Hope Made Obsolete

Hope Made Obsolete

Let destiny henceforth come for me like a lover with scented oil on its hands, pleasure on its lips, and a stiff one at the ready.

If, in Chiapas, there were children playing joyfully, freely, without scarred souls and hollow eyes, we did not see them.

This does not mean that they were not there. It means that we were so overcome by the suffering all around us that by the time we left, all we could see was pain and loss. We no longer knew what was lost to us.

Today, we walked to the park in San Miguel, our new home. Some ingenious person sells plastic containers full of soap and giant, handmade bubble blowers. Others sell big blow-up birthday candles.

We watched for what may have been hours as the children bounced the plastic, air-filled candles while creating and then destroying giant soap bubbles.

My partner and I agreed that we had not touched the energy of pure, clear, unadulterated happiness in years. We learned the lessons poverty can teach very well.

I am not the least confused as to why poverty breeds generation after generation of hopeless, worn-out people who no longer dare to dream. I felt it! It almost took me under.

Poverty is a curse.

If you doubt the power of a place, follow in my footsteps to one of the most impoverished places on earth and then again to one of the most abundant.

Money cannot buy happiness. It's absence buys more than a thimbleful of misery and distress.

I feel the level of threat and fear inside of me coming down with the level of distress around me. I feel the armor breaking away and falling off of me.

I feel an easeful happiness beginning to take root in my own heart. I feel my sense of possibility coming back.

I have an inkling that the probabilities are on my side.

In Chiapas I learned to spin hope from the fibers of my own soul cut loose on the ragged threshold between life and death, beauty and refuse.

In Guanajuato, I learned to have faith even in the dead, stagnant air of no movement at all. Some part of me wanted to hold fast to the dead stop because it felt comforting somehow - like I could never truly fall to the jagged rocks below. Yet, I sensed that to remain there would mean certain destruction. The stillness was an illusion of peace and safety.
My beloved said this to me every day:

Stay here and you will have nothing left. It will consume everything and you will be left on the street. If you don't agree to go with me, I will leave you here - SOON.

In San Miguel, I am learning what it feels like to truly live free of oppression and distress.

Slowly I am releasing the narrative that says I will always have to carve out my peace from the tumult of distress.

I am letting go of a reality that insists upon a struggle for meaning and full expression. In fact, I am letting go of a world in which my depth and virtue were sourced to my soulful suffering (past or present) and my value to the degree of stalwart effort invested.

This is a place where creativity flows unfettered by any resistance. It is like tubing on rivers of living water (not polluted and struggling for oxygen in the midst of death brew). It is teeming with the absence of hope as in hope is not needed because the long hoped-for thing is materializing before your very eyes without struggle. I think you call this fulfillment?

Here, creation and destruction work in tandem like the great Wonder Twins of the spirit. Just like with the children making and then destroying bubbles, there is no shortage of creative material, and so there is nothing that can remain stagnant, at least not for me.

The creative process is alive in the way it can only be when there is plenty.

Where I encounter stagnant water or energy, I know to tear up the ground or build it up as necessary to release what has been unproductively constrained. And so I feel my own emotions discharging. My muscles are releasing. I am relaxing, not in spite of, but because of my surroundings.

I also feel my hands letting loose of the seeds I am now ready to plant in the rich soil (composted and blessed). These are the seeds of who I was meant to be.

This is not who I could have been if only this or that had not happened.

This is who I am on the other side of the quest, my quest to heal and to unleash healing and then to blossom and unleash blossoming.

This is who I was always meant to be and I have been all the places that led me here, made me this - Or perhaps revealed it like Michelangelo's David emerged from a block of stone by the master's hand.

I too am emerging by the Master's hand (or shall we say by the Mistress' hand). By their hands!

The End

& A New Beginning

Oh, and I have discovered that in this little Mexican pueblo, it is perfectly acceptable to wear eccentric hats. And so I shall.

I am allowed to live in paradise.

I have crossed the threshold. There is nothing more for which I must atone. There never was anything. But the mortification of my own flesh was somehow a necessary ingredient in realizing my innocence.

With each lash, I took one step more in the direction of knowing that the lashes were meted out on the foundation of a lie. Now I have placed the whip where it belongs: In the service of the local festivals where good and evil duke it out in ritual form so I don't have to do it in the flesh.

I am reminded of what my ministry teacher, Susan Corso, taught me when I went to Chiapas for Semana Santa that first time: "He did it once and for all time Rebecka. You do not have to take up the cross and bear it. Don't forget this as you enter the crucible."

I forgot.

I think what she meant was don't forget to remember at the right moment.

When we arrived at our new house, there was a cross standing upright on our terrace. The man by my side tore it off with his bare hands. At first I was mad because he broke a piece of the cement base and now we will have to fix it when we leave this house. But then I recalled that he operates on instinct and without hesitation.

He tore down the emblem of suffering. I decided to follow his lead (for a change).

Suddenly I remembered (or truly understood for the first time) how silly it is to make a shrine to the suffering when it is clearly the resurrection that commands celebration. Susan pointed this out so many times, but I could not really hear her (in my soul).

Or more to the point, it is silly to make a shrine only to the suffering with just a slight glance towards the victory.

I realize that a finer point can be made, namely, that the victory was inherent in the suffering.

But truly, I am overdue for a new mythology that doesn't require anyone to suffer their way into destiny - even if I have to write it myself.

Here. I'll start now!

Let destiny henceforth come for me like a lover with scented oil on its hands, pleasure on its lips, and a stiff one at the ready.

Amen.

I tried carrying the weight of the world. But I only have two hands. ∞ Avicii.
The tile bordering my new yoga space. Look familiar?

The tile bordering my new yoga space. Look familiar?

About The Author

Rebecka Eggers, Dream Midwife & Meditation Improv Artist, is the author of Coming Alive!: Spirituality, Activism, & Living Passionately in the Age of Global Domination. She lives in the mountainous highlands of Mexico, where she uses the tools of modern communication to make all kinds of trouble for every last stagnant, soul killing enemy of your potential. Rebecka helps you bring your dreams to life. She is trained as a Metaphysical Minister, a Co-Active Life Coach, a Reiki Master, and a tax lawyer (probably weren't expecting that last part, eh?).