I saw her today, just when I had been telling myself that I no longer saw her at all… after having her inked on my body as my very own understanding of what she means to me and what she represents, she seemed to stop showing up
After a day that began at 3:30 a.m. half-awake, half praying, bruising my toe in the dark, one flight after another with a 5 hour escala en medio I finally arrived in Medellín, carrying my guitar, my hopes, and a quiet determination to reach a place where the medicine waits.
It was nearly one in the morning when I stepped out of a shared cab. The two strangers beside me were polite, their English flawless, but they respected that I tried to meet them in their own language making my way into the conversation between ellos y el taxista that I understood at least 80% of. “Hablas muy bien,” they told me, and it still surprises me how people appreciate that small effort. To me, speaking Spanish is just part of showing respect, of saying estoy aquí con ustedes.
At the hostel, a conversation with David at reception became a kind of gift. He is a musician, playing the double bass and, curiously, the banjo. I saw the headstock of a double bass drawn on his arm and quickly drew a connection and began conversation after he saw me walk in with my guitar in my hands. I asked him about the banjo why he’d learn such an instrument, here in these mountains where no one plays it.
He smiled, softly, and said something along the lines of:
“La musica clasica me da todo escrito. Pero el banjo… no hay partituras aqui. No hay mapa. Solo puedo tocar desde el corazon. Eso me recuerda quien soy.”
That struck me deeply, because sometimes, el corazón es el único compás que tenemos. When you play classical music, it can feel like you are always telling someone else’s story, never your own. The banjo, for him, became a way to express freely I guess, to play from the heart without a single note to read. In contrast, with the upright bass, especially as a classically trained musician, he must feel obligated to follow the written score in order to play at all. Me being self taught and just playing what I feel mostly and understanding the beautiful works they can perform if the music is in front of them saw this as a dissapointing disadvantage somewhat even though I’m sure he could play circles around me.
It reminded me of an amazing pianist I once knew. When I visited her home, I saw a grand piano and asked if she might play something. She told me, “I can’t I don’t have any music here. We just moved, and I don’t know where my books are.” Until her mom yelled out start with chopsticks and go from there.
I wasn’t a musician at the time, I just sampled other peoples music and added drums to them, so I couldn’t understand how someone could master an instrument so beautifully, yet be unable to play a note without sheet music.
It is like trying to tell a story when you no longer have the book in front of you I suppose.
He handed me my key, and I should have gone straight to sleep. But for some reason I paused, cracking open the club soda I had carried from the final flight even though I wasn’t thirsty. Something in me felt drawn to stand still, to look around, as if someone was calling me gently: mira, hijo.
And then I saw her.
Black and white, posted on the hostel wall in a large print, the elephant. Big. Beautiful. Calm. Powerful.
I have spoken only carefully, even here, about what calls me to these mountains. But ella sabe. In my path with sacred medicine, the elephant became a sign, a guardian. A reminder that I am never alone, even when I feel I am bregando solo. That I am watched over, protected, seen, even when the journey feels heavy.
It is hard to explain how an image on a hostel wall can calm your spirit unless you know what it is to sit with the medicine, to listen when ella esta hablando. The medicine teaches you to see differently, to catch those subtle signs, to trust them.
I know I carry a deep wound, and that a house divided can never stand. Por eso esta paz es tan necesaria. I needed to remember there is something ancient, something eternal, that will not let me fail.
Seeing her again, just in that moment, was enough. A quiet reassurance: vas bien.
Of course, even with blessings, you still have to work. There is no free towel at the hostel thirty thousand pesos to rent one, twenty back if you return it. The universe may protect you, but it will not carry you. You still have to walk.
In a few hours I will meet those who understand the language of the spirit.
Tonight, I rest in the knowing:
I am on the right path.
I am protected.
y estoy agradecido.
Qué chimba.