The Altar of My Soul

by Marta Moreno Vega

  “The best way to understand the religion is to learn from the old ones, los sabios.”

  Zenaida took care of the elders, attending to their needs and basking in their friendship. She believed her guardian angels were old spirits, and they drew her to the company of the elders. The elders loved and cherished her in turn. They were recognized by the Santería community as possessors of ancient knowledge and traditional ways. Quite often, they were pursued for their advice and guidance when there were questions about correct procedures in rituals. They loved Zenaida and showered her with praise, treating her as their beloved daughter. They expected her to preserve and uphold their sacred teachings, passing them on to other generations.

  First we went to Guanabacoa, to the home of a Yemayá priestess named Chela. Chela lived in a five-room wooden house at the end of a dusty road; she had an undistinguished home with a large porch along the front. Chela passed the day in her rocking chair, greeting passersby. The planks of the porch creaked and groaned with our weight as we sat down next to her.

  Chela wore a starched white dress with a delicately embroidered collar, and a blue-and-white gingham apron that proudly announced she was a daughter of Yemayá. Though the edges of the collar and apron were frayed, her crisply ironed and precisely creased clothing revealed her pride and self-respect. Her wrinkled skin glowed softly, reflecting her inner light of profound knowledge and an all-encompassing peace. Chela’s small, thin, slightly bent body made her look very fragile, and her arms brushed her apron as she spoke to us, wiping away the flecks of ashes dropped by her Cohiba cigar. The pungent aroma of tobacco and smoke floated around her blue scarf, which was wrapped high around her head, covering most of the puffs of her gray hair.

  Since Chela did not have a phone, Zenaida could not give her any notice of our visit, and she was surprised and overjoyed to see us. Embracing first Zenaida and then me, she chuckled, explaining that she had been thinking about us. “Yemayá brought you to my door,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Zenaida explained the purpose of our visit. Chela giggled like a child, and said, “Why do you want to hear from this old woman?”

  Her eyes twinkled as she sat back in her rocking chair. Rocking slowly to and fro, she fell into a pensive mood. Zenaida and I sat quietly next to her, waiting for a response. Chela appeared to have fallen asleep.

  Then, softly, Chela started speaking. “I was a child of twelve when Yemayá claimed me. My parents were born in Matanzas, of African parents.” She laughed lovingly when she spoke of her dear grandparents. “They barely understood Spanish; they spoke to me in lengua, in Yoruba. All members of my family were initiated into the religion, and all were ardent devotees.

  “I was the youngest of seven children, and I did not want anything to do with Santería. I wanted to play. Working in rituals was too much work for me then. When there was an activity that had to do with the religion, I would leave the house and hide in the home of a friend. Then one day, Yemayá came down in a ceremony in my home and told my parents that she claimed me as a daughter. I had to initiate immediately. She said she would take care of me. My parents consulted with a babalawo to confirm what had been said in the ceremony. Again, Yemayá spoke through the oguele, the divining chain, affirming through the odu that I was Yemayá’s daughter.

  “I knew nothing of Yemayá’s declaration. Later, my parents told me that Yemayá had spoken these words at three o’clock in the afternoon. At that same moment, at my friend’s house, I had been possessed, controlled by Yemayá’s spirit. She was in complete command of my thoughts and body.

  “While in possession, Yemayá took me to the house of an African priestess named Juana, eleven miles away from where I lived. I was in possession for several days, but Juana took care of me, not knowing where my parents lived. My family and friends looked everywhere for me and were convinced that something terrible had happened. They thought I had run away from home to escape the proposed initiation. When I regained consciousness, Juana took me home to my parents.

  “Two months later my parents held another Santería ceremony in our home. As a child, I did not know any better, and again I sneaked out of the house and went to hide in a friend’s home. At the ceremony, Yemayá possessed an initiate a second time and told my parents that she would wait no longer. This time she was taking me, and I would not return. Once more, she possessed me at the time of the declaration. Yemayá again took me to the house of Juana, where I remained. Following Yemayá’s wishes, Juana became my madrina and trained me in the ancient rituals of the Lucumís-Yorubas. Periodically, I visited my parents, but my home was now in the house of Yemayá.

  “When the orisha claims you, it is because you need her aché to guide you, protect you, and bring you health. The orisha wants you to become a sacred vessel for her powers. Don’t get me wrong, you can’t sit back and think that the orisha is going to bring you riches. The orisha lets you know what will save you and what will destroy you. Ultimately, it is your faith in her guidance that determines your destiny. The initiate ultimately decides if she is going to follow the advice of the orisha.”

  To Chela, Orisha Yemayá was like a best friend whose guidance she welcomed and followed. As I listened to other stories of the elders throughout my travels, it was apparent that initiates believed the orishas were always present. They were not distant deities who were unreachable. Instead they were energy forces that resided within one’s home and one’s body. When I initiated, I finally understood the balance that the orishas provide. Suddenly I became aware of the immediacy of sacred powers in my home and in my life; in turn, I received daily spiritual reminders of how I must honor my home, my self, and my surroundings.

  “The orishas reflect all of the peculiarities of humans. Since we were created in their image, we also have positive and negative energies that we must accept in our daily lives. We are fortunate because through the patakís, the readings, and the Ifá divination of the orisha Orula, we are taught how to handle the changing currents of life. Ifá offers us the opportunity to balance all that comes our way. But it is Yemayá who has me sitting here with you today. To me, there is nothing greater than what I have learned from my orisha, Yemayá.”

  What I remember most about Chela was the passion in her eyes when she spoke. She possessed an intensity and faith that could not be shaken, and I wondered if I would ever feel similarly. Eighteen years after our conversation, I can understand her devotion to the orishas and how it deepens with time. I witnessed the spirits and orishas save my mother and niece. Later, as an adult, the orishas saved my son Omar from seizures and my sister-in-law from a near-fatal disease. I have witnessed the empowerment of my sons, Sergio and Omar, as they grew up. Like Chela, I have felt the elusive power of the orishas intervene many times in my life. Some say that this is simply my imagination; others ask me to prove it. But I cannot prove it logically. I just know.

  Through the process of divination, the orishas “speak” to initiates, and it is the orisha Orula who interprets the message and provides a solution for clients’ dilemmas. During my visit with Chela, she was eager to demonstrate the intelligence of Yemayá, so she shared with me the following patakí:

  “Yemayá was married to Orula, the orisha of divination from the sacred land of Ile Ife. A famous and renowned babalawo, Orula had performed many extraordinary feats. He had amassed a large community of followers due to the success of his divination skills.

  “One day, Olodumare called Orula to a meeting in a distant village, so causing Orula to be away for a long time. When Orula’s clients came to Orula’s home in need of assistance, Yemayá felt sorry that she had to turn them away. Since shells come from the sea, she instinctively possessed the knowledge of divination with cowries. And as the wife of Orula, she had observed him when he divined, and she had learned from him.

  “When clients came to the door looking for Orula, she convinced them that she was as knowledgeable as he in the art of divination with the ikins, palm nuts, and oguele, the divi
ning chain used as a substitute for the ikins. Her predictions and solutions were so successful with Orula’s clients that the word quickly spread of her wondrous skills as a diviner. Soon, lines of people seeking advice gathered daily, and she developed an even larger following than Orula.

  “On his way home, Orula heard stories of an extraordinary woman diviner in his village who had the same—if not greater— powers and skills as he.

  “Upset and angered by the stories, he decided to disguise himself, and he asked one of his former clients for her address. He was unpleasantly surprised to be given the address of his own home.

  “Arriving home, he angrily admonished Yemayá for her behavior, claiming she had no right to infringe upon his domain. Yemayá, equally angry, responded that she could not let his clients suffer, defending her decision to use her powers to help them.

  “Unable to resolve the conflict, they went before Olodumare. Olodumare decided that he would divide the divination system, allowing them both to use their skills. Yemayá’s domain would be to divine with cowry shells until she reached the twelfth symbol, and Orula’s domain would be to divine with oguele, the divining chain, and ikins, palm nuts, from that number on.”

  Chela then laughed, adding, “Do you think Yemayá forgot all she learned before Olodumare imposed his order?” Then, answering her own question, she said, “Of course not. Yemayá’s knowledge is as deep as the ocean and has no end. Like the ocean, she is constantly moving and acquiring knowledge, and she uses her information wisely. This is the quality that makes the children of Yemayá so powerful. O mio Yemayá!” Chela exclaimed, looking toward the Yemayá altar in her house.

  Chela’s story reminded me of the powerful women I met in Brazil, Trinidad, Haiti, Puerto Rico, Africa, and the United States who were keepers of the tradition. The story that kept circulating in my thoughts as Chela spoke was how three enslaved African women bought themselves out of slavery and established the first Candomblé house in Brazil. Although I heard various versions of this story, it was clear from my photographs documenting the Candomblé houses that women were and continue to be at the forefront of preserving the traditional ways. In New York I had the honor to meet Sunta, one of the first Puerto Rican priestesses in the city. She lived close to me, and I visited her often as I planned the first international conference on the orisha tradition. Well into her eighties, she had traveled to West Africa many times over the years to learn about the origins of the religion and its practices. A quiet woman, she did not boast of her achievements; however, it was evident that she had developed a strong following based on her knowledge of the religion. Chela, Mãe Lucia, and Sunta were all principled women who above all else believed in the power of their orishas, and without fear defended their beliefs.

  Without uttering a word, I marveled at the beautiful patakí that addressed the role of women in Santería. At first, I had been fearful that Santería would replicate the machismo common in the Latino community, but this patakí was a wonderful example of how each orisha has an equally important role in the religion.

  Excusing herself, Zenaida asked Chela if she could salute the altar of her Yemayá. She explained to me that this is the first thing she should have done upon arriving at the house. Zenaida was upset at herself for forgetting and asked Chela to forgive her oversight. Slowly, Chela got up from her rocking chair, and we all followed her into the house.

  Chela’s entire home was a shrine to Yemayá. The many shades of blue that are seen in the ocean were painted on the walls of her living room. Images of fish, seashells, and coral reflected the mysteries of the deep waters. The tall blue-and-white porcelain bowl, the sopera, which held the sacred implements of the queen of the sea, was placed on a specially designed stool painted with the image of a mermaid. Draped from the ceiling, covering the sopera, were two interwoven fishing nets that reached to the floor. On each side of the sopera were two large anchors that guarded the orisha. In front of the altar on the floor was a straw mat covered with fruits and pastries, una plaza, celebrating the seventy-second year of Chela’s initiation as a priestess of Yemayá.

  Our second visit was to the home of Guillermo, a Shangó priest who lived four blocks away from Chela. Now seventy-five, Guillermo had been initiated in Havana at the age of eight. His stucco house was painted white and red in honor of Shangó, and a white-and-red flag greeted all who entered. A spry, energetic man, Guillermo was at least six feet tall and slightly heavyset. His richly tanned skin, the color of sweet caramel candy, stood out against his shocking white hair. Guillermo, immaculately dressed in a red polo shirt, white pants, and white patent leather shoes, clearly took pleasure in his suave, youthful appearance. He welcomed us warmly. Zenaida had telephoned him earlier, and he knew the purpose of our visit.

  Inside, his house was designed in the shape of an L. The rear room, next to the backyard, was where he had constructed his ornate temple to Shangó. It was a large castle of white bricks, housing a life-size statue of the Catholic divinity Saint Barbara, the syncretic image of Shangó, as well as the altar where his Shangó lived. Saint Barbara’s dress was red and white, and she was wearing a crown and carrying a sword; she was the perfect image for enslaved Africans to hide the orisha Shangó because she possessed the objects that symbolized his kingship, his colors, and his warrior status. The sacred stones, otanes, of Shangó were in a wooden bowl on top of a wooden stool dedicated to the warrior thunder god. The altar was covered with red-and-white satin material that hung luxuriously from the ceiling and fell to the floor in a cascade of soft, rhythmic folds.

  Zenaida immediately asked permission to salute Shangó. She prostrated herself again, and Guillermo placed his hands on her back, blessed her, and then lifted her, just as Chela had done.

  Embracing Zenaida, he said, “May the aché of Shangó always keep you safe and strong. You know that Obatalá [who was Zenaida’s orisha] and Shangó are close.”

  Turning to me, he said, “My daughter, Shangó blesses the initiated and noninitiated, the aleyo, as do all the orishas.” He looked at Zenaida, and she agreed that I must also salute the altar. Then we went out into Guillermo’s backyard, where Zenaida elaborated on the purpose of our visit. In his yard, Guillermo had planted Shangó’s favorite palm tree. The palm leaves provided much-needed shade, protecting us from the bright sun. The yard was so densely filled with hanging plants that we seemed to be in a small forest. We sat in a small alcove Guillermo had created with dried palm leaves. Eager to speak of his beloved Shangó, Guillermo told me about the special blessing of his orisha through the following story.

  “There was a time that Olodumare was very unhappy. Although he controlled the world, including the orishas, he refused to rule. The orishas were free to do as they wished, happy that they did not have to abide by any rules.

  “The only exception was Shangó, the god of fire, thunder, and lightning, who was traveling around the world. In his travels, he found a beautiful white parrot and immediately decided that he would take the parrot to Olodumare. Upon his return, Shangó presented the bird to Olodumare.

  “Shangó said, ‘My father, look what I brought you.’

  “Olodumare responded, ‘I already have everything, yet it does not bring me happiness.’

  “Then the parrot surprised Olodumare and spoke. ‘You have never had a talking bird to keep you company and be your friend. Now you will never be unhappy again.’ Olodumare’s mood suddenly changed, and he was overwhelmed with joy. From that moment forward, he actively began to rule the world and the orishas.

  “The orishas were furious. Since they had once been free to do as they pleased, they now refused to follow Olodumare’s orders. Meeting in secret, the orishas decided to steal the parrot and called upon the trickster Ellegua to carry out their plan. Ellegua took the parrot to a remote part of a distant jungle and released it. In the forest, as the parrot flew from plant to plant, it became covered with many colors.

  “Without his beloved bird, Olodumare again fell into a de
pression and refused to rule the world. Again, the orishas were free to do what they wanted.

  “Then one day Shangó decided to take a walk in that forest. There, he heard the call of the parrot. When he looked around, he saw a bird of many colors, but he did not recognize it as the one he had given to Olodumare. But the parrot told Shangó how the orishas had plotted against Olodumare, conspired with Ellegua to kidnap him, and released him in the forest.

  “Shangó took the parrot back to Olodumare and had him explain what had occurred. Delighted with the return of his parrot, Olodumare again regained his strength and power. Again, he decided to take control of the world and the orishas. Calling them together to admonish them for their misbehavior, he proclaimed that they would always carry the stigma of his displeasure and punishment by each having to wear a red parrot’s feather on his or her head. Olodumare decided that Shangó, because of his faithfulness, would be the only orisha who did not have to wear a parrot feather.”

  Guillermo ended the story with a mischievous smile. “This is why Shangó is the only orisha who went unpunished by Olodumare. The children of Shangó are blessed by Olodumare.”

  Guillermo then added, “The Africans who brought the religion to Cuba kept the religion alive so we could defend ourselves against injustice, racism, and cultural genocide. Today, there is no stopping the beliefs that originated in Africa, came to the Caribbean, and are now practiced throughout the world. Santería has spread to Mexico, Venezuela, Uruguay, Russia, China, Spain, Canada, the United States, and many other countries. No one can stop it.” The strength and power of Guillermo’s voice roared like the thunderbolts released by Shangó.

  Then he, like Chela, told me a story of his childhood. “I was a weak, sickly, skinny child, given to blackouts. My parents took me to see doctors and specialists to find out the cause of my weak condition. My parents were not Santería practitioners, nor did they attend ceremonies. They were faithful Catholics.