(Part one)
I’m on my back, gazing at the ceiling of the Maloca through half closed eyes. Shambhavi mudra- that face that’s familiar to meditators and other contented explorers of altered states. Eyes half closed- half in, half out– fully present.
The roof of the Maloca is a majestic red dome with poles of Remo Caspi arranged into a fascinating web at the top. Crystals embedded above and below. The sounds of birds and monkeys chirping outside fill the space around and inside me like a heady scent. I’m dripping a healthy sweat, the heat of Huachuma starting to consume me.
Oh, I like it… I like that sunny, fiery cactus.
When I close my eyes, hints of sunfire fractals swirl.
Huachuma always stirs first in my heart. How slowly and subtly Grandfather approaches me. It feels like my heart is flying, and then it spreads slowly and steadily– like viscous lava–through the rest of my body and it becomes almost as if I can feel the air actually flowing through all my chakras as I saunter around the property.
With Huachuma, there is no walking;
There is sauntering, there is gliding, floating, flying, stalking…
Walking has a destination in mind.
Huachuma is present to the journey only,
Every footfall its own adventure.
There’s so much space between my molecules! But I’m so EMBODIED. Flying and also grounded. Present through the heart of the earth and the heart of the sky. How do those two things coexist? I’ve heard it said– perhaps by Carl Jung– that paradox is the most precious spiritual resource available to humanity… and I’m a believer in that brand of alchemy;
through the union of opposites unfolds the infinite.
The Medicine has been ramping up throughout the morning and afternoon, steadily plying me open. It’s almost 2:00 pm now, and I’m both breathing and sweating through every pore of my body– but I know better than to imagine this is the peak. This is only the beginning, and in this moment lunch arrives– a beautifully arranged fruit feast. I’m not hungry in the slightest– at least not the way we generally speak about hunger. There is quite a different appetite fueling this adventure, as I drink in the colors of the fruits with my eyes and the scent of the fruit wafts over us like an intoxicating perfume. There is an assortment of fruit in my bowl, but one piece in particular captures my consciousness.
Mango.
The color of the mango.
Impossibly orange.
Turmeric. Curry. Fire. Sunsets.
There’s something about this color of orange that tastes exotic.
Orange is not even the right word…
There must be a different combination of sounds that makes this color that’s about to…
Break my mind.
Break my heart.
Break my heart-mind.
Bodhi my Citta.
It’s not just orange…
The combination of color and texture,
Silky like the guru’s robes.
Fragrant like when an enlightened being walks past you and the spirit wind that trails them fills you with the floral aroma and taste of awakening.
Mango.
I haven’t even put it in my mouth yet…
