Unexpected Shaman (7, End) – King of Jaguar – Child of Sun

They placed him on a bier and tended his bruises and the flow of blood from his elbow. Bandaged and victorious, he was carried into the Temple of the Jaguars from where, elevated high above the level of the Ball Court, he  was invited to watch the start of the new game, below.

He wondered if this was just for him; wondered if his presence in this harvest of spirituality was an extension of the grace as witness… or whether the difference in time and place didn’t matter, that condition and readiness were everything, and, once fulfilled, the dawning horizon’s fingers of purpose would weave their anciently-spun magic, no matter what the era in which they were invoked.

They gave him water for his parched body, then a sweet liquid that contained a contrasting brew of bitter herbs.

In trust he drained the cup…

When he woke, it was much later, and very dark. He relieved his body and removed the plain, white robe in which they had dressed him. He bathed and put on the laid-out robes of the Warrior, the single human priest that the process of Chichen Itza was designed to create – or, rather, recreate.

Chac MoolAA 300

He became aware of the light from outside the portals to the Ball-Court below. Passing to the window he looked out on a sea of candlelight. In total silence and shared light, his fellow priests waited for him…

When he descended the steps, there came a hissing noise, like that of a snake. Listening and smiling, he realised that it came only from the priests’ natural breathing and a narrowed throat, They were greeting him in the most revered way they knew.

They directed him to sit on a ceremonial chair placed on the bier and garlanded with flowers. The candles they set around him made a light greater, even, than theirs. In silence he was led from the Temple of the Jaguar, a master now of his lower nature, and opened to the higher. They carried him past the Temple of Venus, stopping to acknowledge it to the left and the pyramid of Kukulcan, waiting unlit, to the right. There was a sense of return in that gesture, though his mind could not grasp it, yet. The unvisited western stairway, with its ninety-one steps, sat like the world’s biggest jaguar in the darkness, watching him.

The giant building ahead was the Temple of the Warrior. He knew it to be so without asking. The Sun had come through the stone circle to claim the ball struck by the accurate elbow of the Newfound. What followed must reflect that on a more cosmic scale… Three of the priests flanked him with large candles as he climbed the many steps to the platform of the Chac Mool – a stone figure lying on its back with shoulders and knees raised, its hands supporting an unseen object with upraised palms.

The Feathered One whispered into his vision… and he understood. He smiled away the tears and returned to the embrace of his fellow priests who broke their silence and carried him – this time without the bier – into the heart of the Warrior Temple, beneath the Chac Mool.

There was drinking and feasting, but most of all, there was rejoicing. The air would be clean, the waters would fall from the sky – Chac, the God of Rain would bring it. Only the seed of life, itself, now needed to come down from the sky.

At the end of the seventh day, they embraced him, again, then presented him with the feathered robes of the ascent. Alone, he climbed the Warrior Temple’s steps and gazed down at the Chac Mool. The dark sky was paling. It was the dawn of the eighth day, the start of the new cycle…

The dawn came fully, bright and fruitful in the spring sky. It rose cleanly between the twin giant serpents that flanked his body, lying behind the stone figure of the Chac Mool, nearer the sunrise. As the sun cleared the upper stone surface, his hands were offered and steady, and a huge sigh came from the thousands below who saw him hold the solar disc, if only for the duration of a heartbeat.

His eyes shone, now, this Child of the Sun. No longer human but not yet a god. The Newfound had gone, his atoms scattered by the Sun’s energy as petals of hope among the crowd. Those who watched him descend from the Warrior Temple would see his feet barely touch the smooth stone. As he strode across the brightening plaza all made way, many frightened of the depth of the light before them. To all of them he radiated love, only love.

Still alone, he climbed the steps of the small Temple of Venus. The bier was there; once more garlanded with flowers and surrounded by an ocean of candles – candles that were now unnecessary. The temple held only one more object – a stone chalice of dark liquid. For hours, he watched the Sun climb along its course. When it was nearly overhead, he stood and raised the drink to Kukulcan waiting in the centre of the temple complex.

In trust he drained the cup…

They watched, weeping with both joy and sorrow, as he refused the bier and dragged his dying body up the south stairway of Kukulcan. At the top, he staggered the final step into the cube and sat down on the stone throne reserved only for the ascending Warrior, the man of perfection.

His body died then. But his eyes shone through the stone and up to the giant feathered serpent that had come for him. With claws that passed through the stone he was lifted beyond the heavy and carried down the stairway in a time behind time. To those below, the spring solstice made the pattern of the snake as the day progressed, sliding its segments down the pyramid to greet its carved likeness, below.

In the fields around the temple, snake skins – shed and left behind – would be found this day to mark the return of fertility to the land. The year would be fruitful.

But the Newfound, now the Newborn, was long gone… though his reality remained.

©Copyright Stephen Tanham

Steve Tanham is a director of the Silent Eye school of Consciousness. His personal blog is at stevetanham.wordpress.com


Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

Unexpected Shaman (6) – The Ball in your Court 

Manuel is speaking, but he’s wrong…

This thought hits home as my unseen flight ends with a trip over the ledge that marks the boundary of a small incline. Ahead of me, the tourists turn and politely ignore the unhurt figure in the dust, though others are laughing.

What was it that Jerome had said? ‘Shamanic methods are ultimately kind…’ The exactness of that hits home, and with it comes a realisation that the Shamanic world – really the objective world seen by the Shaman – is brutally centred in the now, but has an implicit trust in the motives, or rather, direction, of that living wave of Creation.

Conventional ‘goodness’ has nothing to do with it, though individual kindness does. Perhaps this is one of the secrets: that the true Shaman can swim skillfully enough in that flow to create a little eddy, a safe-moment, in which to slow the drowning of another?

Reality has a hard edge; this I know from years of practical and spiritual experience, and that is why a moment with a Shaman is unnerving… they don’t have a heartbeat to waste. This shifting plane of water is full of drowning people…

Mistakes are fine – even wonderful, if you see them as signposts and don’t sulk in the face of this tidal flow.

Manuel pauses while I pull myself to dusty knees and pretend I’m okay.

“It was a game with a purpose,” says our gentle guide, waving his arms to indicate the vast open space in which our group are a tiny cluster of humanity along the south wing. He picks a quiet moment, then makes an animal-like clicking noise with his hands. A fraction of a second later, the noise bounces back from the Jaguar temple at the north end of the quadrangle to our open mouths, which collect the echo.

“The ball game could last for months, while the single winner was sifted from the best of the priests,” he says, not even letting us reflect on this miracle of arcane acoustic engineering.

On my feet once more, I think about this. Months to score a single goal! What would it feel like to rise each day at dawn (for the priests didn’t live within the complex), walk several miles to enter the city of the water magicians, to begin again the task of directing a heavy leather ball, cleanly, through a perfect circle of stone, placed eight metres off the ground on your side of an acoustically-perfect court much larger than a football pitch?

Difficult? Yes. But add to that the complexity of only being able to use your elbows, hips and thighs – no hands, head or feet, and difficult is dimensionally wrong.

Why? Just to create a winner, as Manuel is suggesting, with a smile that is too subtle?

With an authority whose origin may be the onset of heatstroke, I whisper the word “Trance.” Only it doesn’t come out a whisper; it slithers through parched lips and becomes an overly-loud hiss.

Tourists who have witnessed the dusty Englishman’s fall from grace politely ignore this theatrical outburst, but the claws on my shoulders are rolling back time, and I’ve ceased to care what anyone thinks.

The shadow of a large, single feather casts itself over my head, reminiscent of the ancient carvings all around, and plays on the ground before me. I feel childishly proud of the thought I’ve just had, as though separation from others’ expectations is somewhat central to this game of balls.

The spiritual blood of Chichen Itza surges within, and I know there’s no going back. The shadows of other feathers – six in all – etch into the dust along the line of my sight.

I turn around in the flashing heat – for not to do so is more uncomfortable than to stand motionless. The force behind the claws acknowledges the rightness of this movement, and the centuries unwind with my spinning.

In a world that is eternally the same, though to me seems youthful, the newfound has become a player, out there in that vast arena, a player who is now the ‘captain’ and allowed to run along the raised edge that takes him an all-important measure nearer to the stone hole through which the ball must pass.

Pass… the ball is skilfully extracted from the melee by one of the veterans of my team of priests. Taking advantage of a deflection from the thigh of another, he whips his torso clockwise, using the elbow to cast the leather projectile a short distance ahead of my sprinting form.

Mirroring my companion’s move, I dive for the opportunity, grazing my right elbow on the stone as my whole body spins, then falls to the narrow ledge below. Bleeding and now upside down to the direction of the ball’s flight, I watch as it arcs upwards…

And, in this secret place, only I and the Feathered Serpent see the sun reach through the hole and pluck the sodden, wrapped and ragged ball of leather from the fevered and ancient air, raising, in a single act of grace, the organic to the solar…

There is silence…. though all are watching the appearance of the shadow of the seventh feather.

To be continued…

Steve Tanham is a director of the Silent Eye school of Consciousness. His personal blog is at stevetanham.wordpress.com

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end

 ©️Stephen Tanham

Unexpected Shaman (5) – Life and Death on Kukulcan (repost)


{(Reposted because of a scheduling error)}

The count had reached forty steps by the time the newfound realised what was happening. Below him, the rising air from the plateau smelled, newly, of summer grasses and deeply-perfumed flowers. 

The sun, near vertical overhead, beat down with a ferocity that touched skin which seemed naked; and yet fed, unburnt, from the sky-borne radiance. It was summer’s height and yet, at the same time, it was midday. Disbelieving eyes blinked, as the import of the snarling lines of light bore into what had been his brain.

Eighty steps, and the ground below seemed to be falling away. Ninety and it was a distant memory, yet still there. His legs were walking in the air, in large circular steps, as the Jaguar sought and weeded out the pale image of a calendar on his study wall, replacing it with a movement that involved his whole body in ecstatic, radial motion.

The fevered brain was halted in its numeric ascent at ninety one. A brief glimpse of a cube of stone, within which was a vast granite cup; then, his erect body was spun around another whole face of the cube to face the sun, vanishing into the earth in the north. The descent was called, each step counted again as the ground rose to meet his now-weightless form, blazing with the midsummer’s energies. The ground offered no resistance to the Jaguar’s physics, nor its bright passenger’s.

But, the limestone and darkness had a mass that slowed the exploded descenders, consuming their energy until the dark earth seemed to be so dense that all life must end… but it did not. In the moment of his charge’s death the Jaguar breathed its own stored measure of the Sun’s now-liquid gold into the mouth of the newfound.

“Chichen It-Za… Kukulacan…” chanted the distant, priestly voices:

“mouth of the well, voice of the water-magicians, egg of the feathered serpent.”

His frozen body pulsed with so much light that it broke open the earthen tomb to find he was rising from the base of the eastern side of the Kukulcan pyramid. He counted the rising steps without prompting, joyous in the arising from the dark earth into the light of a new day… it was only much later that he would realise that the light of that dawn was his own.

Forty, eighty… ninety one. The voice behind the relentless steps was now more urging than commanding.

And then he stood at the head of the eastern steps looking at the stone face of the upper cube. The Jaguar’s voice moved him right, left, then left again with a turn; and he looked down on the remaining ninety-one steps – the last untravelled space of Kukulcan.

“Two hundred and seventy-four steps,” he whispered, into Air so quiet he knew it waited. One face plus one step to complete it – the year… the great cycle of life and death on Earth.”

The Air waited.

“But these steps lead down, which will take me away from the cube?”

For the first time the Jaguar’s silent voice was gentle. “Perhaps you are not finished?”

He thought about that. He had seen the fullness of life and the darkness of death, but on none of these faces of experience had the motion ceased, or even slowed.

Not far away, Manuel was laughing. “So, now, before us, we have the vast space of the first kind of football!”

The gentle guide’s voice became joyous as it got louder, calling him to rejoin the party. Could they not see what was happening – what had happened here so vividly that it was etched into the very atoms of the place? The sense of regret was immense as he felt himself pulled from the top of the Kukulcan pyramid and into the air by unseen hands, and carried across the temple city to the place of the Ball Court.

Shaman Ball Court for blog

The body he should have had struggled, futilely, as he was taken through the heavy air of mid-afternoon.

“Do not rush to be back there,” said the new voice in his head. “Live while you can…”

It was only then that he realised that what held him had claws… and a voice that hissed; and that though he felt safe, he was living a trajectory that was anything but…

As the sense and presence of the Jaguar fell away, and he accepted this shadowy tunnel in the bright sun, the newfound realised he had said goodbye to many things.

To be continued…

Steve Tanham is a director of the Silent Eye school of consciousness. His personal blog is at stevetanham.wordpress.com

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end

 ©️Stephen Tanham

Unexpected Shaman (4) – In the Mouth of the Jaguar

Really? A giant, black, Jaguar materialised from the south face of the Chichen Itza pyramid and thundered across the ground to devour you?

On one level, it’s a preposterous thing to write; on another, it’s the heart of the matter.

“If you can’t let go,” Jerome had said, under the quiet shadows of the one silent place in the hotel grounds, “then you’ll get little, apart from academic worth, from Chichen Itza.”

Manuel had moved his guided group on, away from the the place of the first sighting of the temple complex, and to the fabled ‘ball court’, leaving a solitary figure staring at the pyramid, from which the jaguar that was filling his perception had emerged.

They had split time, the Shaman and Manuel, the gentle guide; had opened a door of perception known about but never personally experienced in this form. I had, as I wrote in the last part of this narrative, resisted many of the ideas of shamanism, not because they were suspect, but because they used a symbol system with which I was not comfortable. But that said more about me than the system.

There is only one set of spiritual truths; only one inner architecture of the soul. But there are as many ways of describing ‘it’ as there are life-forms that perceive it. And that’s its glory – that each one of us comes to ‘seeing’ in a unique way, a potency of ‘knowing vision’ that is really not about us, but is a revealing of the truth that stands before us, altering what was ‘our’ world, but really only dissolving the power of the egoic self to stop us seeing it as it is.

Once the world is seen as it is, the ego has lost all its power. It doesn’t want that… If we could see what was fighting this, in all its frailty, we would no longer have any fear, and the egoic self could go about its business in peace and correct alignment.

Now, a huge, airborne jaguar was eating my head…

It didn’t hurt, but it did separate – in a way that was quite familiar from my studies of alchemy. In simple terms, it dared me to not be a tourist, to drop everything that thought like a tourist, as though, in the very word, it had found the perfect metaphor with which to communicate with its meal. Seeing I had grasped this, it followed the lines in my brain and came up with another: newfound.

Time – rather, experience – had split. One of me had followed Manuel and the rest of the party around the corner and into the ball-court. The other had it’s attention fixed on the pyramid, under the inner, but silent tutelage of the consuming Jaguar.

“The whole temple complex was a process,” Manuel was saying. “Remember, there were only priests allowed in here. Everything was directed at one goal…”

The newfound gazed up at the pyramid and Jerome’s voice came again, along with a mental picture of his hand-written notes.


“It’s a temple, based on a square with four ‘intelligent powers’ on each of its faces,” Jerome’s voice is calm and clear. “Know anything about those?”

Manuel’s voice added itself, speaking to the tourists and the newfound in parallel time, using the same words.

“The pyramid was both the theatre of daily ritual and – itself – the priest-maker. The newfound would be immersed in its outer and inner presence until they could hear its voice. The rituals were there to ensure that connection – the power was already present; a product of the pyramid’s perfect construction. The pyramid was made in an age before metal tools, and made with such exactness that no mortar was needed for its construction – we could not do that today. This perfection connected the worlds, in a way that objective truth always does.

The newfound blinked his eyes. The descending presence of the Jaguar had pounced in an arena naked with the Sun’s power, and this now poured into his accepting psyche.

Manuel’s eyes glistened as he turned, holding out his arms as though to touch the boundaries of the vast complex that is Chichen Itza.

“There were seven of them- the waters, what we now call the Cenotes. Chichen Itza was originally thought to mean ‘mouth of the well’ but recent linguistic research suggests that ‘Itza’ was really two words: ‘It’ and ‘Za’: the place of the water magicians.

To the newfound, that made perfect sense. But far more important was his previous statement: This perfection connected the worlds. We think of ‘other worlds’ as though they are other planets – distant in time and space.  But the ancient meaning of ‘other worlds’, protected in the lore of the western mystery tradition in all its forms, is that the separation is neither one of space or time, but is only one of experience. To experience one of the other forms of consciousness available and present, albeit latent, in our souls, is to be in that other world.

It was written, plainly, in Jerome’s drawing. The building on the top of the Chichen Itza pyramid sat on a squared-off base. Like other pyramids from ancient times, it was designed to terminate at a point – but the fact that it didn’t indicated and indicates something utterly profound; and I may not reveal that, because the arrival at that point is a process of personal initiation…

And the arrival at that point is everything…

Chichen Itza and Alchemy/Magic share the same language. The ancient symbols of Fire, Air, Water and Earth, representing our inner states of consciousness, are meant to be united and empowered, as needed, by a fifth element: that of Spirit. The spirit was always referred to as the ‘ghost’ because it could not be seen, but its very presence commanded the others in the same way that a rested and waking-up brain commands the hands. In an analogy that was designed to help us all to see, the spirit is said to leave the body at death – removing the perfection of life. Measure what has gone? Good luck…

But, unlike a study of alchemy, the Chichen Itza pyramid was also the map of the movement of cosmic life – the living cosmos in perfect miniature.

The Jaguar, recognising that the newfound had reached the decisive moment, picked him, weightless, off the ground and began a loping prowl towards the steps of the south face of the pyramid.

Commanded, silently, by the great beast, the newfound began to count…

(To be continued…)

Steve Tanham is a director of the Silent Eye school of consciousness. His personal blog is at stevetanham.wordpress.com

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end

 ©️Stephen Tanham

Unexpected Shaman (3) – The head in the jaws

I’ve decided there is something Shamanic about suffering. The past few years have been challenging for me in a very specific way: whenever I have approached an important event, particularly one where I have to ‘perform’ well, in a dramatic or ritualistic way… I get slightly ill.

This is not stage-fright. Apart from the odd deep breath, I just get on with it, trusting that the kind fates and the momentum of experience will see it done well. It matters to me that it is done well…

Last year’s vivid ‘Leaf and Flame’ workshop for the Silent Eye’s spring weekend was a classic example. I had a particularly demanding role as Sir Gawain in an enhanced version of the Green Knight story. What few of the rest of the group knew was that, for the duration of the weekend, I was on a strong dose of penicillin for a chest infection.

Stuart and Sue had given their all to create a ritual drama that was ground-breaking and I was not about to let them down. The event went well, though my ‘ghostly’ appearance at the end of Gawain’s ordeals may have had a dual cause.

I will not dwell on further details of this recurring syndrome, other than to say that this has been a repeating pattern for many years. Generally, I’m a very well and fit person. These ‘events of adversity’ may well originate within my self, however unconsciously. They have much to teach me about an internal state that needs to have ‘earned’ the upcoming bounty; that needs to find itself deserving of the gateway that may lie ahead, as child Jerome was, on the morning when he awoke, still alive and now turned away from death – and thereby pointed at a life finally protected by a (Masonic) brotherhood that loved him.

The Head of the Rosicrucian Order, AMORC, once led a group of us on an esoteric tour of Egypt, including, for a short period, the private use of the King’s Chamber in the Great Pyramid for a joint initiation.

On the morning of this momentous event, he said to us, “Do not question how you come to be here. Trust that it is enough that you are…”

Sometimes we listen and get it; sometimes we just listen and get it later; sometimes we don’t do either. It’s probably high-time my pre-event body listened… and that’s why I call this kind of suffering a Shamanic experience.

I don’t go in for a lot of soul-baring, but this level of psycho-physical interaction is exactly what we find when we uncover some of the low level ‘primitives’ that linger from our early psychological experiences and deeply colour our lives.

Within the Silent Eye, the three directors of the school (Sue, Stuart and I) act as personal supervisors for the students (we use the term: Companions)

our job is to be Supervisors of their own journey- and it is a journey – one of self- discovery across three actual landscapes, in what I now see is  a rather Shamanic way.

Our Companions have embarked with trust and enthusiasm. Our ‘guardian’ role, which we do freely and in our own time, is, emotionally and intellectually, to travel with them over a terrain which is nothing less than the shared humanity of the pivotal and sometimes very private set of responses that result when we prod the tyrant of the egoic self, sitting atop its ancient and symbolic pyramid.

And so to Chichen Itza. The day that Jerome had done his best to equip me for; the journey to one of the world’s most remarkable spiritual sites. It began on a rubbish dump, which is a lot better than a chest infection, so I knew things were going to go well…

Seven of us – a propitious number – sat looking at the assemblage of wrappers, paper cups and chocolate packaging that surrounded the dusty bank on the right-hand side of the minibus. We were looking right because to look left exposed the eye to the frantic motion of the highway – a mere six feet away. Cars, trucks and a not-infrequent phalanx of flashing and hooting police cars thundered their chorus against our turned-away left ear drums.

“Be here in a minute Signor,” said our driver, with more hope than expectation – watching us watch the rubbish and wince at the traffic.

But he was right. The bigger minibus that was to dock with the palatial full-size coach did arrive in the next few minutes, leaving the nightmare handover amidst the refuse a distant memory.

Jerome’s parting laughter rang in my ears. He had said I would have a very different journey to his, and I could sense how acutely he knew that to be true – as though he were there, smiling through the shimmering traffic.

His sentiments were amplified by the sense of containment in the events of the day, ahead. Everything was programmed to the minute. We were to spend the morning in an ‘authentic’ Mayan village, including an optional swim in a Cenote – one of the many places where what looks like a small, freshwater lake is established by the collapse of the rock above an ancient and pure underground river. The Yucatan peninsula is predominately limestone and the underground rivers are responsible for the existence of human life, here. Without these, Yucatan would be a desert… and the Maya would not have existed; well, not here, anyway…

This water, like Shaman-folk, is clever. It knows where to flow and it knows when to break through to the surface.

They are very beautiful places, these Cenotes; and have a great sense of peace about them. The water feels really good on the skin, and the sense of a baptism in the unchanged life-waters of the Maya is not lost on those who can feel the connection.

But no Chichen Itza. Not yet, anyway. After the swim, there was shopping and lunch. The purchase of a Mayan horoscope (with funds going to local villages) and a look around the very simple huts of the reconstructed dwellings. Then, we were finally on our way to the only place most of us wanted to be.

I could feel Jerome smiling across the kilometres at me, daring me to lose faith that this could be special, could be spiritual – as in ‘touching the real’, the causal layer of existence against which the human constructs its reactive life according to its fears.

The comfortable coach sped, intently, towards its target…

It’s getting really hot in the rays of the Sun. There was a man whose head was eaten by a jaguar… no, no, no, that was just the glimpse of a poster on the outskirts of the gathering town..

I sipped some water. It was very hot, even on the air-conditioned spear… Spear?

His name was Manuel. He was our English-speaking guide. He must have seen six decades or more. He learned English in his twenties as a tool to lift him out of the poverty of the everyday life around him. He was of Mayan descent and spoke the resurgent ancient language, fluently.

Within two minutes of him beginning to speak, I had fallen for the magic in his voice. Curling, lyrical, urging… could he, too, be a … stop it! I was getting obsessed, and the rays were shining from right above us, it seemed…

Manuel’s eyes, like his voice, shone with the invisible song of gentleness. He was not a fan of Mel Gibson and said that the latter’s films of severed and bloody heads bouncing down the steps of the Chichen Itza pyramid had done more damage to the living spirit of the Maya peoples than the Toltec mercenaries who actually carried out the desecration of Chichen Itza a thousand years ago…

“We were not violent,” he said. “We were seers of the spirit of the earth and the way it moved through the heavens. We took the best of our young people and tuned them into the music of that spirit, into our priests. Then we asked them to sing; and those that brought forth new music became our high priests; and these would compete to become the warrior – the single warrior in that journey around the sun…”

His soft eyes did something strange as he continued. “And then that single warrior would pass from this place and take our spirit back to its father, the Sun. And life, having touched true life, would begin, again.”

And the huge teeth were slipping down in slow motion over the head of the man, but he was smiling, triumphant – unlike the poor replicas of the eaten skulls, lined up in their tens, a few dollars more… The two were such an obvious contrast, weren’t they?

Skulls and Jaguar

Manuel paused to take breath, but he was not breathless, despite Mel Gibson. Instead, he was preparing the verbal arrow of what came next… pointing it so that it released itself at an exact moment where the endless stalls of animal masks petered out and the limestone wall fell away and the great pyramid of Chichen Itza hissed itself into your consciousness. The throngs of people were still there, but they were running…

There were four notes, four harmonics, in that hissing sound. Four harmonics that could kill with a single blow…but it was not a song of death.

The four notes were preceded by a snarl of challenge. I raised a head made weary and slightly dizzy by the endless hot sun, to follow the direction of his gentle speaking… The tiredness from the heat seemed to flow upwards, into the air, forming something. The heat that was left was full of energy and life…

…and the huge, counterpoint, black jaguar, made of atoms that were not limestone, raced across the vast square of what had once been endless and perfectly paved stone and right at me.

(To be continued…)

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end

©Stephen Tanham

Unexpected Shaman (2) – two journeys to Chichen Itza

Jerome, my newly-found Mayan Shaman friend, was born in Belize, and had travelled before settling, for the present, in Yucatan, Mexico.

I had been surprised at how vividly alive the Mayan culture was in this part of Central America. It was not just a done-for-tourists thing, it was deeply real; an identity with a gentle, spiritual and creative race, even down to the carefully-preserved ancient Mayan language that an increasing number of the region’s people speak.

Initially, I had presumed that what was Mayan had been contained in what is now Mexico; but its peaceful ’empire’ had stretched far along the narrow strip of land that links the Americas.

“Everyone was poor in Belize,” he said. There was no regret in his words, it was simply how things were.

“How things are…” His eyes flashed the deeper meaning up at me as we sat, otherwise alone, in the quiet of his afternoon break at the resort, within what we have come to know as the ‘peace-hut’, due to its dearth of alcohol and noisy wedding parties.

I had noticed at our first meeting that, on his right hand, he wore a silver ring with a black design on its face; but every time I tried to study it, his hand turned side-on, as though the sigil was an ingredient not yet ready for the moment’s pot.

I’m not a fanciful person. Sue and Stuart will tell you, possibly ruefully, that I resist the spiritually ‘fluffy’ at every turn. But I  swear that ring was laughing at me…

“I’ll tell you a little about me, so you can see my journey, and how our two journeys have come together,” he said, openly enthusiastic.

I was not ready for the horror of what came, like a silent knife, into the next moment.

“When I was a child, four men came and strung my mother up in the village square. They were wearing black masks and they had a whip. They whipped her from the four corners of a square they had drawn around her in the dirt, and offered me the whip to also whip my mother, but I would not do it.”

He looked into my uncomprehending eyes. “She was loving but weak. She drank and took other things and lay with many men, selling herself. The masked men were trying to drive the devil from her flesh. They thought that having her son do it would break the curse of her addictions.”

I was overwhelmed at the sadness of the image. My eyes felt wet, inside. But not outwardly, as though unnecessary emotion had been warded away.

“I was three…” he said.

In the way that Shamans do, he shifted…

His face was shining at me, again.  “You will enjoy Chichen Itza,” he said. “I made my own journey there when I came to live in Mexico, though I had no money…” he looked at me and smiled. “There are always ways if you want it enough…”

He got up, leaving the storm of the moment swirling around the space where my head had been, as though the seven ancient planets were pulling my mind into a psychic pancake.

When he came back, he had a sheet of cleaning paper – the kind he got from the barista to wipe the Spanish lessons off the white-board. He unfolded it and took out his plastic hotel pen.

I always travel with a notebook. You can draw in a notebook, and, for me, ideas can tumble best from the mind and into sketches. When I have a big project on, like next April’s Jewel in the Claw, I use a Moleskine, with a vertical flip over cover. They are horribly expensive but tough and long-lasting. Tough is important: the body of notes and images in it will become the nucleus of the whole workshop for next April.

I never envisaged that something equally precious would occupy its newly-opened pages.

Still clutching his sheet of cleaning roll, Jerome watched, amused, as I flicked open the Moleskine to the spread which, on one face, contained the notes and drawings that I had prepared after our first meeting, that morning.

I had meant to indicate the blank page opposite for him to write on more easily, but, smiling, he put down his pen and began to study my scribblings.

He read them carefully, then looked up at me, laughing. “You are getting to know my soul,” he said, nodding his approval. The silver ring turned towards me. In the quarter second before he spoke, I recognised it’s Masonic significance…

I’m not a Freemason. I was raised in a Rosicrucian family, and that tradition has a degree of overlap. I do, though, understand Masonic symbolism to some depth.

Jerome continued: “My mother took her own life, and my father wasn’t much interested in bringing up a child, alone,” he said. “My grandfather – my mother’s father  – and my grandmother brought me up, after that. They were very kind.”

“He was the Mayan Shaman?” I asked.

“Yes, and he had predicted that one of his grandchildren would follow him, but he didn’t think it was me!”

I wondered how much of the trauma of his own daughter’s shame and death had coloured that view. I said nothing.

“But I had the light inside me,” he continued. “and I knew it – it was my friend and teacher – but in a very unstructured way; but it was the heart of it all…”
He flattened the fingers of his hand. The Masonic symbol was prominent. “One day the light disappeared and I was so much in despair that I wanted to die. I slept with a herbal poison by my bed, and when I woke up in the middle of the night, and the light inside me was still gone, I drank it…”

I studied his eyes carefully. This was so fantastical I wondered if I was being played… It’s a reasonable doubt in such circumstances and it took me right to the sharp edge of doubt and trust; a very uneasy place to be. For twenty-three years I ran a software company and I know that intelligent discretion is hard-won.

He waited, watching my inner turmoil, and, I think, knowing…

“When I fell into my death-slumber, I dreamt of two lengths of wood that crossed over at their bases,” he continued, softly. “Then, in the dream, they were nailed on a door and I wanted, desperately, to go through that door…”

He stopped, the memory searingly intense for him.

“That longing pulled me away from death and I survived. The morning after, I was very sick, but a stranger was drinking coffee in the village square. He was wearing a ring just like this – the two lengths of wood in the dream were part of the design on his ring.”

He tapped the sides of the Masonic ‘square’ the tool that forms the stone of the human into the refined cube of the adept. Had I known how prophetic that was to be, I think I would have shivered…

He sipped from his glass of water – he had refused my offer of coffee.

“I sat down with him,” he said. “although I knew I was only a child, and begged him to take me through that doorway…”

I could feel his intensity and his love for those to whom he had reached.

“They took me in, bending all their rules. They brought me up to be a 33rd Degree Mason, though my own inner truth remains at the heart of what I do.” He spread his hands in what looked like the rays of the sun. “They taught me the inner language of the Mysteries, with which I can have conversations like this…

He drank the last of his water.

“Mayan Shaman and ‘stonemason’: the perfect guide to prepare you for your journey to Chichen Itza, no?”

Not waiting for my answer, he took up his, pen (only it wasn’t till later that I remembered it was my pen), and for twenty minutes or so, told me what to expect and what to do when we got to Chichen Itza.

At the end, the single page of my Moleskine was dense with his characteristic overscribble, and what was left of my head was dizzy.

He stood up to leave. “You are already a priest of the mysteries, no?”

I nodded mutely. I had, in the short time with him, shared my own Rosicrucian and magical past, making him smile with much of the shared detail. He had also enjoyed my tour of the Silent Eye’s magical version of the enneagram.

He pointed to the page of his notes in the Moleskine pad. “Then this will be familiar…”

“Yes.” My voice had become a whisper in the intense heat. I realised I was very thirsty.

He laughed. “You will not arrive a stranger at Chichen Itza, but your journey will be challenged just as much as mine was – but for different reasons…”

I watched him skip off to take his next class, beneath the harsh afternoon sun.

He had not asked for money, nor for help.

His departing figure reminded me of a warrior and I was to learn, the day after, how apt that image was.

“We will meet again, my Brother,” he called back from between two tall pine trees that lined the walkway to the nearest pool.

Later, I would reflect on that, too…

To be continued…

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end

©Stephen Tanham

Unexpected Shaman (1)

Jerome (not his real name, but those are his hands) had been teaching us some elementary Spanish.

We had been advised that the lesson was half an hour later than billed, but it had started on time. By the time we got there, the other two students were well ensconced in the picture cards that match local Mexican animals with their Spanish names.

I should have known then, really… Stuart, in particular, would have smiled, given the starring role the similarly sized Druid Animal cards had played in the previous year’s Silent Eye workshop – Leaf and Flame.

At the end of Jerome’s hour, he was drawing things to a close when he began to refer to the Mayan temple at Chichen Itza – our single destination for a very long day, tomorrow.
In response to a question about the geometry of its construction, he said, ‘You have to be able to see…”
The air had changed… I leaned forward as he explained, briefly, that his grandfather had been a travelling Mayan Shaman and had passed onto him the knowledge that the truth about the Mayan temples was not correctly told, but that was because few could see anymore. I nodded and smiled…

I asked a deeper question, how did such seers recognise each other in the time of his grandfather? He replied that they were the only ones with their eyes open.

He watched me watching him, reading my quiet but intense interest, and the way the sense of wonder on my face grew into a smile. I was back in the land of Carlos Castenada, but this was burningly real, not a book.

This was all in the whirling now, which was getting more unlikely by the second.

After a quick and gentle test on the Spanish cards, everyone stood up to go. He reached across to tap me on the fingertips and said he could stay for a while if I wanted to take our discussions further. Bernie was happy to do her own thing for a while, so the two of us continued our discussions.

“You are a Shaman – in the line of your grandfather?” I asked, knowing it was not a question. We have a Shaman of our own – Running Elk – who is very good at widening the experience of the Clan of the Raven, as our collective alter ego has become known, so I could detect the signs of another, decidley real one…

His eyes danced, challengingly, while his head nodded, slowly.
“We are hunters of men,” he said, gently. “The world has forgotten how to grow, inside. The earthen cloak from the Mother has set hard around the evil (which we later mutually agreed meant ‘ego’) that hides the light that was placed in us by the Sun.”

We sat back, considering each other
“We hunt the light in men so that we may teach them more,” he said. “Knowledge is useless unless it is shared. The Sun gives us light and heat, but the light of knowing grows in man’s heart – within the material of the Earth.”

He drew the diagram above. “These are the steps you will see at Chichen Itza.” He circled the two words ‘know’ and ‘respect’, linking them as a step. “Every day we climb a step – they are hard and need effort.”
He drew a third word, ‘love’, above the other two. “The work, the respect, the knowledge, build love when they are applied each day to: knowing myself; knowing others; knowing God – this builds love, and love reveals…”

We talked for an hour. I contributed what I could. He invited me back at 15:30 – his afternoon break.
It’s 14:46… I just wanted to share this with you. First Uluru, then The Feathered Seer, now Mexico. It’s shaping up to be quite a year…

I didn’t notice it at the time, but the deer card appears to be face up on the photo of the animal pack…

Stuart and Sue will be smiling… as they will at the analogy of ‘hunting’. But it’s my turn next year…

More when we’re back from Chichen Itza – one of the greatest of Mayan temples; where I’ll be equipped, rather unexpectedly, by a living Mayan Shaman… ‘a hunter of men’.

Am I safe out there, I wonder?

Running Elk is smiling… I can hear it.

To be continued…

Other posts in this series:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven – end,

©Stephen Tanham.

Temple of the Winds

In Yutacan, where Mayan mind

Once ruled a fabled land

A mighty structure stands its side

It is a temple of the wind

Tumul its name, once whispered wide

Upon this jungled horn

An ancient place, revered its past

Where paintings crown the work of sides

Where throngs of people shuffle past

The guardians used to stand

In stern Castillo, facing seas

To read the fates and seek what lasts

In thirteen, four, and nine beneath

The learned Maya homed

Within their Four their patterns bore

The lasting truth of their belief

Pale shadow now our vision sees

Of order once so fine

But stop the crowd and touch the wind

To feel the peace before decline.

©Stephen Tanham