Wonder is everywhere. The world is brimming over with synchronistic resonances. I encounter others of rhyme, rhythm, coincidence, omen, periodicity and presage, who encounter what they seek and are apprised by a hundred signs of what is to be.
In the end it was no problem getting off the beach. Consuelo, the mother of the family of fishermen, and president of the family corporation, treated me like family, with self-less generosity. She gave me what she would give to a brother who was going to that allegorical Canaan/Estados Unidos, that arduous land of conflict, uncertainty, of hope, utter despair, wild joy, anguish, disaster, obstinate reconstructions, and stubborn resurrections.
For that is what the United States is to Central Americans.
That is what Central America is to me.
First I return to Communidad Laconja and the rumble in the jungle.
I have a feeling, a strong feeling, that something important is about to happen there. Maybe it involves an attempt to hold a baluum/baaxche ceremony in defiance and resistance to the lunatic evangelicos? Maybe it involves the speaking of truth to the face of power?
Quien Sabe!
All I know is here, back in the heart of the Mayab in Guatamala, that is from where I hear the distant sounds of the guns in the struggle for the transcendent human liberation.
I am returning to Chiapas, Mexico for the full moon.