the wakening of a conch
the intentional sound of beauty
brings me out of my regular stupor
and trivial annoyances.
As I look up into the
enormity of a million butterflies
My eyes glaze over,
and my spirit claims its place
in the richness of the world.
Soft fern – upreaching firs
Awe captured in oohs and ahs,
camera clicks and glee
Today the butterflies remind of the best in us.
Today, on my birthday, life feels harder and easier.
New challenges, but also greater joy,
more heartfelt, more intentional, more shared.
Bendición Colectiva (para enlace espiritual)
Celebrante: Que puedan crecer en su amor, en el asombro y en el gozo.
Todos: Que las temporadas de la vida los una.
Celebrante: Que su amor sea una aventura, de crecimiento y retos para convertirse en mejores individuos y pareja.
Todos: Que cada día encuentren el perdón y la risa ante los altibajos.
Celebrante: Que reciban las sorpresas de la vida con brazos abiertos. En este nuevo camino, el amor es su tótem.
Todos: Que la devoción que se tienen sea tan fuerte y bella como las montañas que tenemos enfrente.
Bendición elemental
Yo, agua, les deseo un estado permanente de flexibilidad. Sumando pueden incorporar la fuerza del río. Que puedan disfrutar del eterno fluir del néctar de la vida y sumergirse en las corrientes más dulces y refrescantes de esta vida.
Yo, fuego, les deseo que encuentren la divinidad en el consumo del fuego. Que el ardor los mueva a crear y rehacer siempre. Que puedan prender, contener y soltar la llama en todo momento.
Aire, el aliento que los manifieste. La expresión de voz y presencia, canto, risa y emoción. Aire como suspiro, como pausa, como vacío y espacio.
Yo, árbol, como representante de la comunidad de vida que los abraza en este momento, soy…
“El árbol de luz, nutrición del que sueña. Mi tiempo es el ahora. Mi lugar es el ecuador. Soy perpetuidad, constancia y felicidad. Mis ramas se menean dedicando gracia y sensibilidad a todos los seres. Mi follaje protege de los rayos del día. Mi sombra se extiende sobre cada uno que busca la contemplación. Los vientos-espíritus me soplan de todos lados, constantemente reajustando mis ramas. En esta exhibición se escucha cada melodía más hermosa, extasiando hasta el más intelectual.”
Nosotros venimos a hablar en nombre de todos los animales. Esperamos que el amor que comparten lo extiendan a todos nosotros.
Soy mexicano como el nopal
Soy suizo como el queso
Soy gringo como los cowboys
Soy las flores de campo en las que me acuesto
El viento que me traspasa como carcajada
Soy el que se postra ante la montaña
Y que recorre sus venas abiertas en búsqueda de garzas y cascadas
Soy tu rezo temazcalero, el canto universal
Soy el que traduce las costumbres
El que se estresa con el tiempo
Soy el fractal escondido en el párpado del ojo
Soy el suspiro suspendido y el llanto atragantado
Aliento de Dios, postura de yogi
Sonrisa de Budista y un poema Sufi
Soy la bolsa de Doritos,
la arena escurridiza
Soy el doble calcetín en el frío
Soy la emoción de un tucán
El misticismo de un venado
La estática del ruido blanco
The mass tourism complex is designed to make me a massive dickhead. What do I mean? As a dickhead, I can’t relate to others, my interactions are superficial and transactional. The contact with local nature offered me is a picture with a tied up monkey or “having an intimate moment” with a trained macaw on my arm. What ever scraps of the local culture and idiosincracy I can pick up, is inbetween tips and piña coladas with the waiter and Uber drivers from one party to the next. A feeling of local merengue and bachata gets mushed together with mindless reggaeton, foam guns and animators making me want to shoot myself. Am I the bigger dickhead for not going with the flow?
(more…)Guavas are tropical, little and round. In the Dominican Republic they are larger and didn’t look very tasteful. In my region of Mexico the most coveted are pink- they are the sweetest. I assume there are pink guavas in Hawai, as I saw a movie in which a pink-guava mimosa was served, it looked delicious. Very high in vitamin C, you can find them in candy, with cheese as a desert, as juice, or even as my favorite flavor electrolyte.
The town I live in proudly declares itself World Capital of the Guava. I have not found the official number, but every night trucks drive their loads to the highway where the boxes, or guacales are loaded on to semis to make their way to the central market in Mexico City. It’s a perilous affair. Risks include dirty traffic police and distributors’ arbitrary prices. I try not to bite the seeds because they’ll get stuck in my teeth for hours. Guavas don’t stay fresh for very long, so every day hundreds of tons get thrown out from la Central de Abastos. Juice manufacturers offer measly prices for third rate product – barely worth the gasoline to drive them the fruit.
We make jams, and while they’re successful amongst our guests we have a whole storage closet full of them. Some friends for a while made a craft-beer out of guava, but out here in rural Mexico there was not enough of a market to sustain their business. There are larger guacales to collect soursop, mangos, mamey, zapote and ciruela when they’re in season but 90% of the farmers have guava trees. They say the first ones came from Peru. One of the evidences used to theorize that the Purépechas from Central Michoacan are actually descendants of the Quechuas from South America. A south-north migration. Others say these theories are nonsense. And yet others have told me the elders say so themselves.
I work in tourism and take city-dwellers out into guava fields and talk about the life-cycle of the tree and colloquial beliefs about the harvesting even though I’m new to the scene. Hijo de la guayaba (son of a guava) is a national saying, and it refers to the harvesters being exposed to a certain pheromone when picking the fruit that incites baby-making mood when back home. I’ve fallen in love with the scenery – perhaps due to the hormones – perhaps due to the lively green scenery of this fertile land. Water springs and mild weather allow for growing just about anything.
Character: The passion fruit trail
Problematic: Iguana poachers
The path from the hot springs to the waterfall was part new, part ancient. We were sitting by the waterfall the other day when out of the jungle three hunters materialized. By the look of their ragged clothes, ancient rifles and smudged faces, they were very poor. They were looking for iguanas. Just for fun? Or to feed their families? I have been appointed guardian for this space, and yet, this may be a millennial need I be confronting. How to ask them not to hunt on the property when it’s what they’ve been doing for generations? Only talking to them. I only got in a quick question as to were they were heading, before getting a grunted, ‘beyond this place’ to reassure ‘el güero’ they were leaving, but a longer conversation is needed.
A week later I was walking a group of elderly ladies down this same path. They were fascinated with every nook and flower. A solitary hibiscus found on the trail got tossed into a girl’s hair. Knowing we wouldn’t be able to hike for very far or long, we trudged slowly around the big garden, getting a close look at everything we crossed. I’d never realized before that what we call Red Flame, are really bracts- or specialized leaves- and the actual flowers spurting from the red are white. Littered along this trail are passion fruit, fallen from the overhanging vines, Granada flowers giving way to the fruit, and spectacular Golden Orb Spider cobwebs. This part of the trail is on private land. Once you cross the road, the path becomes a public walkway used by all the community to visit the waterfall.
Although less flowers were to be found on this section of the trail, butterflies were abundant. Giant White Morphs floating softly thru the air, Silkworms suspended in the air amassing their string as they crawled back up from the overhead branches, fluttering Sulphurs, Whites and Yellows, Swallowtails flashing their pink and yellow dots, Zebra Longwings dazzling their stripes. Perhaps a lack of iguanas?
I’ve never seen a lizard on this trail. We’ve seen MotMots, ringed-tailed cats, and fire-fly larvae on the stream banks. The passion fruit trail is lush and perhaps in danger. Every rain season rocks come a tumbling. Foam aggregations give a sense of human discharge and soap remains. Plastic and waste have to be fished out weekly. Perhaps, our trail is not in danger, and I am but a rookie conservation-enthusiast. Truth be told, I don’t have the slightest idea of tell-tale signs of erosion, water quality, and animal populations. But base markers have to be set.
If you’re ever chased by a crocodile on land, run in zig zags. That’s one of the lessons you learn growing up in a tropical country. Lush green and cloudy grey Panama. High-rise PTY, red diablos buses blasting raging plena. Spanglish spoken begrudgingly due to an American invasion in 1990 to protect its economic interests. A banana Republic that had severed its cultural and political ties with Colombia, because of foreign interests to build a canal – first French and then American.
Of course, I didn’t really perceive all of this when we moved to Panama when I was eight. As a kid of an affluent family, we were choffered to school, to karate class, to check out cds at Arrocha. You don’t really walk much in a country this close to the equator. You move from one air-conditioned room to another via a closed-windowed car. My bubble was both environmental and social.
(more…)Gushing, throbbing exuberance
Echoes of every fall, every tumble
There’s pulsations in the fall
Lost in the static, a wavering drone
Exuberance gushes – frustration grinds
A timid bird pops up on the ledge
Overflow of the river has moistened the banks, a turmoil of mud and branches, a haven of flies.
Expanded with the rain, can this pounding be cleansing? Or is it an escape valve for overburdened clouds?
Runoff, surplus, remnants of plants’ needs – off to feed the horizon.
Water is renovation, hope to continue purer, closer to my dreams.
How many others sit at the banks of this river as it curls its way down. How many ranches, how many towns does it transerve? How many more falls can be accounted for by the remaining 1300 meters to reach sea level?
How many lovers come to soothe their quarrels by the flow of the water? How many will enjoy the sound of bubbles and eruptions on this overcast Sunday afternoon?
To this spot I’ve brought those who don’t think twice about plunging into the water; those who’ve brought offerings and prayer; those who need reminding to pick up their trash; those who are reminded of better times; those who begun to meditate.
Like the brilliance of a fish, the memory of a dream can be seen with unmarred waters. Remember quickly were you have travelled at night – ask to visit before entering.
With an open heart
I present myself
As a gentle traveler with
Keen but hazy senses
I ask permission
To explore (and remember) the dream world
I dreamed of wordless messages and cat messengers (which scared me back to the Earthly realm).
I shall will myself to listen, to receive..
Who is this Holy Spirit that sings inside of me – that let’s me dance in response to music, paint in response to beauty, to serve in response to gratitude, to write in response to all that I feel?
Shedding space of contempt, anger, frustration and judgement there is this brilliant core (cave), a mystical want to help spread love.
The gifts of silence, of closing your eyes, of clarity of how to give back.
Vivo entre dos ríos… vienen de bajada, acariciando la topografía, a veces suspendidos en el aire, a veces solo un murmullo.
En donde vivo, se refuerza el río, tomando fuerza de los manantiales, agarrando vuelo del brotar de la Tierra.
Si uno se deja, todo revive aquí. Aislado entre los cerros, las ideas y las emociones se alientan en una bolsa de humedad, me deleito en un enclave tropical. Aquí los colores son más turbios, la vegetación más cerrada, el sonido del agua rebota en la densidad.
Las flores son reflejos de las mariposas. Este revoloteo inspirador de colores ayuda que cada momento en este bosque sea completamente único, cada pensamiento fresco y emoción renovada.
La inmersión a la cañada es un encuentro con las entrañas de la montaña, la mirada se alienta, va hacia adentro. La piel se extiende, el alma se reconoce, juega en las grutas, busca el flujo del agua, las copas de los árboles el pétalo de la flor, la cima del cerro.
How to put into words the trusting process of believing… of aligning oneself with instinct, when one simply knows, when one is aligned or synched with natural rhythms – with natural harmony – with values that support and enhance life. Passion has truth to it. Love has flow. Consciousness echoes truth further than any logical reasoning. Sound dreamy? That is what Peter Senge, Otto Scharmer and companions explore, following visions, dreams, or in their words: presence.
Learning and understanding depends not only on introspection but on our interaction and service to the whole. Outside of individualized living a plethora of possibilities abound.
NASA’s James Lovelock would say the Earth works as a self-regulating system. All living systems integrate feedback loops to learn from their environments and adapt. If we, as humans, are to fit into this natural logic, we need moments of reflection, and consciousness of belonging. What does change look like aligned to natural evolution?
(more…)Coming to the beach is difficult for me. The waves wash away all thoughts, but it is not a silent contemplation or a romantic reminiscence – there is no uniform drone, but a constant crash, a constant pull back to the now. You have no choice but to face what is stretching to be released – pain, poetry, disillusion.
There are wave patterns to the sea, a sense in the maritime ecosystem, but amongst this there is a storm of sand, a battering of noise, a randomness of crashes. So it is within me as I recognize my controlling side, my defenses twist and shout, lash out and look for another victim.
Dulled into the expansion of the ocean, and yet battered by the constant waves- am I awake? I am here. My soul has just begun to reveal itself in this new environment/form and already it is time to go.
Is there enough of me to fill this grand sky? Do I need to at all? Is it sheltering? Is it an invitation to wonder, to forget myself, to just be in presence, in admiration, in reception, devotion.
Corresponding, I can perhaps find the words, the color, the sentiment. Bring the turmoil in me down to a simmer, find a little of me that is able to respond, to recognize the awakening. Ah! To be barefoot for a week. To move around from lounge chair to hammock to bed. From book to sky to horizon. From sand to water. From food to yoga. From games to drinks.
-Troncones July 2023
Culminating Healing and Transition Ceremonies, Celebrant Institute
When I got an answer to my application from Elise, telling me she had studied the same year as you
The tears felt oh so right
As I learned of rituals and honoring grief,
I remembered you…
“Separation, liminal phase, and reintroduction…”
There you were again, welcoming folks into our sweat lodge
Finding the right introductory questions…
There you were again, designing my wedding ceremony.
Following in a parent’s footsteps can many times generate doubt.
Is this truly what I want?
A semester of fundamentals on ceremonies gave me the tools to express my grief, to mold my sorrow into something tangible.
Slowly the doubt began to diminish.
Another semester of poems, rituals and inspiration, delving into what could be called the business of hope. The crafting of narrative and the cultivation of hope.
Today I present myself to all you, not without doubt, full of insecurity, but brimming with hope. Quivering with conviction, that what we do is right and necessary.
Why? Because I’ve lived it myself, and so has everyone who has been touched by ceremony. Be they joyous, bereaving or anywhere in between.
A friend of mine questioned me the other day, how can you celebrate grief? I had to think about this one… and check up on the definition of celebration: acknowledgement, honoring, recognition. To truly live each moment of our lives to the fullest and with the most presence. That’s why our rituals allude to fire, water, earth, air, to bring us back to our fullest, natural selves. To remind us we are more than a bunch of ideas, that we are physical beings interacting constantly in a physical medium. Just so, as we recognize ourselves as part of an interweaving, our stories become each others stories.
So thank you dad, for your story, thank you to my teachers for their stories, to my colleagues for theirs, and for the stories told by the consuming fire, gushing river, the streaming wind and the enveloping mountains.
Siento el pulso de las palabras que leo, el pesado significado de dirigir cada una, la livianez de decidir su ritmo, los silencios, las pausas, cuando me acuerdo de la intención, de la tonalidad.
Siento las incongruencias en mi actuar, requiero de respirar para alejar lo que no soy yo – o lo que no quiero. Por que también soy mis sombras, lo que requiere acción y voluntad y no relajar.
En el silencio está la posibilidad de elegir mi siguiente paso.
Camino a ti querida tierrita y voy a buscar dónde me encuentro, dónde me pierdo en ti…
Me encuentro contigo: scarred trunk, orgulloso relato de tiempos antaños. Living amongst magnificent expressions of colorful and towering life. You, my carbon-based friend have become a stout reminder, not only of our past but of other uses, of another perspective, less vibrant, more homely. The constant flow of the river outdates you and I. The sweet young fragrance of the the flowering bush is a la mode, the fruits of the ciruela litter your floor. You remain a sculpture of your movement, your reaching to the stars, and pointing to receiving of the mountain. You probably witnessed the introduction of the Jacaranda trees and the excitement of the people that have come to enjoy, the song of the reverential, the song of the overjoyous, of the levity of being – just being.
As the water trickles, as the bird sings, so does the mountain partake, and returns our smile.
(ENG below)
Acostado, corazón abierto al abrazo de la tierra
Pulso resonando por el piso fresco
Me convierto en recipiente de la nada, del todo
Todo transpira, inspiración infinita, infinita tristeza
Me convierto en mis raíces, mis ideales, las ideas de todos, en mis ancestros
Al mismo tiempo me dreno de propósito y me lleno de posibilidad, que se deja ver de reojo
Mi piel se estira a envolver cada percepción
Mente quieta, alma envuelve el calor, encarnando susurros cósmicos.
/
As we lay, opening our hearts to the embracing earth
Our pulse echoed back to us by the fresh ground
We become a vessel for nothingness and for all
Everything pours through, infinite inspiration, infinite sorrow
We become our roots, our ideals, everyone’s ideas, our ancestors
At once we are drained of purpose and filled with possibility, glimpsing but not looked at
Our skin stretched to encompass every perception
Mind quieted, soul wrapped around the heat, embodying cosmic whispers.
No one prepares you for the death of your father. I had always thought, talking about death was no taboo for us, but I had no idea.
I remember standing outside of the wake, looking in, not coming to grips. I would have liked to say some words, but there was no way I could bring myself to do so without breaking down completely. It was like standing by a river, and not hearing anything. Feeling completely overwhelmed. Something that has just until recently been a constant in the background.
I had about 7 months of mourning before my dad’s death, coming to terms, seeking medical alternatives. Always thinking, maybe if only I had followed one more piece of well intended, but annoying advice from a friend or extended family.
I remember… towards the end, sitting on the floor below my dad’s bed, looking for signs of communication. Not knowing how to help, venting frustration, drinking too much. Going for long runs. Screaming at hillsides.
During the process, writing down all my resentment, trying to manifest feeling into the physical realm, and then… allowing space for gratitude.
After September 2nd 2020, the coping began… the remaining family went on a trip to the beach. Worst trip of my life.
A friend of mine helped with therapy. She spoke of how our family unit, our family project and business required a new metaphor. A pillar of the table was missing and we required a new table, a new structure. I’d think to myself… what would he do? What is expected from me? What is it that I want? Should I stay with the family business? Visiting the river and having the water wash all the feeling away.
And then… not too long ago, another teacher made me see the river in a new light. Every rain season the river that passes through our property creates a little bit of havoc and finds a slightly different path. Taking over a family business, losing a father, is like living at the edge of chaos, constantly. My teacher suggested I offer the river a flower. And so I did, and I learned the tremendous force of the river to be an inspiration. And I took up a vow that I am up for the challenge to be a guardian.
“You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” Franz Kafka
“My once perfect body has become a story turned by time and weather.”
