My week in Peru at the Wilkka Tika Resort was transformational. “Hold that transformation,” scatters across my consciousness as I release the challenge knowing that this moment is all that exists and I am in it. I listen as the machine’s whine lessens and stops, grateful for both dirty clothes and the ability to wash them while I write.
After walking through the symmetrical architecture of Machu Picchu, I bend and place my hands in the moon bowl. Miraculous. Two concave rocks hollowed by the Inca, for viewing the sun and moon while protecting your eyes. Three uniform windows frame them in front. Upon bending and placing my hands in their hollows, breathing at eleven thousand feet comes easier. Tourists walk over, mimicking my gesture. I feel humble, laughing a bit as I know they have no idea why they follow. As I have no idea why I knelt in the beginning.
Run across the heights of a valley filled with salt pools, ride a horse along the flowing Urubamba river as dogs lolling in the streets, yap incessantly. Meditate on the John of God crystal bed as family surrounds, holding hands and reaching over you with healing love. My Momma so close I could smell her perfume. Lay in the grass of the earth garden and see a red cloud rise from your chest, organizing into thousands of dark birds flying away, lifting to a red light that enfolds. During corpse pose in Yoga, a tap on the foot yields a lion roaring, surrounded by black, turning red as the black once again melts away. And as that lion gazes face on, we dare each other. ”What have you got for me?” Knowing his answer all along, we rejoice in this message too. Journal while the brown white rumped hummingbird (there are eight species of hummingbirds in Peru, three of them emerald green, am I in the Land of Oz or the garden of Eden?) sits in peace over your head for minutes or was that hours, playful notes of love pouring over as you collect memories on a blank page that will have to last forever this time.
The first day, she read a poem on which I wrote a poem, and we walk around a labyrinth of flowers. So much fecundity tumbling in myriad colors, I am awestruck. Wondering if they are struck dumb by us too, we continue in circles. Lovely ladies, honoring ourselves, these flowers and this circle with secrets and entreaties. A purple petal brushes our arm, divine hope for rebirth ensues. Pluck a petal or rub Peruvian aloe on your chest, marvel at the happenstance that led to our place in those gardens. The eight hundred year old lucama tree answers all our questions. Don’t you hear them blowing in the wind?
“I may never go back, I don’t want to be anywhere but here,” her soul sang yet she knew when the time came, she would be, ready. Able to take the love and healing from Wilkka Tike to her everyday life, the one she would never leave. The one she already loved more than any other.