Venus and Her Lover

by Becca Tzigany

  “Did you bring a despacho?” Fredy asked.

  Thank heavens I studied the Andean spiritual tradition before coming here, I thought. All day I had been able to follow our conversation because I knew the words he was using. A despacho is an offering; burning it could carry it to the apus, the mountain spirits, and burying it brought it to Pachamama, the Earth. I produced my mesa from my backpack, and together we set items upon the cloth weaving.

  Kneeling before the cliffs, Fredy and I both quietly asked permission of the resident spirits for us to be there. After I invoked the four directions, Fredy got to his feet, tightly clutching coca leaves in his fingertips. He called out names in Quechua, but I could recognize that he was talking to each apu of the surrounding mountains, turning to face each one. The apus not only protected Pachamama but acted as teacher spirits for humans. Every place had an apu that looked after us from our birth, and if we broke the relationship, we would lose connection with the Earth.

  Complementary to the itu apu (male nature being of a mountain, hill, ridge, tree or peninsula) of your birthplace is your paqarina, the female spirit of a nearby river, lake, valley, or cave. Itu apu and paqarina help make up our personal identity while we dwell with Pachamama.

  When finished with our prayers, we set the coca leaves onto the mesa cloth, along with cornmeal, tobacco, pisco (a local brandy), spiral-shaped cookies, and other offerings. Then we walked together to place the offerings into the earth at the base of the cliffs.

  To conclude, I took a crystal – one I often use in ceremony – and held it up.

  Gazing into the intricacies of the clear geometric stone, I spoke. “This crystal has been with me for years. It has received my many prayers for peace on the planet. Now, I must admit, that my generation has so far been unable to heal the imbalance. It is now up to you and the youthful energy of your generation.” Placing the crystal into the hands of the young man named Viracocha, I went on, “This is for you to carry forward your work with your beautiful, pure heart. May Life bring you many blessings. May the balance be restored.”

  We looked into each other’s eyes, and I saw a long line of history acting through us. Both spiritual warriors, both shamans in training, both servants of Pachamama and the eternal dance of kawsay, enlivening energy. I felt the silver crown of my hair shining upon my actions as Crone. A wisdom that I could not even claim as mine flowed through me to him as I looked lovingly at the fresh face of the next generation.

  Fredy and I hiked dusty llama paths along rocky inclines and picked our steps through marshy grasses where water moved in ill-defined channels through valleys. Downward, ever downward toward the Cusco Valley. At Qenko, he told me about Incan astronomy and kosmology. At Sacsayhuamán, he ventured theories on how the Incas carved and smoothed enormous boulders into zigzagging walls 20 meters (nearly 100 feet) high! One block weighs more than 300 tons! For me, log rollers, slippery sand, and brass tools were completely out of the question, and I told him so.

  “Have you heard of Atlantis? Or Lemuria?” I asked him. He had. I elaborated the myth of Viracocha and Mamacocha as refugees from these advanced civilizations. “Now don’t you think that it would be easier to move huge stone blocks using an anti-gravitational device based on sound waves, than trying to roll them on logs?”

  Fredy stared at me in amazement. “Today you have told me things I have never heard about, things I have never even thought about! Long ago, our ancestors actually came from the stars? Well, that is what the myths say, after all. And to think there was a golden time when men and women worked together as equals, honoring Pachamama... it makes sense.”

  “If we did it before, we can do it again,” I declared.

  Fredy did not answer, but he smiled as he turned the thought over in his mind.

  The sun was setting as we walked the long stairway from Sacsayhuamán into Cusco town. As we parted, he faced me and said, “You are my sister in service to our mother, Pachamama. Today we did ceremony together in ayni, and I thank you. After our day together, I feel clearer and stronger in my path.”

  Fredy Viracocha wore a necklace: an Incan chakana cross of black stone flecked with sparkles. In the center was a circle of mother-of-pearl. It looked like the moon in the night sky. He took it off his neck and placed it over my head. I tried to refuse his generous gift, but he insisted, saying, “Ayni.” Reciprocity, balance... of course. With a final embrace, he left, carrying my hopes for a better world in the crystal that he carried in his pocket.

  Farewell Tears

  The day we left Perú, I returned to Sacsayhuamán to meet the sun. Climbing through the levels of rock ramparts, like some giant’s dollhouse, I reached a terrace at the top. A distant guard blew his whistle, surprising me, since I was sneaking in before the 7:00am opening time. At the top, I found a rectangular boulder – a perfect altar.

  The sun first set the high peaks of a jagged range ablaze, and then golden light soon tumbled down the mountainside, so I had plenty of light in which to work – unwrapping the cloth weaving of my mesa and setting out my offerings.

  Inti

  the Shining God

  Source of Life

  Star Father...

  …appeared, and I turned my face to receive the primal sustenance he continuously and abundantly gave. The sun’s light energy, in perfect measure, had engendered all of Life here on Pachamama. Now our sun, aligned with the galactic center, was channeling information from the Great Central Sun/its black hole. I humbly took in the “enLIGHTening” communication coded in the photon energy from the Divine Masculine. Frost on the ground began to dissolve and blades of grass glowed increasingly greener in early light. In gratitude, I bowed to Father Sun.

  Turning away and allowing faint warmth to hit my back, I sat cross-legged and looked upon Cusco below me, the sacred city of the Incas, called Qosqo, which means navel or stomach. Cusco, the navel of the world, was just beginning to stir. Morning fires heated water for coca tea and coffee, parents rousted children from bed. Another day to plan, to struggle, to work. Cars and buses made their way through the steep streets. Wisps of smog and smoke floated over the city.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a guard approaching me. I closed my eyes and sank my roots into Pachamama. Firmly grounded, I set out a force field. This guard will not disturb my last meditation here, I silently commanded. Centering my awareness on my lowest chakra, I gently rocked my pelvis, feeling it come alive and connecting that aliveness with the kawsay that pulsed through Pachamama.

  Oh humanity! Why was our lifestyle so destructive to Pachamama? Our cars, our poisonous food, our cell phones... A bee buzzed by, beginning its morning rounds, reminding me that the bees were disappearing in the US and Europe, and no one knew for sure why. The Mellissae – we could not survive without their work of pollination. Tears spilled from my eyes. Fredy had said the paqos warned that Pachamama was dying. There, kneeling before my outdoor altar at Sacsayhuamán, I sobbed. For my Earth Mother and for my human family, I cried and I cried. Oh, exquisite agony: the bitter fruit we eat from the Tree of Life.

  Earth Mother

  In communion with the Earth, I splashed my tears onto a stone altar of Sacsayhuamán. Tears of gratitude for how personal Pachamama had become to me, tears of awe at her beauty. From the beginning of our trip, it was as if she held James and me in the palm of her hand, gently unwrapping each place and experience for us.

  Earth as Mother. I submerged myself into the archetypal Her, pulled by her gravity toward the center. Back in Paleolithic tribal times, when men embarked upon the dangerous but glorious adventure of hunting, the women had provided steady sustenance through gathering. They came to know intimately the plants; which herbs for healing, which roots for eating, where and when to find them. It was likely women who figured out how to plant on purpose, bringing in agriculture, and thus became tied to the cycles and seasons of the Earth. Earth, whom they recognized a
s their nurturing mother. Herbology, healing, cooking, nurturing: the traditional domains of the Feminine.

  Earth as Element. Feeling the archetypal realm of Father’s light and ideas condensing into manifestation, I felt myself falling to Earth. The light of absolute Spirit splitting into polarities here on solid ground, where dualities could experience their dance of repelling and attracting. And in their joining: creation. Creating forms, and more and more forms. Earth as birth. Earth as sustainer.

  Pachamama infused me with the clarity of her intention to create, to manifest, and then to celebrate the myriad manifestations.

  Earth as Playground. Here we blindfolded ourselves with the veils of forgetting to see if we could feel our way back to Spirit. And feel we do. E-motion, energy in motion, putting us through the paces of this game of life. What if Pachamama was tired of holding round after round of free will games for us? What if she herself wished to evolve? Then I want to evolve with her, I mused, and continue to relish her life circus of biodiversity.

  Suddenly I heard the crunch of pebbles under a shoe, quite close to me, and realized I had been hearing, far in the background of my meditation, the patrolling guard walking around me. He cleared his throat. I opened my eyes. Finally he spoke:

  “Excuse me, Señora.” His eyes met mine, and clearly registered seeing my tear-stained face. “Perdoname. Excuse me. I must tell you to please not climb on the walls.”

  “I will not climb on the walls, Señor,” I told him in Spanish. “I am here to make offerings to Pachamama, because, as you may realize, our Earth is in trouble.”

  “Yes,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for coming. ¡Muchas gracias![Thank you very much!]” He gave me a fatherly smile and then walked away.

  Now that’s a switch, I realized. His job was probably to throw me out or at least scold me, and he thanked me instead! A loving heart sure puts out a good force field!

  Now completely alone, I settled back into my meditation. Birds chirped as they swooped overhead. Children giggled as they ran the paths below, on their way to school. I thought of the native Andeans and their tradition of being in relationship with one another and the Earth. The Partnership Culture.

  Church bells clanged down in Cusco, announcing a new day. I thought of the Spanish conquistadores – the whole idea of conquering and enslaving others, and dominating and exploiting Nature. The Dominator Culture.

  The hubbub of traffic rose up from the streets, echoing through these ancient ramparts. A jet took off from the airport; later today that would be us. Modern society. I was a child of the Modern Age, synthesizing the elements of my human past while stepping into right relationship with the Kosmic family.

  A Balance of the Masculine and the Feminine

  Inti and Pachamama

  Father and Mother

  James and I, as man and woman and as children of Nature, were bringing forth our art as an offering to the beauty of Love, and the light of Life to endure.

  Taking a final gaze at the Andes Mountains, I packed up my ceremonial mesa. Thanks to the mountain apus, thanks to the paqarina river spirits, thanks to Inti, thanks to Pachamama... I let each step be a prayer as I skipped down the 1000 stairsteps that led from the temple of Sacsayhuamán to the city of Cusco below.

  NUESTRA SEÑORA AND THE LORDS OF TIME

  Due to the strict confines of our free plane tickets, the trip from Perú to México took us two days, but thanks to Chief Travel Agent Pachamama, James and I navigated the connections, immigration checks, and airports with ease. Now sunset found us reclining on a beach, resting our travel-weary bodies on the sand. Gentle Caribbean waves lapped the shore, their turquoise color melting by shades into periwinkle blue toward the horizon. I jumped up and walked to a nearby bar. The fine white sand felt exquisite between my toes.

  “Dos cervezas y cerillos, por favor,” I ordered beers and matches. Carrying the cold, sweating bottles back to James, I examined the box of matches. The Virgin Mary, in the form of la Virgen de Guadalupe, was depicted in full color on the matchbox.

  As I leaned against James and watched white cumulus clouds turn the colors of whipped butter and conch shells (for the sun was setting behind us), we talked about how welcomed we felt. Separately James and I had spent years in México and now here together, we felt completely at home in the friendly Latina culture, not to mention being back in a beach environment. Because Perú had taken so much of our paltry travel budget, we had actually considered cutting our trip short and eliminating México, but I never lost sight of the vision of us relaxing on a Yucatán beach together. As it turned out, a tourism boom was consuming the coastline I had once camped on, filling it with condominiums and time-share vacation complexes, and offering newly arrived tourists – like us – hundreds of dollars to attend sales pitches for their places. Without even seeking them, we attended two of these sessions, which paid for our rental car and beach cabaña for a week.

  Sipping my Negra Modelo beer, I rested in the arms of my lover, sinking even deeper into the palm of Pachamama’s hand, and deeper yet into the multi-armed embrace of Lakshmi... for the Hindu goddess, with the help of feisty Hawaiian Pele, had taught me to step gratefully into the flow of abundance and to trust in the manifestation of our dreams.

  Travel brochures now called this coast the Riviera Maya and the Costa Maya. The Mexican birthrate and foreign development frenzy had sure changed it since my first visit in 1979, but the warmth of the Mayan descendants was much as I had always known it, especially in the laid-back town of Tulum, where we were staying. My hammock business had brought me often to Yucatán for 20 years, so it was easy to relax in comforting familiarity.

  Our first night in Tulum we attended a celebration for Earth Day, entitled Festival de Mamá Cabán, where I found myself stamping my love of the Earth directly into her, along with a crowd of other barefoot and joyful people jumping to a live salsa band. At the outdoor fair, there were booths selling foods and handicrafts. I helped James pick out a gift for Daphne, a kind of farewell gift, for their love affair had run its course. I had sensed it might be short-lived and was not willing to invest my energy in a polyamorous relationship with them; since I did not get involved, James lost steam, too. When she became interested in another man, James felt glad for her and accepted the conclusion of their relationship.

  Chatting with the artisans – so reminiscent of my many years as a beach peddler – I observed that there, as if popping in through an almond-shaped portal, was Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe emblazoned on t-shirts, embellished with sequins on tall votary candles, and standing in miniature wooden statues. I smiled to think of this patron saint of México.

  Even where I was living in New Mexico, formerly the northern frontier of México, this version of the Virgin Mary greeted visitors from a painted adobe wall in Ranchos de Taos, towered over onlookers from the back wall of Oliver’s grocery store in Ojo Caliente, and waved in the wind on the printed beach towels hanging outside tourist shops in Taos. In the formerly Spanish conquered lands, she was everywhere. Mary, Mother of God, humbly stands in front of the sun and atop a crescent moon held up by an angelic young man with green, white and red wings (for Indians: feathers of the quetzal, pelican, and parrot, and later: the colors of the Mexican flag). With downward gaze, she brings her hands together in prayer. She is brown-skinned, as is the angel underneath. Pregnantly filling out her red flowered gown, wrapped in a blue Indian-style rebozo (shawl) decorated with golden stars, and awkwardly balancing a gold crown, the Christian icon incorporates Venus’ blue cape and half-moon like it is her own. But that is not all she is incorporating from the past.

  In 1531, ten years after the Conquest, during which 23 million native people (23 million!) died and their cities were leveled, an apparition of the goddess appeared to a poor, recently baptized Indian named Juan Diego. His Nahuatl name before his Christian baptism was Cuauhtlatóhuac, “He Who Speaks
Like an Eagle,” an indication he may have been a former Aztec noble. He had witnessed and survived the genocide of his people. The goddess called herself Tequatlanopeuh (which became Guadalulpe), and speaking in Nahuatl, instructed Juan Diego to build her shrine on that very hill. When he protested that he could do no such thing, being a conquered Aztec and all, she gave him proof to show the Catholic bishop: roses sprouted among cactuses and then she imprinted her full image on his coarse woven sisal cape. These seemed to do the trick, and the Church oversaw the building of a basilica on the hill of Tepeyac, which has been since that time a holy place of pilgrimage.

  The fact of the matter is that Tepeyac had always been sacred ground, for there stood the Temple of Tonantzin/Coatlicue. She was Goddess of the Earth and Mother of the Gods and Humanity, known for her generosity and healing powers, despite her intimidating Reptilian appearance. The native people called her “Our Lady.” Though the conquistadores razed her temple to the ground, it seems that the million indigenous prayers and offerings would not lie still and gestated there amid the rubble, to arise in another incarnation: “Our Lady” once again: Nuestra Señora.

  The subjugated Indians found solace when they whispered her name, Tonantzin. The Spaniards saw in her their Virgen María from back home in Guadalupe, Extremadura. The mestizo population – what would become the Mexicans – could call the copper-skinned icon their mother. Under the banner of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, Father Hidalgo led the march (and later the war) for Mexican independence (1810-1821), as did the Zapatistas of the Mexican Revolution (1910-1917), as did César Chávez and the United Farmworkers Union in the US in the 1960’s and 1970’s. A Mexican refrain goes: