I find myself at the age of six, walking down a corridor in my grandmother’s house. I wake up before the sun rises and I stare at the ceiling. I watch the light of the morning dawn filter through the rooftop. I witness millions of tiny little worlds floating around, dancing with the sounds of birds and barking dogs, as crickets were just finishing their song and their life. I breathe in the air and though I do not see it, I know that these tiny little dots I see through the Sun beam rush to get into me, and I wonder how many worlds come into me and what happens to them. Do they die? Do they collide? Do they become? Do they not notice it? Do they become me? And if they become me, do they then wonder what happens to all of those little worlds floating around, riding the currents of the solar tides?
The magical traditions of the peoples of Latin America are deeply embedded in the natural worlds that surround them. Their inner power is the mastery of perception, and out of that mastery their magic flows as the jungle flows.
The Brujo’s sorcery burns like the tropical sun. It towers and shakes the earth in volcanic joys. It hums eternally with the song of big seas in small shells. It lives and sweats among the mass of peoples, living and dying in eternal struggles for freedom.
The Brujo’s Sorcery is the magical song of the ally. It hardens its intent in the intense heat of the dessert. It dances with the eternal thirst of millions of trees, gifting the world with life to breathe.