Tikal
And the Secrets it Keeps to Itself
If to tour is to taste the flavor of a place, I instead swallowed as many mouthfuls as my belly could bear. I bared all — self and skin — to the mingling waters of an ancient/future baptism and quenched every quiet corner of the questions I’d brought to Tikal to surrender. Through the invisible voices that rang from her trees and the silence that emanated from the depth of her sacred ground, Tikal’s solid presence transmitted the wisdom of my nature and of Mother nature with equal clarity. I still hear her whispering to me when breezes sigh through young trees with an accent that mimics her original, age-old language. She birthed me with primal prana and breathed me alive with passion she excavated from my own soul. I am newly a daughter of a very old, old mother. And this is the legend of my birth.
On the day of our arrival, my intrepid companion and I meandered twixt mossy trees whose mighty entwining trunks soared skyward. We sipped thick air appreciatively, our desert dwelling lungs drenched, and skipped sandal-less over sandy paths. My body, at home in any forest habitat, happily found hollow womb roots to curl into and undulating vines unfurling to beckon my climb. I traipsed and played sans expectation. This incarnation had never yet seen the sacred and ancient.
I felt it before I saw it and let myself be pulled by an unseen force. Neither words nor thoughts came, only a resonance stirring in my depths that had been silent and still for centuries now slithered to the surface. Instinctively, I cried.
Suddenly I was innumerably old and I knew what it was like to have been lost and forgotten. Now excavated, this long lost inner monolith reintegrated, I felt whole at the foot of a crumbling temple.
The sun peaked over its stone point, casting beams like long thin arms of light to encircle us — myself and the pyramid — for one small moment in our new found world of mutual recognition.
There is a phrase I hear haphazardly often, but which I nearly never offer. In the name of honesty, I’d rather not declare what cannot truly be known — a past life connection. It’s too often flippant hippie jargon or a new age pickup line to break the silence between awkward eye gazers. But to feel a sense of deep familiarity in a way you couldn’t have known existed is a real, rare, and profound gift. When I met Tikal, I’d have sworn it was our thousandth reunion, for her roots were well settled in my soul.
Soft moss carpeted on stone stairs swallowed the sounds of my footsteps as I parkour panthered up the pyramid, caressing her crevices and ravenously relishing her colors and textures like a longtime lover reunited. Amani was thrilling to show me the rest of the park. I scarcely believed the day could improve upon this scene, but nevertheless peeled myself from my monument to explore more prehistoric playground.
Nearer to the grand plaza, Amani blindfolded me and brought me forth by his broad hand and bright voice alone. Already, my senses seemed slightly sharper. Subtle awarenesses awakened. My toes more tenaciously gripped the ground and the coos, calls, chirps and chatter of birds became clearer. I was a more watchful witness to which way the breeze blew. I wonder, with these wondrous senses awaiting attention, why sight steals such a proud portion of our perception. Subtract seeing, and we suddenly search for subtler somethings to settle our sense of reality upon.
As we walked I wistfully pictured pyramids in my pitch dark periphery, with jungles, jaguars and just as many Mayan men as might have moved here once. Amani led me for a length, along a hill, across stone, through the coolness of shadow and warmth of sunlight, up skewed steps. He skillfully guided my blind feet to his carefully chosen perch overlooking the unknown.
“Are you ready?”
“No!” Anticipation beat the wings of a hundred butterflies in my stomach. I knew I stood in the presence of something great. But if I’d waited until that feeling faded, I’d have stood in that spot for ages. So, elated, I timidly tipped the tie off my eyelids and lifted my gaze. It greeted a vast vista of powerful pyramids. Majestic mastery of Mayan masonry stretched before me, steep stone stairs soaring skyward back-lit by bright blue and encircled by birds.
Speechless, I stood rooted, restless eyes seeking to savor every sight of the site. I felt taken out of time, torn from my familiar when. Now nestled somewhere not now, but not then, neither ancient nor new but half forever and half never before. This timelessness was my lost temple When, and it could never be repeated again. I’m grateful to my Beloved for the gift of it’s timely discovery.
We took our time tripping through temples, easily evading tourists until night seduced the sun to sleep. There was something sweetly maternal in the mystery of this place which placated our moods with calm. Even the animals seemed tamed by the pervading peaceful presence, completely unperturbed by people. Pizotes roamed in packs, their towering tails peaking like periscopes above tall grass. Turkeys proudly paraded their iridescent plumage through their territory.
We were some of the final folks to filter out of the forest, feeling full and refreshed. We reached its border and had to pause. What were these fairies faintly greeting the evening from the grass? Grins grew freely on our faces as we watched little lights lift and fade, lift and fade from the ground. A lazy harmony of tiny silent lanterns cast an etheric sparkle on the dark earth like a flickering back-lit carpet full of pinholes. As I drifted into dreamland that night, I imagined existing as an insect in the infinitely lush intricacy of grass, looking up to see these lightning bug fireworks illuminating the heavens of my tiny world.
We rose early to greet Tikal for sunrise. Soft mist settled a languid darkness over the jungle as we hiked. Engulfed in nights’ gift of blackness, our visions were narrowed to small beams of lamplight. Here and again, one would alight like a curious fairy upon a sleeping giant — ancient massive temples lurked behind veils of darkness. Finally finding the right flight of steps, we ascended mighty Temple IV. Climbing high into cloud cover, breathless of exertion, dripping with mist, we emerged to sit under the stars and view the coming sunrise. We could see a green sea of trees sweep across the encircling horizon, where predawn gleam lit the the eroded faces of other pyramids peeking up from the canopy. We allowed the ambiance of Tikals ancient daily ritual to wash over us.
Until the tourists came. International interlopers tore through our thick calm like hungry Swiss knives through Amish butter with awful American accents and Guatemalan guides gabbing on about something entirely irrelevant to this sacred silence. So we switched temples. We snuck away and let the jungle reveal her jewels through the fog. She gave us a temple all our own. When you have existed for millennia, you can easily lend a day to reverent pilgrims.
The morning proved that nature can kiss a hole into the fabric of space — time. Upon a wish we were granted our lost world, El Mundo Perdido. Nothing seemed to exist beyond the bird-sounds that sung the morning light over the treetops, which grew greener and greener under the greying sky. We perched upon an ancient outlook, the hundred thousandth humbled humans in a lineage of ancestors to be right here, on this stone, in this chamber, with this intention: AWE. An experience so wordless and indescribable that only the most primal human sound can encapsulate it. Take a deep breath. Sigh it out. AH. Awe. I may never again use the word awesome lightly.
My Beloved collected raw materials for his architectural soundscapes from atop our pyramidal encampment. A symphony of sound arose under and around us. He captured in his hand the ferocious morning grunts and groans of mini gorillas. In vain he reached for the voice of an elusive Golden Oriole. He sifted through his fingers the “sweet dreams, sleep tight” twitters of night-weary bats laying to rest for the day in ancient rafters above our heads. We meditated. By which broadly overused term I mean we became very quiet inside and listened to the roaring reverence of our hearts.
And then he laid me out and offered my openness on the altar of heaven. “Here is my sacrament, her awe-filled surrender,” he prostrated. Rippling waves of ecstasy ripped through the layers of mystery separating us from the secrets this temple belied. Dragonflies danced in droves above as my outer vista drifted and disappeared. I dove deeply trans-dimensional, entranced by wave after wave of visceral bliss propelling me, pulling me through a portal. I greeted ancient archetypal energies on the other side with wink of my soul and slipped back through to sit again on the sacred stones with my lover, two small creatures among billions who breathe this rain forest alive for a blink in it’s lifetime.
Once the mist of morning lifted, Tikal shifted and foggy swamp became sunny forest. Amani, ever the collector, ventured to gather from the farthest flung reaches of rainforest sounds, images, and mental maps of elusive paths to secluded sites.
I, alone, prowled my pride like a panther priestess: Jaguar Jen. Though truthfully not even my name fit this feral forest creature. How tenaciously does wildness overtake a temple with it’s mossy skin and tunneling tree root tendrils? This is how she moved in me, nature overgrowing outmoded domesticity. I slithered up slippery slopes, squishing muddy toes happily climbing. I felt home in this habitat, as though contemporary conveniences had once been a contrived habit.
I wonder, once our western world self-destructs (as civilizations dependably do) what wild women will wander its overgrown ruins as I do now? Time will tell. Today Tikal told me such tales. She whispered wistfully in the low, throaty “rrk,rrk,rrk” of toucans and graciously guided me on mysteriously untrodden trails. Wherever I went, tourists were elsewhere, giving me a glimpse into the true heart of Tikal, secluded and serene.
Once the sun had wandered farther westward, I perched atop a pyramid in a plaza called the Seven Sisters, where I watched unseen as tourists passed below, well kept to their tidy trails, taking pictorial proof they’d seen the sites. How did humans so dissociate form their own ecosystem? Don’t their cheeks long to press against the soil as mine do? When one walks into the woods you’d assume him an astronaut in an alien area, armed with amenities and precautions packed on his back. A person’s portable headlamp would pre-empt his night-vision, provisions of pre-packaged edibles ensure the elusiveness of forage-able food, and elaborately engineered pediatrics would prevent dirty paws, impeding prehensility (Which is paramount feat of evolution… Another forsaken and forgotten feature of the human form, sacrificed at the deformed feet of acculturation.) I digress. Humans are okay, I guess. But not at their best in the wilderness, as I witnessed.
My redamancer and I reconvened atop the temple pyramid we’d playfully declared our own that morning in ceremonial consecration. The offerings of cacao beans had already been eaten off our altar by an animal embodiment of Tikal’s energy to whom they’d been bestowed. Once again we found ourselves alone and I wrapped him in my wildness with a stubborn refusal to make human sounds or to move as they do. The man, looking like Indiana Jones and smelling like Tarzan, had collected tales and treasures from his quest and returned them to our blessed temple nest. I purred and sniffed and climbed him. He’d searched all day for the clear crystalline swell of the Kingbird of the jungle’s resonant voice, whose lullaby he’d hoped to spread for the aural healing of his audience. But his quest for a Golden Oriole had been in vain. Frustrated, but hopeful for tomorrow, he regaled me with the other sounds and photographic fruits of his expedition.
Later, slowly, and under the duress of roaming park rangers, we returned to our people place on the outskirts of the reserve. I showered, primped, and made pretty like Jane while the hungry explorer ordered dinner. We shared stories over supper, surely both beaming with such gratitude and glee, it was gloriously gluttonous.
The rain gods unleashed a torrent the next day, whose cascading baptism paused only twice from dawn to dusk. In the first breath of dry air, we trekked to a remote, isolated temple. Once again, the overflowing sky began to quench the jungle around us, and we climbed to a desiccant haven. Our roost smelled of ancient mossy bat guano and each breath we drew was thick and wet. The day swelled with psychonautic cosmogyrations for as long as one small corner of eternal impermanence that vainly hopes to sustain itself ever could. The rain kept us to our cozy nook, a barely sheltered altar with caves stretching into darkness on either side like eerie black wings. We discovered candles and burnt copal, signaling the only site so far where modern Mayans still make ceremonies.
My cosmic consort, constellations ago, conspired to commingle corporeally with me in this jungle canopy on our anniversary. I rested, nestled in temple rocks carved by our ancestors. Ancient air seeped through porous stone to kiss my skin with its damp breath. We watched the wind rock softly the treetops as the last flocks of skylarks alighted aloft the tallest walls. Just as feather gently, his fingers began lifting layers. He parted me with his curiosity and progressed with the patience of our prehistoric pyramid, posted to perpetual persistence. I felt liltingly lifted, lighter for his every softness that I graciously greeted with sighs. Clouds above contrasted all the solid centuries settles beneath our bodies. Effervescently they eased along, ever so elegantly ethereal. When your nature is transient, you may as well take your time. Today is a timid task to ask of forever. So dawdle dotingly my darling did, a little deeper now. Each veil he lifted, a valley I gifted, as we adventured into vortexes of voraciousness and vivacity together. He reached deeper at each peak, seeking to hear my very center sing. When nothing is raced, in time all is revealed.
Perfectly primal and without pretense, perhaps we’d lived in this small sanctuary forever. Maybe we’d made fires when night fell and named birds who blew in from the rain and looked down the incline of our grey-green temple’s staircase for the three thousand years of it’s existence. Here we lived in the eternal present, at the fringes of an enormous limestone city which hides dozens of homes like ours, all resigned to crumble quietly under blankets of roots, soil, and rain, keeping their secrets to themselves. We couldn’t tell how long had passed since this now had begun, and we gradually forgot that we’d ever arrived, or that we’d ever leave. We knew merely that this endless moment marked an anniversary. One year since our two incarnations first immersed themselves in love together. The rain christened life anew. Our second year together was born of sacred water that fell from heaven.
Upon the second silence from rainsound we slid down from our settlement and squeezed our palms together, singing “om mane padme hum” in prayer with a choir of frogs, adding the percussion of our footfalls. They drummed goodbye kisses into the wet muddy skin of overgrown arteries mapping Tikal’s expanse. We strolled slowly, savoring the last of our senses here, hoping to trace ourselves into her. Surreptitiously we surrendered our exposed souls inside a wide silent embrace, our soles sinking subtle roots to reground us to her wherever we went. A solemnity of quiet completion abated the bittersweetness goodbyes always grant. The Grand Plaza patiently accepted our final farewell as the full moon rose from behind it’s silhouette.
As we turned our back to the wide courtyard that had first greeted the gratitude of my novice eyes, we heard a sound unlike any other. The Golden Oriole, King of Birds, Guardian of the Rainforest, called to us from a nearby branch. His voice swelled with anticipation and dropped with a sonic climax that stole a beat from the rhythm of our hearts with his every call. Amani’s search was now consummated. He caught it’s trill in his outstretched hand, one phrase from an epic story echoed again and again from the brightest voice in the forest. And with that, Tikal had bestowed her goodbye.
