Most of our lives are lived in a sort of cocoon. Antigua contains shattered husks from the past. In a day, the husk was shattered and everything changed for them. I wonder how the people of Antigua felt in 1773 when an earthquake destroyed all their magnificent buildings.

The sides of the cocoon are, to an extent, the circumstances that surround me and my actions ‘out there’. The cocoon also includes the body that I ride around in, the ideas and memories in my head, my feelings, my hopes, my fears….everything I can conceive of is part of my cocoon. How do I know this? I know it because the cocoon has expanded at times, and I have found  myself (metaphorically speaking) able to spread my wings in an expanded context.

Please don’t imagine I have had some sort of conversion on the road to Damascus. I have no interest in following any religion, and if there exists a God he/she/it is as far beyond my comprehension as the beginning and end of the universe. However, the people of Guatemala have great reverence for their beliefs, their churches and their religious practices. I have always been fascinated by things like that. I felt it years ago in India and again in Thailand and Burma. Wordsworth and Thoreau found it in nature. There is “something far more deeply interfused.”  Like a rainbow it does not exist separately ‘out there’ nor is it simply a matter of imagination. I took the photo of the volcano with the cross in the foreground with the idea that inner and outer reflect back and forth. Perhaps the experience the Christos is something far more deeply interfused; something that belongs to all humanity since the beginning of time. We may think that, with all our money and our civilized ways, we are superior to these superstitious indigenous people in a ‘3rd world’ country. What if we are mistaken? What if we with our materialistic, mechanistic power and knowledge are ripe for being taught a lesson by the volcano?

Today was one of those days when I traveled through a sort of portal. The door opened into glimpses of the past in Antigua and how it reflects through into the present. Its like when you’re walking in the forest. You pass between two giant trees like a portal and on the other side everything seems new and different.

The wind rustles the leaves around the huge fallen arches; forgotten magnificence thrown down by our mother planet in one of her periodic convulsions in 1773.

I felt gripped by a kind of silence, like a cloud of unknowing. Like in the movie Dead Poet’s Society when the boys look at the old photos and Robin Williams tells them to “Seize the day.” It an instant everything can change. This place carries a forceful reminder if you happen to feel open to it.

I sat for a while by the tomb of Hermano Pedro. He came to Guatemala with nothing in the 1600s; becoming a Franciscan priest and wanting to help the poor. He was so devoted to the sick and the poor that his tomb has been an important place of pilgrimage since his death.  People come by foot from all over Central America for his day on April 21st. All those crutches belonged to pilgrims who experienced miraculous healings at the tomb.

The trip in a shuttle bus to Lake Atitlan passes over a number of mountain ridges, winding through corn, cacti and small villages. I greatly enjoyed the steep slopes and amazing views. On reaching the lake one needs to go to a dock and embark on a small launch that visits various villages along the shore. It was really quite rough and I sat near the bow with the unfortunate result of bouncing up and down on a hard bench with every wave.

On arrival in the town of San Pedro I easily found my hostal. Friendly place, if a little rough around the edges. I took a bunk in a dormitory, upper berth. Bad idea – I didn’t get much sleep the first night. My plan was to find a community where I will be able to stay peacefully after my studying of Spanish. Found a very clean hostal in San Marcos with little cabins, colourful murals, a great restaurant and a dock on the lake for swimming or just hanging out. Perfect. There seems to be a New Age feeling to San Marcos. There are places that teach things like holistic healing, Mayan readings, shamanic astrology, Qi Gong, Priestess Training and so on. Lots of Yoga. I was surprised to see numerous offers of massage considering its such a peaceful place. So much stress requiring so many massages!

Delighted to find that I can actually have conversations in Spanish. I commiserated with a young man who was trying to sell blankets to tourists. Since he had no English he seemed completely unable to bargain.  I suggested a calculator, but he said he had one but lost in a Tuktuk.  There are Tuktuks everywhere.  They got them from India.

Its an old photo, but one of my favourites.

Every moment explodes into being before fading forever into memory. Are moments in time variable in importance in the context of eternity? The moment comes, and then it is gone.  If we were to imagine a scale of importance, what would be our criteria? Some moments have a quality that makes it more likely that they will be remembered, but does that create a valid hierarchy? Let’s consider human beings instead. Some humans conquer empires, create timeless artistic masterpieces or amass vast fortunes; some lead lives of dull, painful desperation, every step mired in misfortune. Should a life be long or short, generous or miserly? These are important qualities, to be sure, but few would ague that anybody’s life is intrinsically less important. Black Lives Matter…AND…Every life matters. The same could be said of moments in time, which is why the practice of mindfulness has become so popular – Every moment matters.

Now I have been here a week and have settled in a bit it’s time to start a daily diary.

The world around me has changed from cold, rainy, English speaking, family, driving and coffee breaks to…. warm, sunny, Spanish speaking, new faces, walking and (of course) coffee breaks.

Antigua is called Antigua because it is old – it was the capital during the Spanish time before they built Guatemala City.  It was founded in 1543 after the first two capitals had been destroyed. The streets are all of cobblestones and houses are in the old style with high walls concealing green, inner courtyards. Walking the streets is like walking through a museum. There are so many half ruined churches, convents, etc dating from the 17^th and 18^th centuries. Trucks and buses bump along, brightly painted recycled versions of handed down American school buses. It’s a peaceful town with many tourists and language schools.  This brings me to my primary reason for being here.

The location of my school is called ‘El Jardin”, or ‘the garden’. There must be around 30 – 40 students seated sprinkled around leafy walkways and terraces. Each student sits at a table with a teacher.  Its all 1 – 1 learning. My teacher is a grandmother with 21 years of experience teaching foreigners like this.  She is very patient with me.

Today the two of us were joined by two other pairs including a couple of ladies from Oregon whose level is similar to mine. It was really a lot of fun. We made so much noise, all laughing about very little. In the afternoon there was a movie about people who live around a huge garbage dump near Guatemala City. Families have lived there for generations subsisting on what they can find and sell of the leavings from the city’s garbage trucks. There was a daycare centre for kids started by a hardworking young woman from the USA.  Unfortunately she was killed in an accidental collision with a truck.  It was very sad and left me with tears in my eyes. I found it stunning to witness the horrifying conditions under which these people live; although the human resolve, determination and strength to survive is impressive indeed.

VOLCANO HIKE

Yesterday I had no classes so I decided to try out the questionable hip on a hike on nearby Volcan Pacaya.

It took a bit of effort to locate the small agency where I signed up for the tour. I had tried to minimize walking to save energy for the hike. The big question was: can I actually DO a four hour mountain hike?

Volcan  Pacaya

After a trip on a windy mountain road with views of Guatemala city and mucho trafico we approached Volcan Pacaya (modest height at 2,500 metres) As soon as I got off the bus some boys came up offering us sticks for walking. One asked if I wanted a hearse. This seemed a little pessimistic until I realized he was actually offering a horse. We set off in a group of 25 or so with an energetic looking smiling guide named Jorge. (sounds like “Hor hay”.  I was probably the eldest, but not be much. Its fun to chat with people on the trail – Two young Californian guys, a French couple (Have completely forgotten all my French in deference to Spanish) a Guatemalan guy who seems to have traveled a lot, a young Japanese, a Dutch woman who has been doing volunteer work in a small village. Rapidly discovered that I have no breath for discussion. Up we went.

Some people have rented horses, which plodded past us. I discovered the Spanish word ‘excremento’. An additional guide appeared to be stalking me occasionally suggesting, “Taxi, taxi” by which she meant that I might wish to rethink my decision regarding renting a horse. I told her I had climbed lots of mountains, which got me the reasonable response that I was probably younger then.  I  became familiar with the Spanish word for pride (orgulloso). We did about an hour and a half of quite steep hiking on a narrow trial.

The view from the ridge, which was our goal. was of course magnificent. Looking at Pacaya you can see different shades of rock showing flows that came down the mountainside at different times; light grey for 2010, darker for 2014. Jorge showed up a photo of himself 4 months ago cooking a marshmallow in a glowing rivulet of lava. High on the volcano, near the summit we could see streaks of orange that seemed to appear and disappear. It felt very exciting, as if the volcano were alive.

After watching a spectacular sunset (another, larger volcano smoking in the distance, not the one above which is Volcan de Agua) came the most intense part of the outing – descending the trail in the dark. we kind of huddled in twos and threes because not everyone had a flashlight. I felt grateful for my Huawei mobile phone once I managed to find its light. Going down was much more challenging than ascending.  I fell once, jamming my thumb into the gravel.  There was some blood, so back at the parking I  became the subject of some attention; although my main objective was simply to sit down. A young woman from Maine had a good look, her eyesight being much better than mine, and announced that a small stone was imbedded in my thumb.  She could remove it, but it might hurt. Another saintly bystander produced a wicked-looking pin. The operation was a success and (much to my relief) I was pronounced fit to travel.

The punchline to this story is that I DID IT! Three Tylenols helped me sleep, but the next day my legs did not enjoy walking – particularly the hip. Never mind, I’ll get a new one when i get home in April.

The most important thing is remembering the most  important thing. Suzuki Roshi

Seven decades of life is enough for huge amounts of content to accumulate in the memory. How much of it is really important or necessary? If I forget a decade or two does it matter? Are there events or people who simple demand to be remembered? This blog is an attempt to string the beads of memory with just the right odds and ends to make sense of it all.

So what IS the most important thing? I started at the beginning – all I really know is my direct experience of existing. I sleep, I dream and I awake. I feel sensations and I’m aware of thoughts.  There is an impression of an ‘I’ who exists in an external reality that is not me. I’ve devoted plenty of time to seeking an answer to the question ‘Who am I?’ Its a good question, but no answer is forthcoming.

From a young age I’ve been intrigued by the notion of God. This notion has morphed from a paternalistic wise man in the sky into an idea that ‘God’ is everywhere in everything forever. Its  totally dualistic, I admit, but seems to include my actual experience – there is self and there is other.

How to proceed? If God is everywhere then ‘other’ is as good a description as any.  The next step must be prayer – calling out, voicing acceptance and awe  would seem appropriate. But if the ‘everywhere and everything’ definition applies then surely God is also in the ‘I’ that is calling out. Just searching outside myself would seem to be a denial of the I that is searching. Prayer became much deeper – a harmonization to be known in silence. Could there be a knowing that is not dualistic?

One technique in the above direction has been to de-clutter my life. I live in a single room.  I have rid myself of most of a lifelong accumulation of stuff. Secondly, I have let go of numerous responsibilities related to job, hobbies, obligations and addictions. Some of this was enforced by health issues – I can no longer run, or even walk for long distances.  This leaves me surrounded by massive amounts of empty time and space; which is in stark contrast to most of the world around me.

A long time ago I was privileged to attend a lecture by the great sage, Krishnamurti. He stood on a single stage under a spreading banyan tree, dressed all in white with his silver hair matching the crescent moon above him. He talked about meditation and order – the value of creating inner space to appreciate what is truly sacred. Turns out its not the easy path one might suppose. There exist voices in my head clamouring for meaning. What is the point of my life? Shouldn’t I be achieving something? Don’t I need more money? Am I missing out? Perhaps these voices belong more truly to other people. Silence has its appeal.