bruja

Our vision is clouded by the acrid smoke from popping, sizzling, belts of firecrackers slithering on the ground obstructing and surprising us all.  It is 5:00 a.m. and still dark.  It is early yet crowds are starting to stream into the streets and the air is heating up.  People are flowing in and out of the main temple of worship.  
 
A temple acolyte (or young priest in training) is by my side the moment I step through the entrance arch.  His English is good yet heavily accented.  He directs me where to buy garlands of fresh flowers, a pack of incense and sweets for my temple offerings.  I nod yes, yes and buy dozens of jasmine leis for their sweet intoxicating scent. We join the lines of people streaming within the temple to worship. 

Awaiting their turn to enter the alcove of the shrine, people chat in hushed whispers.  It is calm initially but as the approach narrows, the pushing starts and the energy grows wild.  As the air grows still and smothering, a storm of emotions explodes amidst the multitudes.  They start to chant and sway.  They cry out in anguish and weep copious tears both sorrowful and celebratory.  

Inside the shrine people are reaching out, offering their flowers, sweets and money - to the temple acolytes, then to the priests and finally to the central image.  They fight to touch her, intercede with their prayers, to gain some of her power, to have their desires granted. 

The object f their devotion is an enormous piece of black stone, a glistening piece of lava rock hewn into the magnificent countenance of fierce ferociousness that is truly awesome to behold.  She is wreathed from neck to toe in garlands of fresh flowers wilting and decaying in the opressive heat.  The energy is frenetic with yelling, sweating, pulsing heat steaming off the packed hordes.  Powerless we are carried along in the swelling crowd.  The acolytes fight a losing battle shoving and shouting for control.  

I am buried in the center of this railing roiling swell.  The priests hoarsely call out their chants.  The bells clang maddeningly.  People push and pull in one direction then another.  Suddenly I pop into the inner sanctum.  A priest lights my incense sticks and passes me some sacred ash - forcefully encouraging me to touch the sacred image.  

The temple acolyte shouts in my ear, “Touch it!  Touch the Mother’s breast!” I reach through the railing for the monumental mound.  It is hot, smooth and moist from eons of being fondled by sweaty rabid swarms of devotees.  As my fingertips make contact a vision comes to me in a flash - all the streaming hordes that have come this way since time immemorial.  Writhing in our driving passions and moved beyond ourselves.  Then I prostrate touching her feet in abject devotion.  I am swept out into the courtyard by the heaving crowd half bent and disconcerted. 

This is the great breast that the Holy Mother used to nourish the world of humanity, to clean out evil and defeat disease.  From these breasts milk flowed to drown out all sickness and sorrow and nurture our true nature and original being.  To have her approach - mouth open, eyes bulging, laughing terribly - she is horrible to behold if you see her coming.  But often you are not aware of her presence until your life falls apart.  Until you are stripped of all.  All clinging desperately to what you can grasp - hanging on by the skin of your teeth.  

First the blinding light from her steady gaze and then the smothering of her heavy breasts, wipe everything clean, taking away your entire burden, cutting through ego and destroying all illusion.  She purifies life, freeing the believer, filling the heart with eternal and profuse gratitude.  

The temple acolyte breaks through my reverie to ask if I want to watch the animal sacrifice.  As I stand undecided, he pushes me down some steps.  I see the cordoned off arena where several native pigs squeal in terror scenting their inevitable deaths.  

The high priest takes a young man’s head and thumps it mercilessly on a blood stained block three times.  I am startled and shocked - even as he is forcefully thrust away and replaced with a pig - in my extended non-ordinary reality I see the man’s spirit on the sacrificial block.  A pig he has offered is expertly grabbed by all four legs and thrown on the block.  As it squeals hysterically it is the youth’s recounting of trespasses that stream through the animal’s snout.  Its head is held in place and its hind legs are tied by a rope that swings off an overhead bar.  It is the young man’s eyes that bulge out in fear on the pig’s head.  

The high priest approaches with a curved ceremonial blade.  The crowd hushes as all eyes are riveted on priest and pig.  I do not avert my eyes either.  I want to witness what countless helpless animals face in filthy slaughterhouses without benefit of worshipful prayers, sacred blessing or holy temples.  In this loss of life, this solemn ritual acknowledges the passing and sacrifice with the youth’s soul returning to his body freed of all his iniquities.  

Thunk!  The blade descends in one deft blow, leaving the pig’s head on the block, eyes still open.  As the severed body swings overhead eager hands hold up a deep bowl to catch the spurting blood from its open neck.  The drained carcass and head are taken to the temple kitchens where offerings cook all day to feed the waiting poor and hungry.  Nothing is wasted.  The Holy Mother is a vegetarian.