Altared Consciousness A Place to Heal

On a chilly, overcast morning, I found myself standing in the main plazaof San Juan Chamula, a small town about two miles north of SanCristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico. I had just bought a ticket fromthe tourist ofce that gave me permission to enter the church of SanJuan Baptista; which depending on who you spoke to, was also referredto as the Templo de San Juan.

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Men dressed in white wool jorongos stood at the entrance, holding large batons, friendly but imposing.  They were there to make sure I had registered and respected the warning on my ticket.  This was not a Catholic church nor a curated museum of antiquities.  On the other side of the door, was a sacred space of devotion; and a place where ‘curanderos’, those that cure, met with those seeking to be cured.  I had arrived with my own wounds, wondering if a curandera could help me.

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A gently edited version of my travel journal, describing my visit on Sunday, November 23, 1997:

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“I was not prepared for how dark it would be inside.  The dim morning light entered through two arched windows on the east wall; the only windows of the cavernous space.  As my eyes adjusted, I saw that green pine needles covered the stone floor and smoke from copal filled the air.  On my right, babies were being baptized. Their crying made it difficult to hear the chants of the curanderos that sat with numerous small groups of three to eight people in the center of the church.  All of the pews had been removed long ago.  On the floor, and on tables along the inner perimeter; the light of hundreds, perhaps thousands of white candles illuminated the deepest shadows.  The scene was a mixture of baptisms, consultations and tourism.  I found myself easily irritated by the visitors that awkwardly stepped among what appeared to be intimate gatherings.  I realized how foolish I was thinking that I might meet with a curandera this morning.  One of the church caretakers stood next to me.  He nodded at the tourists with a smile, saying quietly in Spanish, ‘It’s their/your own place.’  And with a kind gesture, he invited me to step forward and join the others for a closer look.”

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“As I made my way towards the far end of the church, the baptisms concluded and the sightseers departed for their next destination, dramatically transforming the atmosphere.  I was aware of being the only non-Chamulan, making my way awkwardly through the darkness.  In an effort to be respectful, I didn’t allow myself to stare for long at the curandero rituals; alternating my gaze between them and the statues of saints that were looking down at me. Some of the saints wore familiar tunics; while some were dressed in colorful regional fabrics.  All of the saints either held a mirror in their hand; or wore one around their neck.  I avoided seeing my own reflection.  The robes of one statue were being changed by a caretaker, as two other caretakers stood inside its glass display case; ready to lift the saint up and put it back in place.  These gestures of tenderness and familiarity put me at ease, and I began to notice the vivid details that surrounded me with relaxed attention.”

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“The curanderos wore beautifully crafted clothing.  Chanting as they brushed away pine needles to expose the tile below, thin candles would be lit and quickly placed in rows of various designs.  The chanting would continue, as the candles burnt to the floor making puddles of wax, while new rows would be put in place.  Chickens and eggs were used as vessels for removing “illness”.  Bottled sodas and the traditional fermented drink Pox (pronounced 'posh') were sipped. The sounds of people burping harmonized with the chants of the curanderos; somehow not sounding irreverent at all.” 

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“My affection for this community grew with each step, and I looked towards the exit with reluctance.  I was pleased to delay my departure by pausing at the statue of ‘Lupita’, the Virgin of Guadalupe.  I placed my coin in the donation dish and asked for her blessing.  A moment later, I was crying.  Surprised and overwhelmed by the sudden intensity of my feelings, I choked back my tears. And although I wanted nothing more than to light a candle and kneel at her feet to sob, I quietly and quickly made my way to the door, without looking back.”

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The rest of my brief time in Chamula was a series of miscommunications and social blunders.  It was a relief when I finally found a microbus on its way back to San Cristobal.  By the next day, I regained my composure and wondered about the experience and my reactions to it.  Regretting that I had left so abruptly, I wrote down all that I could remember of my morning inside the Templo de San Juan, making a poor sketch of the church interior to capture the memory that was already fading.

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Searching for a fresh perspective and an alternative method of tending to lifelong wounds, I had traveled to Chiapas.  I dreamt of finding a curandera that would not only cure me, but also accept me as her apprentice, sharing her ancient wisdom with me..  Instead, I was ashamed and embarrassed by the aimless young woman that I saw in the mirror. Nonetheless, something profound had occurred before I departed through that sacred wooden door.

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"It’s almost like there was a door inside my chest that had never been opened.  And all of a sudden somebody opened it."

~Trevor Noah

A candle inside my heart had been lit.  The light was dim but steadfast.  A few weeks later, the flame grew as I carried it with me on my pilgrimage to thank ‘Lupita’ for her blessings and celebrate her Feast Day at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City.

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This time I did not walk away from her or my tears.

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There are times when I forget about my candle and avoid mirrors… until I am reminded of “my own place” and how bright it can be.

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“Be generous with your joy. Give away what you most want. Be generous with your insights and delights. Instead of fearing that they’re going to slip away and holding on to them, share them.”

~Pema Chödrön

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Meet the Author

Rebecca Zendejas has had a lifelong fascination with places of worship and the creation of sacred space within daily routines. Inspired by the celebrations of Samhain and Dias de los Muertos, in October of 2020 she created a Community Memorial Altar at Paradise Found. The public was invited to add the names of departed loved ones to the altar. In the years that have followed, it has become a beloved autumn ritual. As an artist and woodworker, Rebecca designs and creates one of a kind altars for the home, office and community spaces. She can be found on Instagram @zendohous or contacted by email: zendohous@gmail.com.

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