My last day in Mexico City, and the fountain at Plaza Luis Cabrera, the place where Jack Kerouac and the Beat writers found their inspiration- has been drained.
Tonight the celebration de Virgin of Guadalupe continues while the wellspring of intellectual perspiration has run dry. It seems symbolic. A secret bidding to leave- hidden in one of CMDX’s sacred parks.
40 days minus 3 nights, I’ve stayed in this ancient city, slowly sinking from the previous centuries’ of drained canals.
My ark is a metal ship made for the sky. The inverse of Noah. Moving me farther as this journey of the soul, my backpacked heart takes me southward.
This city, this hostel, the people I’ve interacted with, the friends I have made and connected with on a spiritual level; the magical kismet of healing este lugar has brought me is immeasurable, incredible, life affirming, path defining.
The city took my Texas driver’s license and later my wallet- a shedding of the former self. My identity slowly eroding.
Perhaps that’s why the losses have been so hard, this year. Etchings in the marble to bring the fullness of who I am to the surface.
These temporary sacrifices, my penance, to reveal, sustain, a lasting permanence.
I met two beautiful sensitive souls in my hostel, and we journeyed to a small Mexican Mountain town- Angangeo to see the migration of Monarch butterflies.
We were told food is sacred and cannot be bartered. What about food of the soul?
How many times have we sold our souls our innerselves for careers and relationships, and living in states and countries that are crushing us in and out?
My Argentian friend, Ignacio, is working and living in the hostel of healing and fun. Ignacio told me that he was a social worker in Argentina for a few years and had to leave because the work was beyond overwhelming, the scope of need beyond the reach of two precious hands and heart of gold. He’s been traveling for two years and recently had his phone stolen.
It seems this city requires some type of sacrifice from each visitor. I asked him if he was lonely or if he knew when he would settle down. He said that the traveling can get lonely and there are things he misses from his motherland, but he isn’t homesick.
He said, “we are our own homes.”
His comment brought tears to my eyes- not that this is an arduous task, these days. We take these homes wherever we are. With each loss comes a new addition, a new room to fill and live in.
I have no residence to call my own. But I’m finding there are mansions within me.
Casa Azul, Corazon Rojo
Wings fell from ancient Mexican Pines
Petals of a thousand angels
manna from the heavens,
these miracles are not for eating.
The forests are my temples
My worship somewhere between
the fresh mountain air and the breath exhaled.
Love is the language of silence,
the barely audible beating of wings,
a Bodega woman’s smile,
The Earth’s heart
beats freely in the hidden places
deep in the jungles, the weeds of our minds.
You must be unbound
Always, it’s in the stillness
You are found.