I have been walking through a cloud for 6 days and the cloud continues thick like an avalanche. The Andes are all around but the mountains can’t be seen for the fog. And this is not unusual.
When I left my home in Chojalpaya last week I intended to return by nightfall, but when night fell I found myself unable to see up from down and even was maybe lifted up, buoyed just slightly by the thick and damp air. As if the water were so thick in the air that the medium had changed, were the lakes now air bubble? Had gravity switched positions from down to up? My breath is full and lungs lubricated by moist Amazon air that filled each cubic inch with super-saturated jungle water drops.
And now Chojalpaya has become a memory, one I pay no mind to in my present foggy awareness. I could be in a valley or on a mountain top and it would make no difference, for I am here in a cloud and directions have been lost with my home.
I contemplate my name, Agapito, and the way that each lingual movement can be felt, from the aspirated beginning the throaty middle, bouncing again to the lips with a pursed “p”, then to the palate with my tongue and again with an aspirated “o” to finish the song-let. Aspirated ends with a rhythmic belly, a dynamic name as important as its meaning. “A little bit of God’s love, A little bit of God’s love . . .” I chant my name now as I move through the valley-top, or wherever I am, sharing the present moment with God’s presence.
I am 15 years old, from the Bolivian Andes, raised below the Condor’s nest, growing up in the puma’s print, covered with the llama’s wool. In my medicine bag I hold the hair of my first haircutting when I had 2 years. It reminds me of my past. So does the landscape, for here is where my ancestors lived and continue to hold watch: “Pacha” is both the place around me and the time that is woven into it.
I have not eaten since I left Chojolpaya and know that if I can drop toward the rising sun I will have coca and wild potatoes, but for that I would need to know up and down, rising and setting sun, I would need to have a sense of the five directions, which the clouds are keeping from me. I sit and walk and sit and laugh, and lay to sleep.
Just as I lay down for a siesta, I hear heavy panting from somewhere near me, to my back. It is the breath of a puma for sure, and I jump to my feet. The condor guides the heavens, the serpent under the earth and the puma this middles realm that humand inhabit. Her presence may be auspicious but it is also frightening. Running ahead I hear the breath behind me, growing stronger, growing closer. My breath becomes heavy, and I can tell that my path is ascending. I am running along a ridge now for sure. I am winning, I am ahead of the puma, how is that possible?
I see a massive dark object ahead of me and as I approach I realize it is a cliff, I will be cornered by the puma for sure and die quickly, at least this death will keep me in this middle realm. But this cliff is not too steep, maybe I can live for a while longer, maybe long enough for the fog to lift, either way it’s worth trying to climb this right now. So I move up, and the cat takes a jump at my ankles just as I scamper above it. It misses and I feel its breath on my heels as I climb far above. Free from the menace now I continue to climb with ease, but the rock is loose and I become completely present with my ascent toward the condor realm, taking care to use only the most solid holds. It is precarious.
As I climb up the top begins to become clear, a grassy step where the cliff ends. I am pulling onto the top with lucid vision, so lucid that I feel the fog may be lifting. And as I gather myself, standing upright another wave of fear enters through my ears and settles in my lower stomach as I hear the heavy breath of a second puma right in front of me. I can make out its swift gait, approaching as a blurry spot as I rapidly climb back down the cliff. The puma swipes once at my hand and stand perched over the cliff above me as I move back down, hoping that the puma below has lost interest and headed back into the fog. As I descend I hear it’s heavy breath below and realize it is still waiting. Calmly perched on a ledge I quiet my breath to see if either of the pumas have left.
Still in front.
Still behind.
In my Aymara language the past can be found in front of us and the future behind us. I name the puma ahead of me “Times-Past” and the puma behind me “Times-Ahead” and sit down on my perch to see what comes. The rock has been crumbling since I touched it climbing up and now the ledge where I am sitting begins to fracture. I stand up and find some new holds that are all loose and now with a heavy rain they begin to loosen even more. I have not eaten in a week and with Times-Past above me and Times-Ahead behind me, I become present with the hunger in my belly. I notice the most colorful strawberry on a vine right in front of my face. Moving my hand to grasp the vine I pluck the strawberry. It is cold and I run my finger over the seeds, plucking one off its skin to taste the seed. I have never done that before. What does the seed taste like without the fruit?
Looking at myself from a condors view I pull back and see my precarious place between these two frightful beasts. I can see myself and the strawberry seeds and fruit and Times-Ahead and Times-Past in a miniscule scene on the side of a mountain while the rest of the world exists outside the fog. I swoop and see the forest below, following a river from a glacier to the Amazon and I empathize with the puma’s need for food and survival as essential as the water’s path down the mountain – I am content with time and with endings and change. Standing with myself and this present moment on this crumbling ledge I throw the whole fruit into my mouth, the only one on the vine. As I cut through it’s flesh the fruit explodes into my mouth and I am more satisfied than I have ever been.
When I left my home in Chojalpaya last week I intended to return by nightfall, but when night fell I found myself unable to see up from down and even was maybe lifted up, buoyed just slightly by the thick and damp air. As if the water were so thick in the air that the medium had changed, were the lakes now air bubble? Had gravity switched positions from down to up? My breath is full and lungs lubricated by moist Amazon air that filled each cubic inch with super-saturated jungle water drops.
And now Chojalpaya has become a memory, one I pay no mind to in my present foggy awareness. I could be in a valley or on a mountain top and it would make no difference, for I am here in a cloud and directions have been lost with my home.
I contemplate my name, Agapito, and the way that each lingual movement can be felt, from the aspirated beginning the throaty middle, bouncing again to the lips with a pursed “p”, then to the palate with my tongue and again with an aspirated “o” to finish the song-let. Aspirated ends with a rhythmic belly, a dynamic name as important as its meaning. “A little bit of God’s love, A little bit of God’s love . . .” I chant my name now as I move through the valley-top, or wherever I am, sharing the present moment with God’s presence.
I am 15 years old, from the Bolivian Andes, raised below the Condor’s nest, growing up in the puma’s print, covered with the llama’s wool. In my medicine bag I hold the hair of my first haircutting when I had 2 years. It reminds me of my past. So does the landscape, for here is where my ancestors lived and continue to hold watch: “Pacha” is both the place around me and the time that is woven into it.
I have not eaten since I left Chojolpaya and know that if I can drop toward the rising sun I will have coca and wild potatoes, but for that I would need to know up and down, rising and setting sun, I would need to have a sense of the five directions, which the clouds are keeping from me. I sit and walk and sit and laugh, and lay to sleep.
Just as I lay down for a siesta, I hear heavy panting from somewhere near me, to my back. It is the breath of a puma for sure, and I jump to my feet. The condor guides the heavens, the serpent under the earth and the puma this middles realm that humand inhabit. Her presence may be auspicious but it is also frightening. Running ahead I hear the breath behind me, growing stronger, growing closer. My breath becomes heavy, and I can tell that my path is ascending. I am running along a ridge now for sure. I am winning, I am ahead of the puma, how is that possible?
I see a massive dark object ahead of me and as I approach I realize it is a cliff, I will be cornered by the puma for sure and die quickly, at least this death will keep me in this middle realm. But this cliff is not too steep, maybe I can live for a while longer, maybe long enough for the fog to lift, either way it’s worth trying to climb this right now. So I move up, and the cat takes a jump at my ankles just as I scamper above it. It misses and I feel its breath on my heels as I climb far above. Free from the menace now I continue to climb with ease, but the rock is loose and I become completely present with my ascent toward the condor realm, taking care to use only the most solid holds. It is precarious.
As I climb up the top begins to become clear, a grassy step where the cliff ends. I am pulling onto the top with lucid vision, so lucid that I feel the fog may be lifting. And as I gather myself, standing upright another wave of fear enters through my ears and settles in my lower stomach as I hear the heavy breath of a second puma right in front of me. I can make out its swift gait, approaching as a blurry spot as I rapidly climb back down the cliff. The puma swipes once at my hand and stand perched over the cliff above me as I move back down, hoping that the puma below has lost interest and headed back into the fog. As I descend I hear it’s heavy breath below and realize it is still waiting. Calmly perched on a ledge I quiet my breath to see if either of the pumas have left.
Still in front.
Still behind.
In my Aymara language the past can be found in front of us and the future behind us. I name the puma ahead of me “Times-Past” and the puma behind me “Times-Ahead” and sit down on my perch to see what comes. The rock has been crumbling since I touched it climbing up and now the ledge where I am sitting begins to fracture. I stand up and find some new holds that are all loose and now with a heavy rain they begin to loosen even more. I have not eaten in a week and with Times-Past above me and Times-Ahead behind me, I become present with the hunger in my belly. I notice the most colorful strawberry on a vine right in front of my face. Moving my hand to grasp the vine I pluck the strawberry. It is cold and I run my finger over the seeds, plucking one off its skin to taste the seed. I have never done that before. What does the seed taste like without the fruit?
Looking at myself from a condors view I pull back and see my precarious place between these two frightful beasts. I can see myself and the strawberry seeds and fruit and Times-Ahead and Times-Past in a miniscule scene on the side of a mountain while the rest of the world exists outside the fog. I swoop and see the forest below, following a river from a glacier to the Amazon and I empathize with the puma’s need for food and survival as essential as the water’s path down the mountain – I am content with time and with endings and change. Standing with myself and this present moment on this crumbling ledge I throw the whole fruit into my mouth, the only one on the vine. As I cut through it’s flesh the fruit explodes into my mouth and I am more satisfied than I have ever been.
