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| L-R: author's mother, sister, father, author. Mankayane, Swaziland, 1977 |
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| Ek Balam Cenote, Yucatan, August 2016 |
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| Swimming with the islas at Ek Balam Cenote, August 2016, Yucatan. |
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| Opening to the sky, Ek Balam Cenote, Yucatan, August 2016 |
Sitting Shiva and
Swimming in Cenotes
Last week, my son and I sat shiva with friends. Not being Jewish, and being an inherent
researcher I read up first since I was only passingly familiar with the practice.
What most struck me most was the
emphasis – the insistence - on taking time to grieve and to accept the help and
comfort of one’s community.
I was raised to offer and give help when family, friends,
and neighbours are, for example, ill or grieving or (best!) welcoming new
little ones. I was taught the importance
of attending important life events and providing support whenever I saw a need,
and it’s a deep part of my identity.
Take care. Show
up. Look for a way to help. Write a note.
Place a call. Bake a
casserole. Send flowers. Make a donation. Be available. Give space.
Pay attention. Listen.
Listen. Listen.
Yes, listen. And
while listening to those around you, also listen to yourself. Allow yourself space and time to feel, to
grieve, to let feelings and thoughts flow in a safe space to explore them as
fully as you can. Allow others to
express their care, and when they offer, tell them what you need.
My father passed away last spring, and I consciously worked
on finding safe spaces and times to let myself process what I was feeling, and what
this immense loss meant to myself, our family, our community. When in the summer we traveled to Mexico, I took
the opportunity of getting to swim in cenotes to reflect.
The Yucatan Peninsula is this giant slab of limestone thrust
out of the seabed millennia ago. The
soil is thin, and rain filters down through the porous stone feeding a giant underground
network of freshwater rivers, sometimes spilling out into caverns with openings
above.
Sacred to the ancient Maya, explored, mapped, and
investigated by archaeologists, local swimming holes and escape from the oppressive
summer heat, cenotes are all of this and more.
While most of them are hidden from common view and either difficult or
impossible to access from the surface, many cenotes are open and available to everyone.
And so there I was, scrawling down the slick limestone steps
with my family as we visited several cenotes, duly warned by hand-painted signs: “Friend
Visitor: Walk Carefully” and “Precautions Tourist Take Care of Your Self” and “If
You Can’t Swim Don’t Get in the Water”.
All fair and relevant points.
Once at the water’s surface, it was
usually a delicate and completely ungraceful scramble over sharp ledges (aided and encouraged
by abuelos and abuelas) and then plunging into deep, cold, and dense water.
I swam under the water, embracing the coldness (I was getting to swim in a cenote!). I floated on my back, looking up through the
opening to the sky above.
I thought about
life, death, birth, rebirth, memories, dreams, past, present, future, the underworld, earth, and heavens: these big impossible things. I felt
the islas (cave-dwelling fish) nibble my feet.
I watched bats spiral down through the sunlight. I heard my kids, and everyone else in the
cenote, shout and laugh and play.
I let
myself feel. And think. And ponder. And breathe, just breathe. And look, and listen.
And then I would dive back down, and swim back to the ledge, and let the
abuelos help me back out.
