Collective Perspective

I am nothing if not the collective perspectives of my life. The road I first walked along was illuminated by the expectations of my environment not the pursuit of my own passion. The many lenses I have peered through have filtered my view and given it a unique light. At the age of 18 I became stuck and gained a more diverse yet more complacent perception of the world. My view grew dim and I was lost in the gray. I forgot that life is for living.

I searched for guidance. I visited a sweat lodge and asked the universe for a direction. I sat in the steam filled darkness on the soft wet ground of the Oregon forests and recited the ancient songs of the Americas. The heat swallowed me and I began to dream.

Jungle covered hills stretched as far as the eye could see and the flute of a lizard played a perplexing song. The landscape rose and the greatness of the Andes stood before me. Grandmother earth looked down at me from the icy peak of the tallest mountain. Her voice was ancient and filled with wisdom. “Mija, no puedas esperar mas, necesitas ir ahora.” The Andes crumbled and the sky above me filled with night. Grandfather sky stared down at me and began to cry. I began to cry. Who had I become? I was no longer alive. I simply existed in a world without purpose.  

I left. I bought a one-way ticket, packed a bag, and was gone. I left my country, my language, my people, and my world. The spirits had pointed me down a path and though I didn’t know why, I knew it was time to venture into the unfamiliar.

South America became my classroom, every moment held something to be gained. Every human was a teacher, every opportunity an acceptance letter. I lived on farms and picked coffee every day. I slept on the ground and awoke at sunrise to make cacao into chocolate. I turned plants and insects into dye with Andean women. I gazed up at the Milky Way in the desert and contemplated the sound of the ocean. I stood in silence with impermanent friends and witnessed the heavens erupt with electricity.  I got lost in the cobble stoned streets of unfamiliar cities and heard the voices of the people on the art-covered walls. I joined Bolivar in his tour of liberation across the wetness of Ecuador and met Pacha Mama in the dryness of Peru. I fell for Marquez in the magic of Colombia and recited Neruda in the Chilean wilderness. I practiced art with an argentine muralist and brought South America into my studio. I connected with Spanish as if we shared a lifelong friendship and conversed with locals about government corruption and American imperialism. I felt Guevara’s fire in my blood and I am forever changed by the spiritual wisdom of these ancient lands.

 I have discovered the meaning of the lizard’s song. We must journey to our mountain before we can climb it. When I left I was looking for a place to belong, but what I discovered was an answer.