This story, while miraculous, is also quite personal and it takes a bit of vulnerability on my part to share it. I was having trouble with being triggered by things that were bringing up a lot of very intense old anger, anger from things that happened more than 20 years ago. I had been through years of therapy, and nothing seemed to help. In general, I am a pretty calm and happy person, but it was very troubling when one little trigger could through me off for hours. So, I sa

copal used for cleansing. The room is small. Not ceremonial in the way people imagine ceremony. No costumes. No props arranged for effect. Just a modest space with blue walls, a low wooden bench, an altar table worn smooth by years of use. Don Francisco places the copal beneath the bench before I sit. Not on a table. Not raised. It burns underneath me — lemony smoke rising slowly through the wood, surrounding the body first, not the mind. A single candle is lit and left to bu

Me on a Mexican beach wearing my amulet. Don Francisco once placed an amulet in my hand — small, ordinary-looking to anyone else, but heavy with something deeper. He told me: “When you need something, hold it and think of the outcome — not the problem. Imagine what you want as if it has already happened.” I listened, the way you listen when an elder speaks — with more than ears. Later that year, I flew to the United States to visit my son. In my rush at the airport, I forgot

She arrived leaning heavily on a cane — every step measured, every movement stiff with pain. A knee injury from her youth, decades old now, worn into her bones. Doctors had recommended a replacement. She was in her sixties. She walked slowly, carefully, bracing herself against the world. We drove three hours into the Yucatán for a limpia with Don Francisco — healer, yerbatero, a man who works with more than herbs. While we traveled, she told me how long she had suffered. I co

We don’t do sound baths or yoga. We have a lovely friend who some might call a shaman, but he calls himself a yerbatero. He doesn’t wear feathers, and I have never seen him blow a conch shell. In fact, he usually wears his only white shirt, a pair of old slacks and a very cheap pair of flipflops. . . . For I do believe it is the magic that becomes the medicine. But it is not an easy magic nor one that can be quantified or explained. Rather it is experienced, in all its raw

A simple white taper candle, short and unobtrusive is standing on a plate in a tiny mountain of wax drippings. Can you imagine its calm flam

Gods and goddess ringed the circle, Ixchel the goddess of childbirth, Yum Kaax the lord of the forest, and most importantly, Chaac, the red

It is called a sastun in Maya and is powerful, magical, and necessary to be considered a shaman in the Yucatan. It is extremely rare!

The next night, something amazing happened. I went to bed and as things began to quiet down around me my mind began to drift. I remembered

He prayed in Mayan for a few minutes. I sat with my eyes closed, still a bit in awe and just trying to relax and take it all in.

And, though it may be powerful, it is humble and does not attract attention to itself. It is not filled with fanfare nor is it beautiful.

San Pedro is the name of the remote pueblo. It boasts no church, nor central park. I am not sure if it even has a tiny store where you can

Don Francisco drying wild harvest medicinal plants When we arrived, Don Francisco took us out into the garden behind his traditional Maya...

Don Francisco, our good friend and shaman, has often spoken of finding answers in your dreams. One day I was visiting with him and asking...

I was thrilled. We stopped the car and I got out and approached the shrine. It was small, unassuming. Nothing about it shouted, “Here I am!”

I just returned from the wedding of the youngest daughter of my good friend and shaman (healer/herbatero), Don Francisco. It was a 3 day...

I ventured into the heart land of the Maya world on the Yucatan Peninsula to see what the local people have to say.

I was stunned at its size and its depth. A bit nervous, I moved toward the edge, assured by the men that the ground would not give way.

The is a story about heavy warnings from a shaman, shapeshifting, and pottery. I loved a book called Incantations. It’s written by Maya wo

The cows were getting sick without a known cause. Something unexplained was infiltrating the farm. Something evil.