Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thanks for listening… please share! Last weekend was a special day for people whose faith is deposited in our Lady of Guadalupe. I’m generally not one for religion, but to understand Mexico, you have to understand the role of the Catholic Church and  La Virgen de Guadalupe, in Mexican’s identities. I use the plural, it’s not just one. I’m not going to discuss syncretism between the indigenous, African, and Spanish populations today, nor bloodshed and conquests. I’m going to open a door to a moment into my identity as a Mexican.
I woke up on Sunday, thrilled by what was in store. A morning of biking around a town called Tequisquiapan, in the state of Querétaro. I thought that the air would warm up by the time we arrived. It wasn’t the case, I could feel the cold wind, burn my skin, just a little. By the time the bells toll reverberated off the buildings, it was warm.
We heard the bells toll (ring), incessantly… I needed to see where it was coming from. I pushed my bike into the square and pulled out my phone… I wanted to record the sound of those bells. They were hypnotic. I pushed my bike to the fountain. I could see the bell tower and the young men swinging off the bells. There were so many people, flocking to the church. They sat outside… chanting. I still hadn’t realized what day it was. I never really thought about this day, much less desired to be in a place of worship on this day. I have a lot of family and friends that do. And that is just fine by me. My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shells… they ayoyotes rattled, then I smelled the copal incense…  A group of indigenous people entered the square, carrying a painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe. I swear I felt the earth shift… I know it was something inside of me shifting. They walked towards the church and entered. I stayed outside. I watched.
I thought I was just a bystander, an unintentional tourist. I wasn’t meant to be there, I was meant to be cycling, finding my way up a hill, shifting the gears, pushing myself… but no. I was there. Encapsulated by this moment. It was someone else’s, not mine. I was not meant to be there. I was only supposed to bike through. Not even a tourist, a temporary traveler. Not even for the day, just the morning... Those bells kept ringing, inundating the heavens, flooding my consciousness.
I can feel you, grandma.
That happened. I can feel you. Look, grandma, I am here.  I used to accompany you, because it was important to you. I know this was so important to you. I know she was important to you. She was the ultimate mother, our lady of Guadalupe, and you venerated her. Now here you have me. I never meant to be here. I am.
I sobbed, I sobbed for my grandmother, I sobbed because I was overwhelmed with the energy that went through me as if I were nothing and everything. I was reminded that I was mistaken if I thought I was not part of it. My atoms and sub-particles danced and participated. I could not put up any resistance. It was useless. I just let it happen. Let is a strong word. It happened to me.
I turned and saw families carrying images of La Virgen de Guadalupe, heading the call of the bells, maybe their faith. Groups of musicians with big brass instruments, in full uniform, crisp and clean. Today was a very important day. Mexico’s special mother.
I went from unintentional tourist to being pulled into the ground, rooted by my Mexican’s past, stunned, covered in tears, having shed something I never… I don’t know what.
As I saw the group of what I imagined were the heirs of the Chichimecas, leaving the Parish of Santa María de Asunción… It was time for me to leave too.
I was lighter, freer, and more connected to my Mexican Identity. ...

---

Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/musingsinterruptus/message