If I had to write that which describes you, I’d have to be able to illuminate the silence, to open the cranial plains that separate the infinite mystery from the grey thicket, and thus invent a world in which each movement of the plume would draw infinite words where each one reflects the totality of every other.
Or, perhaps, I’d simply have to touch the paper with my plume; knowing that your homonyms do not relate nor describe, but rather draw on the firmament the hidden caresses to your invisible face, without knowing perhaps, or maybe without caring, that no one could ever decipher such sketches.
Si tuviera que escribir lo que te describe, tendría que poder iluminar el silencio, abrir el llano craneal que separa el infinito misterio de la maraña gris, y así inventar un mundo en el que cada movimiento de la pluma dibujara infinitas palabras que reflejaran cada una la totalidad de cada otra.
O quizás simplemente tendría que tocar el papel con mi pluma, sabiendo que tus homónimas ni relatan ni describen, sino más bien dibujan en el firmamento las caricias ocultas a tu rostro invisible sin saber quizá, o sin importarle tal vez, que nunca nadie podrá jamás descifrar tales bosquejos.
There are words untranslatable, and when translated something of essence is left out. The word “apapachar” used by Mayan influenced people, like in southern Mexico and Central America is one such word. Many dictionaries translate it as “spoil” or “pamper”.
How curious that in English the word emphasizes either the ruining of something in a child (because when overdone, the child becomes “spoiled rotten”), or the indulgence given a person when you do things for them they could do themselves (as it happens when you pamper someone in a spa).
What then, is “apapachar”? It is associated with pamper or spoil because of the image of a parent hugging his child or a lover cuddling and whispering tender nothings.
There is no word in the English language that I’m aware of, and if we were to translate literally from the Mayan, to apapachar is “to hug with your soul.”
Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter?
Or does she descend like the gentle starlight: flowing down the empty void to fill up this vessel?
Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops, like the high pitched electrical vibration?
Does she come to me as ambrosia, sweet nectar from above touching the tongue, filling the heart with the most sublime, soft, gentle love?
Is it just the mind that sits by the well in the full moon?
Is it just this silly mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling, that sees a difference between the graceful descent of the utterly tasty and satisfying dew of ambrosia and the rushing of the falling from grace?
I’ve been receiving some wonderful comments about The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor. Here is one that touches the heart with tender fingers.
“After I removed it from the package I headed into my infants son room to take a quick peak. Brett saw your book in my hand and made a hyper-supersonic crawl to the doorway, stood up and reached for your book. I stepped over the child gate and went to sit down with him, book in hand. He climbed all over me for 15 minutes trying everything in his power to hold on to you book. Finally I placed it down on the carpet, and held it securely against the floor, and he spent the next 5 minutes touching it and trying to pick it up, smiling and laughing, overjoyed. I’ve never seen him act in this manner before with such intensity, and unbending intent, and I take that as a wonderful omen 🙂 I’m looking forward to diving in, if Brett will let me have it to myself. He likes me reading to him, so your book is our next read. Cheers!”–Thor Blethyn
When the times bring you to that place where you feel unworthy of love and divine grace, think about the love parents have experienced for their child.
When immersed in remorse for past deeds, or when feeling weakened by the chains of habit in the sleeping state, think about the love present when you see a child you love. You do not love him for his strength, his power, or his abilities. You love him for the essence in him. If he is sleeping, you love him the same as when he is awake.
So is the light of your heart; worthy of love divine even when you are trapped in the sleeping state.
The mother sings to the child, though in his sleep the child knows it not, and his small breath is enough for the mother to feel all her loving care rewarded. That divine breath in you, makes your heart love, and that love comes from the infinite in you, and that awakens the love of the supreme consciousness witnessing your heart of hearts.
In the source of that love, no merit or deed is needed to justify it. Its existence is its reason to be loved.
In the silence between word and word, between day and day… in the silence between dream and dream, between knowledge and understanding, between thoughts and emotions… in that silence that exists before thought and feeling become one… in that moment of silence before the pushing forth of meaning, the foundations for the making of the world flowers from the depth of the abyss.
It’s in that flowering that the tides of the waters of my heart flow unrestricted; seeking who knows what;moving where they’re being pulled.
Without the swelling of those waters, without the emanation of that light, no story is worth telling.
Click here to listen to this Telling of the Oceanic Tryptic.
One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.
Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.
It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.
May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.
May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.
(Click here to receive a free ebook on Shamanic Voyaging and Lucid Dreaming)
Here’s a note I found from a dear friend after a performance of The Telling:
“It occurs to me this morning that the teacher is a physical manifestation of the Great Spider who endlessly is eaten by her children, only to willingly come back again and again and again.
This sacrifice is for the Great Work. Likewise, the student is a developing spider who is learning the practice of death, rebirth and service through observing her Mother while simultaneously partaking of her, often greedily.” Katheline Dreier
In the solitude of the night I stay, and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.
In this center of life, I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.
In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?
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