing lists, shopping lists, and accomplishment lists. I need to get a lot done in those short two and a half weeks with friends and family back in Utah. Before the day is over, I have already pre-ordered many upgrades for my computer, including new memory, new mouse, a USB hub and cables – stuff that is critical for my continued writing – stuff that is not easy to buy here in Guatemala. The orders will be shipped to a friend’s house, freeing up considerable time that might otherwise need to be spent shopping while in Utah.
Saturday, with laid-back peace, I pack my bags, and purchase a tourist shuttle ticket that will take me straight from San Marcos to San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico. There are many places I have not yet visited in the northwestern Yucatan peninsula, and now is as good a time as any to play tourist for another week and a half before boarding that plane in Cancun.
Merida Or Bust
It is 4:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, October 28, 2012, when I begin the actual journey, cooking a quick breakfast, and engaging in last minute cleaning tasks like emptying garbage cans. By 5:50 a.m., I am waiting for the first minivan of my trip – one that finally arrives at 6:30 a.m.. A nice young man from San Pablo is driving, and I am his only passenger as he whisks me on the first leg of the journey … up over the mountains above San Marcos, waiting with me at the main Inter-America highway where I finally join up with a group of travelers coming from Antigua.
Hours later, I can only giggle as our driver suddenly pulls to the side of the road no more than twenty miles from the Mexican border. It takes a while to discover what is happening. After making a few calls on his cell phone, the driver himself starts to work on the minivan. As he removes the right rear tire, it becomes clear that brake fluid is leaking all over the ground. To my giggling surprise, the driver becomes very resourceful, finding a small plastic bag by the side of the road and then using it to reinforce the seal on the brake hose. He is a real “MacGyver.” When all is back in its place, and new brake fluid is added, there are no more leaks. We soon resume our journey as if nothing had happened.
Even with the delays, the border crossing and exchange to a Mexican minivan are quick and seamless. As we finally enter the suburbs of San Cristobal, I ask the driver to drop me at the main bus station. Determined to waste no time, I purchase a ticket for an overnight bus that leaves at 6:20 p.m. – one that will take me to the city of Merida in the northwestern Yucatan. I barely have time for a quick meal in a small restaurant, just across the street, before climbing aboard a bus and continuing the next leg of my journey.
Transportation Troubles Times Two
I cannot help but surrender when three hours into our all-night drive, the air in the bus becomes extremely hot and stuffy. A couple of hours later, I actually walk up to the driver to ask if he can please turn the air back on. I feel as if I am suffocating. In rapid Spanish that I do not understand, he replies that there is some type of problem, and that I need to wait until we arrive at our halfway point in Palenque. An hour later, at perhaps 1:00 a.m., when we are sitting in the parking lot at the tiny Palenque bus station, I finally realize that something is wrong with the electrical system and the air-conditioning will not turn on.
The driver and someone else struggle with fuses and wires for over an hour and a half, and are still unsuccessful in resolving the issue. Finally, as we prepare to resume our journey northward, the driver announces that he is going to open the emergency exits on the roof of the bus so that we will have some ventilation in that hot and stale airtight cabin.
Once again, all I can do is smile as I resume futile attempts to fall asleep during the final half of our exhausting trek.
At around 8:00 a.m. on Monday morning I step onto the ground in the Merida bus station, tired and exhausted, having no clue where I am in relation to the rest of the city. My only experience with Merida has been a previous overnight trip in the summer of 2011 – a trip where I was so exhausted that I simply boarded another bus and went straight to Valladolid. This time however, I step outside, find a few street signs, check out the sun to see which way is east, glance in my tour book, and begin to follow my gut.
Twenty minutes later, I am checked in at a hostel, right on the main town square. After gobbling down a free breakfast provided by the hostel, I retire to my room, craving a little sleep.
After a nice sort-of nap, I head off at 5:00 p.m. to explore … hoping to briefly check out the area … hoping to find some food.
To Nowhere And Back Again
After a much-needed sleeping-in on Tuesday morning, I begin a week of playing tourist, filling my afternoon and evening with a delightful tour to the ruins of Uxmal (pronounced oosh-mall). This is one of the main ruins located in the northwestern area of the Yucatan Peninsula – one that I have wanted to visit for a very long time.
The tours continue on Wednesday, as I join a trek to Celestun – a beach town on the west side of the Yucatan – a place famous for its pink flamingos. My only regret from this beautiful day is that I forgot to bring my camera. I have heard about the flamingos before, but had no idea just how beautiful they would actually be in the wild.
Thursday I set off on my own. Rather than join a tour, I am determined to visit the ruins of Dzbilchaltun (zee-beel-chall-TUNE) on my own, finding my own public transportation to get there. I can only giggle when my first attempt lands me on a direct bus that does not let me off at my stop. Thirty minutes later, I find myself at the beach town of Progresso, on the northern tip of the Yucatan Peninsula. After a quick walk-about on the beach, I ask a local information place about how to get to Dzbilchaltun. It seems that I must return all the way to Merida and start over.
Back in Merida, I follow directions to one dead end after another. Finally, after walking from here to there and back again a few times, I find a little collectivo that tells me that they can take me to a village called “Chablekal” (chah-blay-CALL), and from there I can catch a taxi to the ruins. On blind faith, I cross my fingers and climb into the back of the crowded van. I only “half” understand what the driver told me, but a hunch tells me to continue.
Finally, at 2:00 p.m., the driver drops me in a tiny village square that seems to be in the middle of nowhere. To my delight, a few minutes later, a motorcycle taxi driver confirms that he can take me to the ruins – a breezy journey of about fifteen minutes.
After a delightful visit to these very remote and less-visited ruins – a visit that is hot and humid – I catch another motorcycle taxi back to Chablekal. Less than fifteen minutes later, a larger bus with the sign “Merida” pulls up. I waste no time in climbing aboard. At 5:30 p.m., I am back in Merida, exhausted, searching for food, and quite proud of myself. While still somewhat a novice, still struggling with the language, I managed to get to the middle of nowhere and back again, all by myself. There were a few hiccups along the way, but I can only giggle, because I really did want to visit Progresso anyway.
Day Of The Dead
Later that same evening, I engage in an unexpected delight. It just happens that this is the weekend of the annual “Dia de Los Muertos” (day of the dead) celebration in Mexico. As the celebration creates a great deal of loud noise in the Zocalo outside of my bedroom window, I feel drawn, even in my exhaustion, to go explore and see what is happening.
In the next few hours I am treated to magical cultural exploration, watching parades of elaborate costumes, and observing a comical outdoor stage play in which local actors entertain the huge crowd (all in Spanish) with a humorous rendition that explains what the holiday is all about. I come away deeply giggling and educated as to the significance – of how deceased ancestors are said to visit the home of living descendents, where a party is being held in the ancestors’ honor, where a large table of traditional foods is left for their consumption.
Return To The Past
After a relaxing Friday of catching up on notes and simply hanging out in the town square, I hop on a bus on Saturday morning, November 3, 2012, leaving Merida behind as I head toward the Caribbean. After crossing the ferry from Playa Del Carmen to Cozumel, I take my first-ever public collectivo (a minibus) in Cozumel. I giggle as I realize that while spending five months in Cozumel back in 2009, I never once had the courage to step onto one of those public transports. How things have changed. With pure confidence, I easily, and very inexpensively, make the quick journey, being dropped off only a few blocks from my destination.
My friend Sheila has graciously offered her home while I spend a few days in my old stomping grounds. Compared to where I have been sleeping, I am in luxury, with my own private bedroom and bathroom.
After a quick catch-up visit with Sheila, I make a call to one of my favorite spiritual guides in a physical body.
“Come over right now,” Eduardo greets me with excitement. “I am at home painting the house. We can talk while I work.”
Genuine Friendships
I love how genuine friendships just pick up where they were left off … how after not seeing someone for sixteen months, it can seem that you just talked yesterday.
Not only do Eduardo and I talk and talk about spiritual topics, going on for hours, but he also does a Bach Flower session on me. I am deeply shocked by the level of tears and emotion that suddenly surges through me as Eduardo works with me – helping me to further release new layers of painful emotions that are unexpectedly raw.
I am so grateful for this dear friend – so grateful for the opportunity to return to the roots of my “journey of self-discovery” – so grateful to be reminded of who I am and why I pulled up all of my roots and set off on this adventure in the first place, now almost three and a half years ago.
After a Sunday of exploring my old hangouts in Cozumel, I return to Eduardo’s home on Monday morning, simply chatting while he continues to work on his house. I am delighted when, at around noon, Eduardo’s beautiful wife brings us lunch up on the roof patio where Eduardo and I are located. What began as a simple conversation evolves into six hours of catching up. I expect this to be our last visit before I return to Guatemala for who knows how long.
Later that night, Sheila and I go to dinner, where I first treat her to a delicious plate of Fajitas, and where she later returns the favor as we indulge in two large slices of apple pie. It is so nice to remember that I do have beautiful friends … and that I have made such friends everywhere I go.
“I am definitely not the social loser that those childhood energies try to convince me I am,” I tell myself with a giggle as I drift off to sleep for my final evening in Cozumel – at least for this go around.
Before heading to the Cancun Airport, I spend two final days hanging out in Playa Del Carmen, spending an afternoon and evening with my friend Rafael and his sweetheart, and simply catching up on my rest (and another round of beach time) before sailing through the skies at 30,000 feet – before leaving a tropical paradise for the cold and snow.
And cold and snow it is when I first land in Salt Lake City, late in the evening on November 8, 2012. In fact, over the next three mornings I get to scrape significant amounts of snow and ice off my car – twelve inches one morning, and six inches on another.
Because of the late hour of my arrival, I spend the first night at the house of my dear friend Michelle who picked me up at the airport. But I am delighted to have manifested another private bedroom and bathroom at my friend Greg’s house. Not only will I have my own newly remodeled space, but I will have his whole house to myself during much of the next two weeks, babysitting his two beautiful cats while he is gone on a business trip. I love how such blessings continue to manifest.
Return of the Cesspool
Feeling alive and filled with new hope, I am completely caught off guard as I spend Friday afternoon attempting to casually share details of my emotional journey with my dear friend Michelle. To my shock and horror, in the mere act of talking about the long struggling months of September, October, and November, I suddenly sink back into that same overwhelming suicidal emotion, getting sucked to the bottom of that terrifying trigger trauma.
It boggles the mind to realize how intensely convincing this putrid, hopeless, emotion actually is. As Michelle attempts to console me and remind me of the beautiful person I am, I am agonizingly lost in that vivid emotion, barely hanging on to a thread of observer mode, struggling to “give a damn” about living, feeling like a total loser. A huge part of me is deeply embarrassed for coming home in such a state – feeling like the world’s biggest failure for having set out in 2009 with such high hopes and higher guidance, but now returning in what feels like a blob of shameful failure. I feel embarrassed to even show my face.
Later that same evening, as I return to Greg’s house on our last night to talk before he leaves on his business trip, I attempt to explain what happened in my conversation with Michelle, and suddenly I am right back in the emotion again.
“This is bullshit,” I exclaim to Greg. “There is absolutely nothing in my life right now that would warrant even the tiniest element of this emotion. I KNOW it is all just past stuff flowing through me. I KNOW it has absolutely NO basis in reality. I am NOT going to let it have power over me. I am not going to lose myself in it again.”
“I am so tired of allowing this agonizing cesspool of emotion to have power over me.” I commit to Greg. “I refuse to go there any more.”
I giggle as I feel some type of inner switch begin to turn on. The emotion is still overwhelmingly real and convincing, but something just now started to let go, ever so slightly.
Profound Contrast
With a newly activated non-contract cell phone, I am now prepared to connect with family and friends in a way that has been impossible for the last sixteen months – yet the “I am a loser … I have failed” voice in me continues to cause me to shy away from initiating social calls. Instead, I focus on reconnecting with family at every offered opportunity.
And that first Saturday is a delight as I first receive an unexpected call inviting me to attend a dance recital for a granddaughter. Later that same day I am giggling with other grandchildren as I visit one of my son’s homes for a prearranged dinner visit.
It is amazing to feel the contrast of the negative voices that have been screaming inside versus the beautiful pure and innocent voices of grandchildren who giggle and love me with such unconditional smiling energy.
This day alone makes the whole trip home extremely worth all the expense and travel.
Shoe Searching
On Sunday, I begin working through a long shopping list, the first priority being to find comfortable sandals. All of my old ones have either fallen apart, or are on the brink of crumbling to dust. I quickly giggle as I realize the almost impossible nature of finding warm-weather sandals in a place where eighteen inches of snow have fallen in the last few days.
It takes nearly a week to find the last of three new pairs of sandals. The best part is that what I do find in those trips to countless stores is at least marked down in price. One beautiful pair of sandals cost me only twenty-five cents. When I questioned the price at the register, the shocked clerk checked with a coworker who responded, “I have sold several pair at that price this week … just go ahead and do it.”
A large portion of the next week is taken up by shopping and self-performed computer upgrades … plus taking advantage of Greg’s beautiful home theatre system while I have it to myself.
New Hope
It is on that first Monday evening that I participate in a “Course In Miracles” study group. Somehow, that few hours with like-minded people, many of whom I have never met, again helps to remind me of my core inner commitment – not only to learning spiritual concepts – but in actually applying them to my life in profound experiential ways. I leave that evening with a new sense of inner peace and resolve.
Wednesday is a triple delight, first having lunch with a dear friend, then spending the afternoon at one son’s house, and finally spending the evening having dinner at yet another son’s house. I giggle all the way home after spending a delightful evening playing with more of my grandchildren. I am overwhelmed with joy at how open and responsive these magical children are to me, even though I barely know them because of my extended travels.
Thursday I indulge in a profound discussion and crystal healing session with my dear friend Mont. At the end of a long beautiful evening, I come away with deep new perspectives on the intense emotional densities still locked away in my abdomen. Both Mont and I are strongly guided that it is time for the tombstone … time to release and lay to rest these belief systems and childhood pain that no longer serve me.
As I rest on my pillow late that night, new hope fills my heart.
A Inspired Pilgrimage
Also on Thursday, during an inspired tear-filled phone conversation with another dear friend, Lori, she begins to share deep guidance that flows through her.
“Brenda,” Lori shares unexpectedly, “I’m seeing you going off to do some type of solo “mountain time,” just like you used to do every week before you began to travel.”
“I am actually seeing you in a place that is similar to Moab,” my inspired and very visual friend continues, “and you are going to have a very healing experience there.
As the conversation had ended, I was filled with deep curiosity – not resonating at all with Moab (the heart of a beautiful red-rock country in southeastern Utah) – not resonating at all with the amount of all-day travel that would be involved in such a trip.
Then, on Friday morning, in another emotional phone conversation with my dear friend, Jeanette, I suddenly blurt out something that has been building inside of me for a few weeks.
“I need to go buy a teddy bear to represent my inner children,” I share with unexpected conviction. “And this teddy bear will be replacing the precious one that my mother threw away when I was a child, without asking my permission. Part of this process is to heal that sense of betrayal and loss, and part is to assist me in deep inner work.”
Suddenly, at a later point in the same conversation, I get a profound flash of insight accompanied by a slight visual image of my own.
“I’m supposed to take that bear to my birth town in western Colorado,” I suddenly blurt out, sharing what just came through me. “I am going to do some deep inner work there with that bear … and that area is surrounded by a nearby national monument that is very much like the red rock of Moab.”
Within hours, I have gone to the “Build A Bear” workshop at a nearby mall where I pick out the perfect little bear. I do not want a prefabricated model; I want to custom build a bear to my specification. After I assist in stuffing the little guy with fluffy filling, I insert a small heart into his chest cavity. When the young assistant is done sewing up the back, I take little “Bobby” to another booth to get his own personalized birth certificate with the exact same birthday as me.
As I drive away from the mall, I intuitively know that I will be making my pilgrimage to Grand Junction on Monday, just two days away. The combination of channeled insight from two dear friends, plus my own deep guidance, seems quite clear and profound.
As I hold little Bobby’s paw while he sits on my lap, tears begin to trickle down my cheeks. I already love this little bear.
Merciless Raging
Later Friday evening, I meet Lori after her work. As we sit in the food court of a local mall, she suddenly insists that she wants to talk about me. (I have been intentionally focusing on wanting to catch up on her amazing life changes because I can feel that my emotions inside are quite raw.)
To my embarrassment, the moment I attempt to explain the roller coaster of my last few months, I again sink deep into the depths of agonizing shame, feeling totally stupid for still not being able to let go of this suicidal self-hatred that again saturates my heart.
I attempt to divert the conversation, insisting that I don’t want to pull the energy down with this crazy stuff – explaining that I profoundly understand that none of it has the slightest rational reason in the present – sharing how it is old stuff that is yet-again relentlessly raging through me in a merciless manner.
“Brenda,” Lori Insists, “you have been there for me and other countless times. Please let me be there for you, please trust me and know that I do not want you to hold your emotion back.”
“I have a really difficult time allowing anyone to help me,” I share with Lori as deep insights again flow through me. “I repeatedly help others, with unconditional love and patience, but it seems this is another profound manifestation of my God Drama where I refuse to allow someone to help me in the same way. I feel like I have to do this all by myself.”
But even so, I am unable to sob in a mall food court, and Lori needs to return home to her children. It is only after I return to my car that I allow the emotion to have free expression … deep agonizing sobs and muffled screams of exasperation. Five minutes after I begin driving, I pull over again and pass through another round of sobbing and dry heaving. Nearly an hour later, as I arrive home, I again surrender to another round. I am determined to release this emotion, even though I am doing it in the hard bus, even though something inside of me will not allow higher dimensional assistance to make it easier.
Profound Reconnecting
The contrast continues to be eye opening.
Friday evening I was sucked into the clutches of inexplicable emotion – emotion that I clearly understand is based on feelings of betrayal – yet emotion that I also understand is pure bullshit as far as present-day circumstances go. There is absolutely nothing in my life that would warrant such emotion – nothing that would justify or explain its existence in the present moment. Yet it is profoundly real, overwhelming – on a hair trigger. The slightest attempt to touch that ancient aging dynamite causes it to explode in my face.
Yet on Saturday, I am back to giggling as if none of that pain is real – as if none of it ever happened. After a delightful afternoon at the home of another of my children, having magical giggling experiences with even more of my grandchildren, I am delighted to be the guest of honor at an open house held on my behalf.
Greg has returned from his business trip and has invited many of his spiritual friends, most of whom participated in chocolate ceremonies with Keith while he was here in early October. The evening is magical and refreshing. I feel so at home and alive as we all sit and visit, sharing stories, experiences, and assorted conversations.
When most of the guests have left, Greg and I stay up until midnight talking to the final young man who remains behind. I feel so magically connected as I note that, just like old times, I am repeatedly guided with inner intuition to share insights and pass along guidance that just seems to flow through me.
The whole experience deeply grounds me to my roots as a healer – to my roots of remembering just how connected I can be when I am trusting and listening to my guidance in the right setting.
Panic Is Resistance
Sunday, I allow myself another delightful splurge, returning to the home of my dear friend Trish, engaging in another channeling session with her magical connections to my guides.
When we had made the phone appointment, Trish had suggested that we should first drink chocolate together.
“I’m afraid to drink chocolate,” I had told Trish. “It seems like every time that I drink it now, I get totally overwhelmed by the energies.”
“But I agree, lets drink chocolate,” I had soon followed up.
During the last part of our beautiful ninety-minute session together, I start to sink into deep anxiety as the effects of the high energy from the chocolate are beginning to overwhelm me. I literally begin to go into a panic attack as I fight and resist the overwhelming intensity of the energy.
Suddenly, Trish guides me to surrender, to stop resisting and fighting the energy, and to simply flow right through the experience.
“Duh,” I respond with a giggle, “of course I know that, but I somehow forgot.”
When I surrender to the magic, when I drop all resistance, I find myself feeling deeply peaceful and connected. The energy is still high and intense, but I no longer fear it. I quickly realize that much of my panic of the last few months has been my own resistance and fear of higher energies that have been making their presence known, letting me know that they are waiting to help me, but I continue to fight and resist them.
“Brenda,” Trish advises me at one point during our session, “stop trying to go deeper into your inner work. It is time to use chocolate to connect with your heart, and to allow your heart to do the work that you are trying to do yourself.”
Her advice is spot-on. I have indeed been pushing the river this last year, doing so on the hard bus, trying to do all the inner work by myself – saying with words that I want the light and love to help me, but continuing to allow my God Drama resistance to block such assistance at every turn.
Magical Manifestations
To my delight, as I return to Greg’s home later that afternoon, I discover that another impromptu social gathering has manifested at his house. I find myself surrounded by magical like-minded people having yet-another delightful soul-enriching conversation right up until the time when I am so exhausted that I excuse myself to go to bed.
I love Greg’s magical friends. And more and more, I am remembering how much I love myself.
Back To Birth
Monday has finally arrived. After getting up before dawn, I note 6:26 a.m. on my watch as I back out of Greg’s driveway.
My little bear “Bobby” is sitting on my lap, and I have invited my mother’s higher-self essence to ride shotgun. In just over four hours, I will be in the town where I was born. Butterflies dance in my stomach as I contemplate the magical healing that is about to take place.
The drive is quite familiar, one that I used to make frequently as a child – one that initially follows the same path through eastern Utah that would take me to the beauties of Arches and Canyonlands National parks. But once I am on I-70, I head due east. Not long after 10:30 a.m. I pass a sign welcoming me to Colorado. Twenty minutes later, I am exiting the freeway, overflowing with anticipation.
After a brief drive through downtown and past an old childhood church building (now converted to a business building), my first major stop is the hospital where I was born.
I giggle as I park my car and step onto the pavement. Little Bobby is in one hand, my camera in the other.
One of the first things I do is explain to a security guard that I was born in this hospital back in 1955, and that I am here to do a little healing work with my past.
“Do you have any idea where the maternity ward might have been back then?” I ask, not expecting her to be able to give me an answer.
“Yeah,” she responds. “Go down this hall to so-and-so elevator, take the elevator to the second floor, and turn right.”
Soon, Bobby and I are walking down the exact hallway where we likely spent the first two weeks of our life.
Letting Go
The experience is powerful as I stand with my “Bobby” bear, immersing myself into the emotions of a beautiful little baby boy, positioned breech in the womb, yanked out of his mother’s belly in an emergency C-section, and then mostly kept away from her while she was forced to remain in bed for the first two weeks of his life.
“See,” I tell Bobby, “this is the same place where we were born, where we experienced all of that painful empath emotion, where we experienced that initial frightening feeling of betrayal by God and separation from our mother.”
“But look around,” I share with Bobby. “Yes, this place is still here, but it is VERY different, not even close to being the same place that it was when we were first here.”
“The energy of this place is not the same as it was then.” I continue. “That is all just a memory now, and we no longer need to carry our version of that painful energy inside of us. See … see … see … it is all different now, and we can release this … none of it defines us in any way, not anymore.”
Bobby and I remain in this hospital hallway for most of a half hour, sometimes meditating and/or having similar conversations, repeatedly talking about the absurdities of letting past energies – energies that no longer even exist – continue to define us and influence us.
My Home Neighborhood
Next, Bobby and I drive to my childhood neighborhood. After parking in front of the home where I spent the first ten years of my life, we have a very similar conversation, talking about the absurdities of carrying old memories and old energies forward into our life.
Our conversation cycles repeatedly through one memory after another, beginning from birth and earliest memories, ending with age ten when we moved away. We discuss everything that comes up, from family experiences, my dog Molly who was taken away, neighborhood friends, neighborhood houses and places, and various traumas and shameful experiences. Every memory I can recall is brought forward for release.
With each, we discuss how that energy is no longer present in this place, that it is just a memory now, and that we can release the energies attached to that memory and let them go.
“Goodbye house,” we call out together as we drive down the street.
Another place where we stop nearby is the location of a candy store (now a small restaurant) where my father took me at age 5 before a surprise birthday party. It was one of my favorite places to go when I was very young. Then I stop in front of a convenience store where at ages nine and ten, I had sought out odd jobs to earn a little money, sweeping the parking lot in the hot sun, all for the grand sum of 50 cents.
At each of these places, I repeat the process of bringing up memories, pointing out how the energy of the place is now very different, and asking Bobby to help me release the energies of those memories.
Inner Child Giggles
For the next few hours, I repeat this process with Bobby, stopping at my childhood elementary school, and the other church where so much of my religious programming had taken place.
Later, when the process is complete, I head back for the freeway with intentions to spend a little time in the nearby Colorado National Monument – a favorite place for family outings and picnics when I was a child.
Holding Bobby bear in my right hand, while continuing to steer the car with my left, we get silly together.
“Goodbye Grand Junction,” we call out as I shake Bobby up and down in my right hand. “Good riddance energetic memories. We release you. You no longer define us in any way.”
This is not a quiet process. In fact, I am practically screaming out the words with emphasis, giggling and laughing at the same time – so loud in fact that my voice cracks with the strain on my vocal cords.
I can only giggle with embarrassment as a car passes me in the lane to my right. The man behind the wheel looks me in the eye and laughs. Somehow, I know he is laughing WITH me and not AT me. His energetic acknowledgment causes me to giggle even more. I feel free in a way I cannot describe.
After two more therapeutic hours among the red rock, I again head for the freeway, saying one last goodbye to Grand Junction at around 5:00 p.m..
At 9:30 p.m., I pull into Greg’s driveway, exhausted but energized at the same time. In spite of my tiredness, I cannot resist the opportunity to sit in his kitchen, sharing my day and engaging in more delightful conversation about numerous spiritual topics – most of them centered around our spiritual inner work.
Throat Metaphors
Tuesday morning I wake up with inflamed sinuses and a very scratchy throat. The dry heat from a forced air furnace is deeply irritating my sinuses, and intuitions tell me that a mild allergy to Greg’s cats is beginning to kick in as well.
Inner guidance is quite clear, however, that I am not sick in a contagious way. Nevertheless, I begin to get quite self-conscious when asthma symptoms begin to kick in … causing me to occasionally cough in uncontrollable fits. I do not want to make others uncomfortable, so I load up on palliative treatments – antihistamines and decongestants.
The first of those uncontrollable fits occurs Tuesday evening as I attempt to talk and talk while catching up with a group of transgendered friends at the annual “Transgendered Day of Remembrance” – a ceremony held in honor of all those who have lost their lives in the last year due to violence against transgendered individuals. My attempt to suppress my symptoms – and to talk over them – causes deep irritation to my voice box.
Wednesday morning, November 21, 2012, I wake up with severe laryngitis. Yes, I can barely squeak out words – but it profoundly hurts to do so.
Intuitions continue to tell me that while forced-air heat and allergies contributed, this is not a physical illness, that it is instead a profound emotional metaphor dealing with my throat chakra and my ability to fully express my true self and my creativity.
In fact, as I look back with clarity, strong intuitions tell me that this massive shutdown of my throat chakra was primarily triggered by the childhood inner release that I began on Monday. It was during those first ten years in Grand Junction, Colorado, where I gave up all of my creativity and true self-expression (related to throat chakra) – where I was lovingly programmed by family, religion, and culture – where I was forced to conform, to obey the wishes of well-meaning parents, to repress my creative self, and to simply seek to please others.
Trusting Guidance
Later Wednesday afternoon, the laryngitis is still so bad that I call and cancel a dinner appointment at the home of one of my children. I feel bad to miss the opportunity, but my son reassures me that we will find another opportunity before I go back to Guatemala next week.
Yet, even with my inability to talk, I simply cannot stop talking. Greg and I continue to have our kitchen conversations, and on Thanksgiving Day, as I spend the day hanging out with my dear friend Michelle and her family, I talk and talk and talk, in spite of the excruciating pain that accompanies every sound.
On Friday, I get that renewed opportunity to be with family. When the invitation comes to attend a gathering with all of my children and grandchildren who live in the area, I desperately want to say yes – I do not want to turn down the opportunity – but I have a newborn grandson. Repeatedly I check my guidance, and repeatedly I get the message that I am not contagious. While my laryngitis is starting to get better, I am still in a state where I know that some people might be very uncomfortable being around me.
“I want to come but do not want to make anyone uncomfortable, especially you,” I explain to my son who has a newborn baby. “If you don’t want me to come, I will stay home … I will be fine with that … please be honest with me.”
I am delighted when my son encourages me to come anyway.
“Just don’t hold the baby,” my son makes a simple request – one that I profoundly honor.
It is a fun gathering, but is also one in which I am extremely reserved and self-conscious about my continued laryngitis and inability to repress an occasional asthmatic fit. I cannot shake the feeling that my “sick appearance” might be making some people uncomfortable. I know everything happens for a reason, but this is not the way I had hoped to spend my last visit (on this trip) with my precious family.
A Magical Evening
Saturday, as I continue to run last minute shopping errands and visit with friends, I am delighted that my voice is consistently improving.
Sunday, my ability to talk is even better, but still not one hundred percent. After packing my bags in preparation for my trip to the airport early tomorrow morning, I hang out with my dear friend Michelle. In addition to our beautiful conversations, we go to a movie together. It will be my last opportunity to sit in a real theatre for some time to come. I find great magic in the theme and messages of the movie “Rise of the Guardians.” It is a message reminding us that we must believe in our magic … in the things that most people cannot see. If we stop believing in our magic, it will die.
Time will simply not stop, and early Monday morning, November 26, 2012, I find myself being whisked away to the airport by my dear friend Michelle, taking a 7:15 a.m. flight to Phoenix, and then to Cancun.
I have done so much healing in the last two weeks that, when I later arrive back in Playa Del Carmen, finding myself strolling on the white sandy beach under a beautiful moon, with the lights of Cozumel glittering across the channel in the far distance, I find myself back in the magic, believing in my journey, believing in everything I have been doing, absolutely knowing that I CAN do this, that all I need to do is to reconnect with that magic inside of me.
It is indeed a magical evening.
Magic From The Past
To my giggles and delight, early Tuesday morning I find a Facebook message from my dear friend Eduardo. I have already made plans to attend a two-day indigenous festival near Ek Balam, north of Valladolid. It is the same festival where, in 2009 (it was five days then), I burned my foot in the middle of the jungle.
Eduardo tells me that after reading my magical post on Facebook last night, that he has decided to go to Ek Balam too … and he wants to know if I would like to rent a car together rather than going on buses.
Immediately I respond and cancel my plans to take a bus. At noon, I meet Eduardo at the ferry dock (coming from Cozumel) and soon we are driving together, having another delightful visit while heading toward Valladolid like two excited children. The next two days are magical, as I engage in a nighttime, almost-full-moon, sweat lodge, and an amazing Mayan Fire Ceremony led by the same Shaman that had impressed me so profoundly three years ago.
And having Eduardo there to share it with – to help me understand what was going on – made it ten times better.
The whole experience grounds me deeply into the magic that inspired my journey three years ago – the journey that began with a third degree burn, and which then indirectly inspired me to continue south into Belize with perfect timing. In fact, if I had not been delayed by three months while healing that burn, I would have arrived in San Marcos too early, during a timeframe when Keith was still traveling.
An Unexpected Protest
Early Thursday, Eduardo drops me off at the bus station in Valladolid before he heads back to Playa Del Carmen. I am in Kamikaze travel mode. After a delightful visit with my friend Tania in Valladolid, I hop on a bus to Merida, where an hour later I board another bus to San Cristobal De Las Casas.
After spending Friday recuperating in a tiny hotel by the bus station, I catch a tourist shuttle early Saturday morning. The only glitch along the way is that unexpectedly, about twenty minutes from the Guatemala border, our little minivan is stuck in a massive traffic jam. It seems that the local Mexican people are not very happy with the new president that is taking office today – and that they are staging a large protest at a river crossing.
Every car or truck that wants to cross the bridge is first stopped by a mob of masked local people, waving sticks and placing logs in the road. Perhaps twenty or thirty seconds later, after the driver pays them fifty pesos, the car is allowed to proceed. It takes us more than an hour and a half to pass through the barricade. It feels quite strange to be stopped by masked people – but at no time do I feel unsafe – at no time does anyone show any weapon of any type. It is a peaceful protest – one that to me feels as if the protesters are extorting money from the public in an effort to thumb their noses at the government.
Since that time, I have seen online articles about Zapotistas renewing their protests in Chiapas. I can only assume that this river blockade (which apparently is continuing even now) is part of that peaceful protest.
My shuttle finally drops me off in Panajachel just before 6:00 p.m.. I am so tired when the boat drops me off in San Marcos at 7:30 that I do not even cook dinner. I simply gobble down a couple of peanut butter sandwiches, unpack my bags, and go to bed, sleeping for a very long time.
A Metaphorical Cesspool
It feels good to be back in San Marcos. My little teddy bear, Bobby, loves it too. We both feel quite excited to call it home again, at least for now. In fact, little Bobby has been going everywhere with me as of late, and he is becoming quite the world traveler. We seem to be joined at the hip. He is especially fun to cuddle with at night.
But very queasy butterflies are stirring in my stomach. I have been on an extremely wild journey in the last few months, and I remain quite unsure as to what the future holds – as to whether I will manifest another intense year of crazy painful projections like I did last year.
“Another year like last year will kill me,” The inner voices still chatter in my head.
I have done such massive emotional swings over the last few months … I have projected so much of my God Drama trauma onto Keith (in his absence) … that I am not really sure what is real and what is my illusory creation. I am almost afraid to walk back onto Keith’s porch – wondering if I really belong there anymore – wondering if I will just melt into another pile of uncontrollable emotions if I do.
I can only giggle on Sunday morning (December 1, 2012) when I wake up to a flooded bathroom, with at least an inch of water still on the floor. I have a faulty valve inside the toilet tank, and when the water pressure is too extreme, the valve does not shut off.
I am very familiar with the concept that in the world of spiritual symbolism, water represents emotions. It seems that the Universe is teasing me, conspiring with unsettled, highly pressurized emotional waters to flood the metaphorical cesspool (toilet/bathroom) of my apartment.
After Bobby-bear watches me clean up the mess, I simultaneously cook breakfast and my weekly pot of beans, before taking a much-needed shower.
In just a couple of hours, I will be attending my first chocolate ceremony since that final fireworks-filled one at the end of June. It is time to face my fears … to finally find out where I stand … to take my first tenuous baby steps back onto Keith’s magical porch … to feel out the vibe.
Nervous fear and anticipation are killing me.
… to be continued …
Copyright © 2012 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved