La Guara Rojo

Maria had been sitting in the maloka for almost an hour. In the darkness, over the pounding of her own heart, she could hear her neighbours shifting in their seats, rearranging crystals on their altars, rolling mambe. She’d watched the curandero stand in the middle of the circle, blowing ceremonial tobacco smoke to the four cardinal directions, thanking Father Sky and Mother Earth.

It was all a bit weird, even grotesque in comparison to her life in Edinburgh. She had left that life behind six weeks ago with an intention to shake things up a little, at least, but she never imagined she would sit on the floor with perfect strangers and accept a cup of thick, bittersweet, grainy tea. Let alone go up to the curandero and ask for a second cup of the pungent, mud-like medicine.

She had tried weed in a London hostel once, on an unexpected layover almost ten years ago. She hadn’t liked how much space she took up, being stoned: how she’d slouched on the sofa, snorted with laughter, and eaten three (three!) slices of pizza with people she didn’t know. Later, as she brushed her teeth, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and watched her face flush with shame. She avoided all eye contact as she checked out the next morning, certain that the other guests had judged her gluttony, condemned her loudness. Her teeth were gritted in regret the whole Uber ride to the airport.

Other than coffee and an occasional glass of wine with dinner, Maria was as straight and square as they come. She worked for an insurance agency and kept her cubicle meticulously tidy, met every deadline. She placed an ice cube in her orchid pot daily, whitened her teeth and went on a date with her husband weekly, and covered up her auburn roots monthly. She was clean, respectable, predictable. She followed the rules, and she considered herself successful and safe.

That is, until the night her husband told her that he was in love with his first girlfriend from prep school. That they had been secretly dating for some years. That this couldn’t possibly come as a surprise. That their marriage had run its course. That she could not change his mind.

He packed in one day and left a packet of papers for her to sign on the kitchen counter the next.

Maria had driven to work as usual, caffeinated but numb. Empty, even. She stared at her computer screen for an hour before touching her headset. She found herself on a travel site and clicked the “Surprise Me” tab. Explore Belize! suggested the advertisement. White sand beaches, rolling jungle landscapes. Monkeys, parrots, fishing villages with brightly coloured boats and little farmers markets. Ok, she agreed flatly as she clicked on the deal. Belize.

* * *

One month later, she was aimlessly driving along the Punta Gorda seaside when she noticed a man with his thumb out. She hardly believed what she was doing as she pulled over and unlocked the door of her rental car. He was a beautiful person and his smile was genuine, but he was a stranger. Old Maria would have never. But New Maria shrugged to herself: I’m a stranger, too. We’re in this together.

She was relieved when he spoke to her in English. She had tried Duolingo for a few days before her flight but felt like a fool, unable to roll her R's. He asked if she was heading to the feria. “Yes!” She felt relieved to have a destination, and he thanked her warmly as he put his bag in the back seat. "My name is Arsenio." His manner was gentle, open, and confident. He was from Argentina. He had been backpacking through South and Central America for two whole years and was full of pleasant trivia: You can make gum, called chicle, from that tree. The first Europeans here were shipwrecked. If you drive up the coast, you will see Mayan ruins. That bird has many names. Macao, Guara Rojo, or Guacamayo: and she mates for life.

And when Arsenio asked her how she was, Maria felt compelled to tell him exactly how she was. Tears flowed freely as she told him about the divorce. How she had flown halfway across the world, how she had no plan and no vision.

He nodded kindly and asked permission to hold her hand as they drove.

“I’m so sorry,” she laughed, brushing tears from her flushed cheek.

"You are welcome.”

His response surprised Maria. She suddenly wondered if what she had meant to say was, “thank you.” Maybe she would try that in the future: try to thank people for listening, instead of apologising for speaking.

At the market, he bought a papaya with coins which he poured from a little leather pouch. He took a plastic spoon and handed her half of the fruit. “The seeds will kill any parasites,” he explained. “Physical parasites, I mean.”

Maria laughed. “What would kill the non-physical parasites?”

He turned and looked at her. “Only you can kill those. But Abuela can help you fight them.”

“Whose Abuela are we talking about?” she laughed.

“Ours."

And so, he had invited her to a ceremony. He told her about the medicine, how ceremonies could be musical and intimate, how her spirit may be guided into higher faith and deeper love. "Try not to think too much," he laughed. "You want to Let Go."

He scribbled an address on a sheet from his notebook: the center was an hour west of Belmopan, close to the border of Guatemala. The curandero was travelling from Peru. Arsenio told Maria what foods to avoid for the next weeks, told her to set an intention for her healing, and encouraged her to avoid testimonies on the internet. “Expectation is the language of Ego. Keep your mind open, querida, and the heart will heal. This is a promise.”

Very little of this made sense to Maria as she drove away. She hadn't entertained much abstract thought, and the concept of a heart healing or a mind actually opening or closing was a bit bizarre. But she felt compelled. She watched him in her rearview mirror and wondered why, of all people, she had picked him up. Maybe she’d meet this Abuela, drink this medicine, after all.

* * *

The air was thick with copal and bright with agua de florida. Maria burped softly and tasted the medicine on her breath: her lip curled and she felt her stomach churn. Her mouth began to water in a terrible way and she felt regret flood through her veins. What had she gotten herself into?

The silence was broken as the curandero began to sing an ikaro, keeping time with a large beaded fan that he shook against his leg. He walked around the circle, singing and fanning above each participant. A woman sitting to the right of Maria let out a deep, guttural, almost orgasmic moan, and wretched into her bucket.

Keep your mind open, querida, and the heart will heal. She remembered Arsenio’s words and considered, for a brief and beautiful moment, that thinking was the opposite of feeling. My brain thinks and my heart feels. My intention is to heal my heart. Whatever the hell that means.

Try not to think too much.

You want to Let Go.

Suddenly dizzy and overwhelmed, with arms like lead and a mouth full of saliva, Maria dropped her head over her bucket. Arsenio had warned her that she would likely puke, but she hadn’t believed him. Years before, her mother had taught her to vomit down the side of the toilet bowl so no one could hear. She had more or less trained herself to never vomit, and had not so much as passed gas in front of her husband. And yet, here she purged, dreadfully and loudly. Her head rolled and she watched in an almost drunken horror as the contents of her bucket swam and slithered like so many snakes. Green, orange, even violet.

She felt thunder shudder through her palms and the soles of her feet, felt her spine crackle with power. Lightning coursed around her face, tracing every wrinkle, every pore, before burrowing into the space between her eyebrows. It was terrifying. As the curandero sang, she felt the fingers of her breath, cold and bright and pure, clench within her lungs.

Let Go.

She felt cosmic arms -- or were they wings? -- wrap around her being and pull her close. Feathered and brilliant… yes, she was held by a great bird. La Guara Roja. The one who mated for life.

Let Go. Again, she heard it. It sounded like her own voice, only older and kinder.

I can’t! Her thoughts raced wildly and she felt a flood of panic: who am I? What am I doing? What happens next? Why did he really leave me? Will I be loved again? Will I love again?

The wings tightened, slightly. She imagined a great beak pecking on the crown of her head, tapping her thoughts into submission. Let Go.

And within that hug, that eternally safe embrace, she felt a new eye rip open, to a new and timeless world. And she couldn’t believe what she saw:

The towering ceiba trees, their wide sloping roots pulsing with a soft orange light.

Those maroon-skinned women bending their heads over great cauldrons of memory, their long silver hair held back by emerald vines.

The lightning blue auras of those near-invisible men, baskets of jewels balanced on their heads, soft pink flames resting on their shoulders and telling them where to deliver their treasures.

Those bushes of eyes, patiently blinking, observing and never judging.

The monkeys rocking back and forth, back and forth, meditating in full lotus, their mats spread humbly upon those whispering blue tiles.

The prowling violet jaguar, woven basket full of flowers around her neck, her long electric tail flicking petals of fuschia and lime and tourmaline to the feet of the boys picking pomegranates by the waterfall.

The colibri darting back and forth with gossamer ribbons and brilliant beads clutched in their tiny claws, diligently weaving dreams.

The thirsty green snakes opening their great mouths into basins of milk.

That spider, saffron and white, holding up kaleidoscopic mirrors and humming knowingly to her fractaled reflections.

Those dew drops that slipped from the bromeliads and into the pouting mouths of sirens singing by the pond.

And then, the beautiful macaw, opening his pearlescent beaks to laugh in the sunlight. Her mate, her mirror. Love, in the form of a great bird.

Maria was in Heaven. She knew that with her entire being. She somehow knew that Heaven had always been there: so, why had she never seen it? Her rational mind chimed in: Because you’ve never been fucked up on ayahuasca before. Her higher mind hummed patiently: Because there is no space for fear, here.

There was only space for Love. Every hand suddenly outstretched, every chin nodding in warm, genuine invitation: You are Love. Stay with us.

Countless miles and many millennia below, her neighbour once again heaved a bitter bile into her bowl and Maria suddenly remembered where she was. Her lubdub exploded through her sternum and rumbled up her throat, along her trembling jawline and into her ringing ears. She heard herself laughing aloud as her heart, solid once more, squeezed into a yawning star anchored somewhere sacred between her ribs and her spine. Let go of everything you know that is not Love. It was her voice. Abuela had shown her how to vanquish the immaterial parasites, after all.

To Stay in Heaven, I Must Replace Fear with Love. Maria didn't think she knew how to do that, but that perhaps she would feel how. For so long her life ruled by fear. But now, for the first time in such a very, very long time, Maria felt present. Present, authentic, and wholly vulnerable. In that moment, she followed no rules, met no standards, and rose to no expectations. There was nothing safe about it. There was nothing predictable about prowling jaguars or magical spiders. The was nothing clean about her puke and runny noses and the sticky dampness of her collar.

She had valued predictability and order and control so highly because she was afraid. She feared loneliness, she feared rejection, and she had lived within rigid parameters to avoid either state for most of her life. But... had she really avoided either? No! Fear, it seemed, had not served her. She had wanted to be included and remembered, and she felt that was a healthy desire. But the way the creatures beckoned and encouraged her was extraordinary. They seemed to suggest that she was included and she was remembered. She just... had to drop the fear that she wasn't.

Let go of everything you know that is not Love.

The visions dissolved into undulating fractals as Maria dissolved into bliss. Tears coursed liberally down her face and she touched them delicately: they felt like silk, warm and smooth against her cheeks. And she laughed. She tried to sing along. She even rose to her feet and danced a bit before dropping to her knees to vomit again. Nothing made sense, and that was exactly where she needed to be. Not knowing, not thinking. Only feeling.

Maria raised her head, powerfully, and stretched her hands toward the sky in surrender. Grief had never felt so good, so freeing. It seemed that healing her heart had more to do with changing her perspective than getting what she wanted back.

* * *

The curandero closed the ceremony after what felt like several lifetimes. Soft lights were turned on and Maria looked across the room to the men and women. Everyone looked dazed and drained, amazed by their respective breakthroughs, daunted but determined to conquer the fears they had witnessed within themselves. She saw Arsenio tidying, collecting buckets and tissues, and felt a rush of gratitude for the circumstances that brought them together in the first place. She never thought she could be grateful for infidelity or divorce, for heartbreak. But, there it was again: that shift in perspective.

Now that she'd been to Heaven, it seems she knew how to go back after all. She wrapped her arms, her wings, tightly around her own body, remembering the cosmic embrace of the medicine:

"I love you," she whispered. “I love you, for life."