Temazcal

I left the house on my bicycle under the glow of the full moon last weekend to participate in a Temazcal.  The ancient Mayans held Temazcals before battle to strengthen the warriors and cleanse their body and spirit.  Now, we use them similarly but to enter the battles of every day modern life. 

I joined a group of people around the fire at 9:30 and we warmed our bodies with the rising flames.  We cast shadows, lit from above by the spectacular full moon.  I looked up at the majestic cobalt blue sky as the flames rose above the volcanic rocks they were heating. For the temazcal, the Shaman and his fire keeper heat these volcanic rocks that represent grandmothers.  Carlos, our Shaman, explained, “they come from the center and the history of the earth.  They know us and they will care for us and cleanse our spirit as they give their heat, their energy, to the temazcal.  It is female medicine”.  He finished the sentence referring to the structure of the temazcal and how it is circular to represent the womb.

Then he continued, “And this is the male medicine”, pointing to the fire in front of the temazcal where we stood and formed a circle.

Carlos explained, “we have the male and the female, the ying and the yang.  My people call it ‘om a teo’, the darkness and the light, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. We can say this each time we bring in a grandmother.  They are there”, he said pointing to the fire.  “They will help us and let us be reborn”, in the temazcal. 

Then Carlos lit copal in a copalero, a metal challace of sorts made just for burning this local incense.  He started to sing as he put crystals into the copalero and began passing the smoke of the copal around our bodies to cleanse our energy and aura. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent and the intention of the process. After he cleansed each one of us we entered the temazcal.  I went first, walking around the fire in a clockwise direction and then bending on all fours like a baby to enter the low entryway.  I touched my forehead to the ground before I crawled in from the left and moved clumsily across the sand floor to the far right corner where I sat and waited for the others to follow and fill the space.  Carlos entered last and asked for the stones, “piedras”. The fire master pushed a large grey stone into the middle of our circle.  Two more abuelas followed and afterwards, a large bucket of water.  Then the firemaster closed the opening with several blankets.  The room became dark and started to heat.  The temazcal had begun. 

There are four doors to the Temazcal, each representing an orientation of the earth.  We saluted each orientation before entering and with each Carlos blew into a large conch shell to salute and waken the spirits of the east, west, north and south. 

“My people use the word”, Carlos began in a soft voice but one we can all hear in the small dark space.  He follows his voice with some drum beats.

“The word is powerful and helps us to share” he told us, then hit his drum like a beat poet and continued, “so we will start by introducing ourselves.  I am Carlos, my spiritual name is Mist on the Morning.  I am from Mexico City; of the Aztec culture.  I ask the abuelas to cleanse my spirit and energy”.

“Om a teo” I said when he finished. I learned this from him and I love saying it.  I am not sure why but I just do. 

We went around the room, introducing ourselves.  We are not as eloquent as Carlos, with names like, “Mist on the Morning”.  But we all had intentions that were equally poignant.   We were from the United States, all the others from California. Our tradition is not the always word.  I was last.  I was a blow in of sorts, happy to be invited, having organized the event.  “I am Joanne", I said and then added, "not from California”, we laugh. “My spirit name is ‘Sadness lifting’".  No one laughs.  I love saying that.  In the temazcal my sadness always lifts.  The temazcal gives me a joy that is hard to follow.  That is why I ask to be invited with each group I organize.  These sweat lodges fill my heart with joy while they cleanse my spirit.

When I finished, Carlos told us, “We will talk more and each time it will be easier”, he explained as he threw water onto the fire and steam rose with the smell of herbs. “we gonna learn a little more, share a little more.  It is the way we know the spirit of the other.  We share words. Words are medicine.  Words have power”, he continued.

This resonated with me, of course. I am a writer.  “Om a teo” I say as Carlos smiled at me and started to sing.  We began to sweat.  Carlos encouraged the heat to rise by throwing wet herbs on the fire and then more water.  Steam rose and with it heat, the medicine from the grandmothers.

Gradually, we all sang, chanted,  sweated and shared our words, our power.  We shared the people we wanted to remember, what we wanted in our lives in that moment, what we were thankful for and gradually, we formed a bond. Water was everywhere: in the steam over the fire as it rises onto the air and on our bodies glistening in the darkness, lit only by the fire and in the water laden herbs that Carlos tossed onto our bodies: copal and rhuda, local herbs that cleanse the spirit. 

And with the water and the heat we moved through each door without moving our bodies.  East represents birth and new beginnings.  West is the child, growth.  North is death and endings and south is rebirth.    Each door was full of songs and heat and at the end of each we yelled, “Puerta!” to open the door and bring in coolness for a few moments before another grandmother entered with more heat and more healing.

At the end we left the way we came in, on all fours like a baby, one by one, touching our heads to the floor before the fire master offered each person a hand to help them to their feet.  We then gathered by the fire.  The night air had grown cool.  It was intoxicating.  I felt light, free and happy as we waited together by the fire for Carlos to lead us to the water.  We moved slowly into the coolness of the dark night Caribbean and I went under with a wave.  The others did the same.  We rinsed sweat, cares, heaviness, anything we intended to let go of in the temazcal.  Anything the abuelas helped us take off to lighten our journey.  

Turtles

This morning, walking the dogs on the beach, I noticed the sand in front of me seeming to move.  It was a calm cloudy morning, soft and cool.  Hurricane Paula had sent us a rain that had cleansed things and the air and water seemed more crystal.  But the shimmering on the sand was not the sun peaking from behind the nearly transparent clouds.  My dogs started to run and then I realized it was baby turtles that had hatched a few minutes ago and were making their way to the sea.

“No!” I screamed at my dogs who, to my surprise, chose to obey me.  Lakra, my black and white girl cocked her head and looked at the babies crawling with their little fins.  Ama, my golden retriever mix, chose to follow them, more closely than I liked, right into the ocean.  She was swimming with them as they traveled out toward the reef, almost like an escort.  

There were about 20 of them as I looked up and down the beach toward the sea. I held Ama and every so often checked on Lakra.  She still had her head cocked to one side and was watching the babies intently.  We all did, actually, until the last of them pulled himself along the sand to follow his siblings into the soft warm waves.  This morning they were lucky. The water was calm and the clouds gave the turtles a little cover.  Yet, I could see their baby heads bob along the waves as they came up for air and then went back down, immediately, instinctively knowing what to do.  The sun shimmered on the water and I prayed that they would be ok.  I got nervous as a pelican flew closely over the surface. But he did not dip.  He missed them, thankfully and I looked out after them and imagined how they would do, all alone. I felt a bond with them.  I mean, if they could survive and find their way back to this very beach I don’t know how many years later to lay their eggs, I could certainly do the few things I had set out for myself.  I was amazed and humbled by these little beings and I kept sending them all the energy I could as I turned away from the sea to continue to walk.  My dogs ran ahead, forgetting the turtles quickly.  I could not.

I thought of the Sunday night before when I was at Playa Selva, the petite hotel where I work.  The little girl who is with a family renting there, came to tell me, “The crabs eat the baby turtles”.

“How do you know that?” I asked, amused by her direct delivery.

“Well”, she said and took a deep breath, “We saw lots of turtle tracks on the beach last night leading from a nest to the sea and then they stopped and we saw some crab hole and we found a baby turtle in there and we think the crab ate him.” 

“Really?”  I said.

She shook her head and said, “yes.” then took another deep breath before continuing.  “and we are going to look for turtles now with our dad and we will help them get to the sea.”

“That is great.” I told her smiling. 

“Want to come?” she asked me.

“Well I am waiting for someone but if you find them come back and get me, because I want to see them”, I told her honestly.

“OK”, she said and put her head-lamp on her head, turned it on and then ran to find her brother.

I watched her leave and then turned to see our new guests arriving.  I shifted my attention to them.

“Welcome”, I said, greeting them both. 

“You have been here before, right?” I confirmed. 

 “So you know about no toilet paper in the toilets, and how we use solar power so if you can conserve it will help us. And we compost”, I continued.  With everything I said they shook their head. Finally, I said, “Sorry to bore you with all that but I had to remind you.” I turned to grab a big plastic box from under the kitchen counter and continued, “And if you can put your food in this" I said opening the box for them and explaining, "We have lots of animals here in the jungle.”

Just then my little blond friend came running up the path out of breath.

“We found them”, she told me.

I looked at her, remembering our crab/turtle conversation.

“You did?” I said excitedly.

“Yes and you need to help us.  We think they are dead.”

“What?” I said, excusing myself from the guests.

“Yes.  The turtles are in there but we think they are dead.”

“Oh no.” my guest said.

I introduced them and then said to Ivy, “lets go see ok?”

“Yes, lets go”, my guests said and we quickly put their luggage in the cabana and followed this blond chubby little five year old to the beach, running to keep up with her.  Suddenly she stopped where her two sisters and brother were kneeling in the sand, close to the small dunes in front of the hotel. 

“There”, she pointed. 

“I can see them”, her brother Dubai said.

“They are moving a little but I am not sure they can get out”, her sister Iris looked up to tell me.

We got onto our knees and looked into the hole about the size of the half dollar.  It was sort of crusty on the edges as if it could break open.  And I looked inside and saw something that could be a turtle but I wasn’t sure.  I had never seen what a nest really looked like.  Normally here in Tulum volunteers take the eggs to hatch in incubators and release them to the sea when they are born.  So, in my five years here, I had never seen turtle born. I was nervous.

“Let me go ask Javier. He knows all about turtles.”  I told the group and then cautioned, “Wait for me to come back and be careful.”

“Tell our dad”, the other little girl, Lila, called as I ran up the path to find Javier, our caretaker. 

When I got to the hotel only Javier's wife Marie was there. I talked to her about it.  She smiled broadly and came with me to help. 

She looked into the hole and said to me, “Si Joanna Si”.  They were alright and then she said, “abrirla”, telling me to open it a little more.  So, cautiously, I moved sand from the top of the nest.  And I couldn’t believe my eyes.  There were so many little babies in there that I couldn’t count them.  Then they started to all crawl out.

“Let them come on their own and put the lights toward the sea”, Marie told us in Spanish.  I cautioned the kids to do that and to be careful where they walked.  The little babies, no more than the size of your palm, were starting to crawl everywhere.

The kids counted them and guided them to the sea.  I just kneeled there in the sand mesmerized. 

“Go little babies” I said to them. 

“Go” I whispered as I held one to gave him a little time to rest. 

“Stay strong”, I cautioned another.

“Be careful”, I told the next. 

I had a message of love for each one and then I started to cry.  I thought of each baby pulling itself along the sand and coming into its life so alone.  They hatch and go, no mom to hold them, no dad to put a bottle to their mouth or to give them a big warm hug.  They perform immediately or die.  I shivered to think of it and tears rolled down my face as I watched the last one enter the sea to be tousled by the waves and then by who knows what. I was inspired. 

And again this morning, I was encouraged in my life efforts by these little turtles.  These babies that show extraordinary courage.  Those that survive will come back to the same beach.  And perhaps these little kids who are now visiting, will come back to Tulum in 15 years and meet that turtle once again.  So, I reminded myself, miracles happen every day here in the magia of Tulum, Mexico.

Home grown in Verona!

After making a pit stop for my first aperitivo in a small inoteca at the foot of the hill of Soave’s medieval castle, we finally arrived at my friend’s house in Verona around 10pm. Before we were fully parked, the door to his house flew open and voice that preceded the shadow in the door way nearly shouted “Ciao! Ciao! Benvenuti! Benvenuti!” A woman with big pearly white smile, who a few seconds later introduced herself to me as “La Mama”, stood at the doorway and instinctively asked if we were hungry. Exhausted from the long journey and still full from the bar food that I greedily stuffed myself with at aperitivo, I couldn’t imagine putting anything else into my body but before I could think of how to politely say “no, thank you” to my host, it was already too late. Two plates full of homemade fettuccini with ragu sauce topped with fluffy fresh Parmesan cheese landed on the dining table. “Vino?”, La Mama, whose real name is Marisa, quickly asked after she had already started pouring unlabeled red wine into a glass.

I quickly realized that the only way I would be able to get to bed that night was if I were to surrender and let Mama Marisa feed us. Not a bad decision to make because Marisa’s ragu was the best I have ever had and my appetite quickly returned. Marisa sat across the dinner table grinning as she watched us enjoying her late night creation. I must admit that it was a bit awkward to be watched while I ate, and especially by a stranger.  But at the same time, without a single word spoken between us, she managed to make me feel nurtured, at ease and welcomed.

Over the next few weeks I spent quite a bit of time helping Marisa prepare our meals. Every morning Marisa gets up at sunrise to have her first cup of coffee before going out to tend her crops. I never actually got up early enough to see what it was that she would do out in the fields but no matter what time I would come down from my room, a hot mocha full of coffee would be ready and waiting for me on the kitchen stove with a small plate of biscotti or toast. Sometimes Marisa would be out digging and pruning in her vegetable garden all morning before she would come back with a basket full of fruits and vegetables, in time to prepare lunch. It was interesting how occupied her time was and yet I never saw her rush, frown or struggle in a hurry to do anything. She smiled and laughed a lot and although I couldn’t tell her age by looking at her, as her skin was smooth and her body was lean and firm.

She loved to talk to me about her fruits and vegetables. And as the Italians use their hands as their main form of communication, they naturally throw their arms around and make various gestures with their hands.  Too they have certain shrugs and make non-verbal sounds when they speak.  That was a good thing, since Marisa spoke to me mostly in dialect.  Little by little, we exchanged stories and had long conversations with help from my Italian-English dictionary and the very Italian hand and arm movements I was quickly learning to mimick. I also learned that Marisa never had to buy vegetables or fruits to feed her family, something that she was extremely proud of.

I could see that she and her husband were happy and passionate people who were proud of their simple and fulfilled life and that they raised their two children with that same passion and contentment. I will turn 36 years old in a month and I still have never met anyone more uncomplicated than Alessandro and Marissa. I feel lucky to have been invited to experience that purity.

JS

Autumn in the Caribbean

The sunset last night was in a new place.  It is autumn in the Caribbean and although the changes are not as dramatic as in the Northeastern U. S. where I grew up, there are changes.  Like the sun changing it’s transect.  It has a different quality now.  Just like the sea.  I am not sure what it is exactly, but it is different.  The color is a little more blue in the sea.  The sun is a little more contained in the evening as it sets.  The sun and the sea interact differently too.  The sun plays more on the blue, sparkling more brightly somehow.  The temperature is not Africa hot, although it is hot.  The nights are cooler.  It is fall in Tulum.

We have more rain in the autumn.  Generally, tropical storms that blow in with the force of a gale and pass quickly.  Lately we have had electric storms that are incredibly energetic and dynamic to watch.  They pass quickly and the energy they possess is intoxicating. 

Fewer people are here.  When I was a tourist I liked that and now that I live here, I still do.  I relish the empty beach especially on the days of absolute calm where the blue water is like one gigantic swimming pool.  You can see the manta rays from far away.  The turtles hatch in this season too.  One night after a temazcal there were literally hundreds scurrying in the sand as we sat and drank our tea.  Volunteers with flashlights came from nowhere to help them find their way to the sea.  One stopped to show our group the palm sized baby pushing his fins to move forward.  The story of the turtles is inspirational, how the mothers lay their eggs on the beach in nearly the same place every year and then leave them to hatch and the new babies to make their way alone against predators and the force of the sea. Somehow, I find great comfort in the fact that many survive.

A part of me is always sad to see the fall come.  Witnessing it gives me a premature nostalgia for the year that is passing too rapidly.  I also begin to fear the holiday season with its rush and commercialism and the tourists, friends and relatives that are sure to descend like the sun.  So last night I held onto the sunset and took the time to watch until the very last bit of red left the horizon.  As it descended deeper I looked out from my rooftop perch to see the sun’s pink reflection in the sea.  One more beautiful day in Tulum.  One day closer to the high season.  I was thankful I could witness this season of the low.  

Emails from Verona-Italy

A few years ago I met a man from Verona-Italy. We met while he was on vacation in a small town in Mexico, where I had just moved to from New York City. He had planned a month long vacation but stayed for three. It wasn’t that he did not have a job or a house to go back to, “It is important to take one’s time to appreciate the good things in life, slowly and as often as possible”, he once said. I remember being envious of his carefree spirit and wondered if I could ever be that way again. My friend from Verona did make the most of his 3 months but his vacation eventually ended and he returned to Verona in the spring of that year, just in time to harvest grapes. A week after he left I received an email from Verona. The town where I live is relatively small, so we ran into each other at least once or twice a week but we never got to know each other very well. I was a bit surprised although excited to receive news from him so soon. From that email, came another email and another and another. Twice a day, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, I would receive news from Verona. My time zone was 7 hours behind his in Verona so our emails made me feel little like we were old friends catching up. I guess that we could have coordinated a time to chat online but in a way I was enjoying our new friendship, slowly through emails, one day at a time. We kept in touch this way for about 6 months, and then I decided to visit him in Verona.

It was a tough year for me. I was going through several major changes in my life, emotional, geographical and financial. For several years during my late 20’s I focused only on my career and family obligations and hardly had any time or budget for travel. But before all of that, I used to travel on a whim and without much planning ahead of time. Somehow, over the years, certain routines made me become more and more of a planner and I missed the old spontaneous me. Hearing about Verona every day reminded me of the courage I used to have and the freedom that I used to feel, especially through travel. I decided to throw caution to the wind, along with all the travel guidebooks, and bought my ticket to Verona. Of course, there were practical voices inside my head that said that it was not a good idea to take a vacation with so many unsettled issues in my life, but then I thought of all the years that I have been listening to that same voice and instead of feeling more secure, I felt less and less sure of myself and who I was. I remembered what my friend from Verona said to me and decided that it was time for me to enjoy the good things in life again, and “slowly” as well. I did nothing to plan for my visit to Verona. I read nothing about its history and never once looked for any kind of information about Verona online or from any guidebook. All I really knew from those emails, was that my friend lived about 40 minutes outside of the city of Verona, in the same house where he was born somewhere up on the hillside in an area where most of the grapes from this region are grown. His family farms their own fruits and fresh vegetables and they make 100% virgin olive oil from their own olives and drink wine made from their own grapes. I knew that this was not going to be the kind of vacation I would read about in popular travel guidebooks. Other than that, I knew nothing more about my destination and for the first time in a long time I did not make a list of things to do, which felt incredibly liberating. I was really ready to treat myself to those simple things in life and slowly.

JS