The candle is burning…

Yes, there are moments when I feel I am the luckiest person of this universe. For instance when in the middle of the jungle I am standing around a huge fire with the local Maya descendants, participating in a fire ceremony, my mind just stops working as it is not able to process the fact I am originated literally from the other part of the globe from a sleepy, small town of the flattest, most boring part of Hungary. (It is my own personal Kansas.) And that it is nothing else than a miracle that something guided me here from there.

I sneaked out to a fire ceremony with a friend in the time of corona virus. Officially after 5pm no one were allowed to leave their house. The rule breaker risked to get arrested. I thought as all local people will be there (might be the police person himself) there is no way not to be present for us. Worst case scenario I will spend some time with a whole Maya community in a jail. Even better.

People have been standing around the huge fire behind the local church. ‘Inglesia Catolica’ written on the facade. In the spot of the hesitantly placed wood cross a huge fire blazes. Even hundreds of years are not able to erase a thousands year old tradition. Nothing and no one is able to cut out that seed from the hearth of the people which gives them hope, fate, which helps them to live their life. Yes, it is possible to build a church during the day, but night time the walls will collapse and the fire became the ruler.

Children, adults, older people, people are not even able to stand climbed up to the top of the hill to be together this night to offer the ceremony for the ending of the virus, opening the nearby national park that creates income for the locals, to get healed, to give a birth for healthy baby and so forth.

Two men are dancing around the fire to the sound of the marimba which trickling down from the hill, filling up the valley, the river bank, colouring the sleeping darkness between the trees of the jungle. One of the dancing men gave me a piece of wood. I beset the piece of wood. I’m wondering what it should symbolise when it will be my turn to throw it into the fire?

I do watch people. On some of their face I tend to recognize the features of certain person from my life before Guatemala. They are not surprised by my presence though I am everything but similar to them. I do fit. There is space for me. They invite me to the first row to really see what is happening. It is hard to concentrate on my thoughts. I am lost in what surrounds me in the very moment.

Everyone gazes the fire. The shapes formed by the fire burned into my retina – the crazy twists, spirals, the gorging tongues as they are licking the dark nothing. The black smoke is scorching. Tears are running.

People are throwing their own piece of woods, their candles – tiny flames – into the giant bonfire. All the flames are merging. Or they have never been separated? The big fire will not be bigger or more. The small ones will not get lost. They never existed. The huge fire was pinned onto the tip of the candles. Fire-butterflies.

I’m walking around the fire. My soul follows the rhythm of the marimba. Now or never. Quickly, quickly, what do I want to get burned from my life? I do scan through my life. I feel endless gratitude for every moment I have behind me. I can forget myself that for a long time I was not able to fall in love with my life. Or just loved it far too much? Finally I throw the little piece of wood into the lunatic arms of the fire with everything it symbolises.

Ten o’clock in the night. We are walking home in the soaking dark through the jungle. My flip-flop gave up already on the first 100 meter when we left our home on the way towards the ceremony. The rainy season just recently started. I feel the mud squeezing through between my toes. Pachamama a bit slippery under my feet but at the end of the day she is there. Always. The thread leads us home is the babble of the river. The fire ecstatic pictures still hanging on the wall of my retinas. My lungs are overwhelmed by the smell of the flowers.

I do breathe. I breath my life in – through my roots from the Earth. Through my skin from the scorching of the fire. The cups of my pores get gently filled up with the drizzling rain. I feel peace. Harmony. There is nothing to burn. The ME like that has lost its sense. There is no ME. My life stories are just mirages. The ME is just the little piece of the universe found its home in my body.

The candle is burning…

(A magyar valtozat ekezetek nelkul olvashato.)

Eg a gyertya…

Igen, vannak pillanatok, amikor az univerzum legszerencsesebb emberekent letezem szemelyes adatnyilvantartasomban. Peldaul mikor a dzsungel kozepen maja leszarmazottakkal allok egy hatalmas tabortuz korul, tuz szertartason veve reszt, az agyam nemes egyszeruseggel kikapcsol, mert nem kepes feldolgozni a tenyt, hogy lenyegeben a foldgolyo masik felerol erkeztem, egy almos kis telepulesrol, hazam egyik leglaposabb, legunalmasabb sarkabol. (Az en szemelyes Kansas-em). Ez semmi mas mint csoda, hogy onnan valami ide vezerelt.

A tuz ceremoniara lenyegeben kiloptuk magunkat egy baratommal a korona lezarasok idejen. Hivatalosan delutan ot utan senki nem hagyhatta el az otthonat. A szabalyszegesert borton jar. Azon toprengtem, hogy valoszinu minden helyi ember ott lesz (talan maga a rendorseg kepviseloje is). Akkor pedig nem letezik, hogy pont en ne legyek ott. Legrosszabb esetben egy egesz maja kozosseggel mulatom idom a bortonben. Kivanni sem kivanhatnek egyebet.

Az emberek korbealljak a hatalmas tabortuzet a helyi templom mogott. ‘Angol Katolikus’, hirdeti a homlokzat. A ‘mintha csak veletlen’ leszurt fakereszt helyen most hatalmas tuz lobog. Hiaba evek szazai, evezredes tradicio nem radirozhato ki. Senki es semmi nem tudja az emberek szive melyerol kiirtani azt ami hitet ad, ami elni segit.  Lehet nappal templomot epiteni barmilyen isten neveben, de mikor leszall az ej, a falak leomlanak es fellobog az osi tuz.

Gyerekek, felnottek, idosebb felnottek, jarni szinte keptelenek mind felkapaszkodtak a hegy tetejere, hogy egyuttesen ajanljak fel e ceremoniat, kerve a virus jarvany veget, a kozeli nemzeti park ujboli megnyitasat, ami tobbseguk beveteli forrasa, vagy gyogyulasert, egeszseges gyermek szuleteseert fohaszkodjanak.

Ket ferfi tancol a tuz korul a marimba dallamara, mi lecsorog a hegyrol, megtolti a volgyet, a folyo medret, a dzsungel fai kozt szuszogo ejjeli sotetet. Az egyik tancolo ferfi egy fadarabot nyujt felem. Szorongatom a fadarabkat. Mit kepviselve vessem majd a langok koze, ha rajtam a sor?

Nezem az embereket. Nemelyikuk arcan felismerni velem otthoni ismeroseim vonasait. Nem utkoznek meg jelenletemen, holott minden vagyok, csak hasonlo nem. Elferek. Van hely. Az elso sorba tessekelnek, hogy lassam, mi tortenik. Nehez a gondolataimra koncentralni. Elveszek a tortenesekben ott kint.

Mindenki a tuzet bamulja. A tuz agai-bogai a retinamba egnek. Bele az orult csavarok, spiralok, a sotet semmit nyaldoso moho nyelvek.  A ferfiak arcan folyik az izzadtsag. Perzsel a fekete fust. Folyik a konny.

Dobaljak az emberek a maguk fadarabkait, gyertyait – apro langokat a hatalmas tabortuzbe. A langok egybekelnek. Vagy soha nem is voltak kulon? A nagy tuz nem lesz nagyobb, tobb. A picik nem vesznek el. Mert nem is voltak soha. A vegtelen nagy tuz volt mindig, gyertyak hegyere tuzve. Tuzpillangok.

Setalok korbe a tuz korul. A marimba ritmusara ring a lelkem. Most vagy soha. Hamar-hamar, mit is egetnek el? Vegigporgetem az eletem. Vegtelen halat erzek minden pillanatert, ami mogottem van. Most meg azt is megbocsatom magamnak, hogy oly sok even at nem birtam beleszeretni az eletembe? Vagy tulsagosan is szerettem? Vegul a tuz bomlott karjaiba vetem a fadarabkat, s mindent, amit kepvisel.

Este tiz van. Csurom sotetben setalunk hazafele keresztul a dzsungelen. A papucsom meg indulaskor feladta az elso szaz meteren. Esos evszakot irunk. Labujjaim kozt preseli at magat a sar. Foldanya picit csuszos alattam, de vegulis van, ott van, stabilan. A folyo csobogasa a fonal, ami menten haladunk. A tuz rajzolta orult kepek meg ott csungenek retinam falaim. Tudom csurig a viragok ragacsos illataval.

Lelegzem. Beszivom az eletet. A gyokereimen at a foldbol. Boromon at a tuz perzselesebol. Porusaim kelyheit a szitalo esocseppek finoman toltik szinultig. Beke van. Harmonia. Nincs mit elegetni. Az EN mint olyan elveszitette ertelmet. Nincs EN. A torteneteim csak delibabok. Az EN csak a nagy mindenseg egy a testembe szakadt picinyke darabja.

Eg a gyertya…