No writer’s block on this side of the Universe!

Tulum is a portal. That you cross it is a fact. That many times the crossings go unnoticed, is also a fact.

I know this because I’ve crossed it so many times in just a few months living here.

Tulum ruins
Tulum ruins. Photo by VBourrut

In a single day in late April, I crossed over at the powerful full moon ceremony by the sea. It happened as well in the unexpected Temascal (sweat lodge translation does not even come near) ritual that same night.  Again it did when I swam into Caribbean waves of silver to reach a quiet spot of warm water and see myself floating to life again, arms and legs spread, as my face gazed into the bright moon.

It happened earlier that same day, when Sol played her harmonium and lead me into deep meditation. It later did again, while a young Russian Milana put mint oil on my neck and invited over to the asana of a Yoga class I was never going to take, but did.

I crossed to the sitar music that Bernardo played that took me away at Milana’s class – a feat that had not taken place before -.  It blew me. Read this literally: I left and my body did the class.

And when I was back, it happened again as a I sat on the beach, white,  to see I could write to the moonlight on that late night of gentle breeze; just us and my sea. I had started writing earlier at a magical spot under a Ceiba tree with chimes of wind that made its silken magic swirl around me like snow.

I had crossed over that day at noon, when Elvira – a Celtic Italian friend -, told me confident as ever and  in her Italian English that I should focus my energy in writing and wait for something to reveal. There was only one awkward thing with the scene though:  she mentioned this minutes after I had ever met this nuclear eyed woman that has so much energy and wit in the body of a 12-year-old girl.  She did not know I did write.  So I sat and wrote, and wrote. I have written since then.

Of course, she never told me I’d finish that same day dancing to sacred dances, recovering the primordial awe of being part of a tribe dearest to me, chanting folk songs from all over the World at el Nido (read as her in reverse Celtic “Odin”) hut, built just under a huge  venerable Ceiba tree.  We all danced in circles feeling the joy of our child inside. We, as in seven other feathered footed women and myself. A very special occasion. I crossed over then also, to recover the most sublime and ancient of feelings known to any soul. Been dancing since then. Even my last name has changed its rhythm ever since.

That late night I found myself watching the movie Life of Pi and reflecting on faith at Stefan’s hotel. Faith has been my company.  I walk in peace, willing and open for the kindness and love in the Universe that I’ve always been subject to. I walk, but keep  myself  eager to stop and listen with a sharp ear and watch for the signals.

I had to become a reporter, a man told me this over twenty years ago. His talents were in the art of seeing what other people skills were. I was not ready to listen then, nor to believe in me having them. Looking back, I shall just do that now, but with an important difference:  I’ll be reporting to you from this other side of our parallel Universe. The one I have crossed over to so many times and that I’m so fond of.

You see, writers block and other no-can-do dialogues in me are not present in this side. I have discovered that they cannot cross over! Such a bliss.

I’m touched. So many stories to tell and so much ink in me.


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