I Think I May Have Summoned the Dead in Guatemala. (Its OK, Were Related.)

What’s up, great-great-great-great-great-great-grandspirit?

Lake Atitlán in Guatemala is famous for its vortex, a supposed concentration of psychic energy that can have all sorts of wonky and wellness effects on the senses–if anecdotal evidence is to be believed.

The Three Giants–volcanoes Atitlán, Tolimán, and San Pedro–surround the cratered freshwater lake, which was formed 85,000 years ago due to their explosion. Atitlán, which means “the place where the rainbow gets its colors,” is believed to be a sacred place by the Mayans, who have inhabited the region for centuries. These are the facts.

Then, there’s the mysterious: at the Lake, the “astral veil”–the place where here and hereafter meet–is believed to be thin. This permeability allows cosmic energy to converge with the physical world, creating an opportunity to communicate with the gods and connect with the spiritual realm.

There is nothing I enjoy more than a transcendent leap onto another plane of existence. You’ve simply got to try it.

I was one of six newly acquainted women skeptically participating in a Mayan shamanic ceremony overlooking the mystical Lake Atitlán. I was absorbed in the Indigenous spiritual ritual meant to transform energy and provide healing–that sort of transcendence feels self-evident to me when I’m open to new experiences–but what I didn’t expect was a paranormal event. 

I went into the ceremony intending to learn about a sacred Mayan ritual and acknowledge with healthy skepticism any psychic phenomenon witnessed.

The ceremony started as we circled a fire pit and “communicated our intentions” (mine was pretty simple, a complete transformation into a decidedly “better” person). Suddenly, a spectacular wind whipped up the fire so it swirled up towards the sky, then dimmed to coals and embers, then sparked with firecracker colors (this is the place where the rainbow gets its colors!!!). A nervous stone plonked in my belly. The shaman, bemused, urged us to greet the Wind God and listen for his message.

Ninety minutes later, we were all weeping.

Chitchat and Chinwags

We were a perfectly pleasant group of participants, six women touring Guatemala together, first to Antigua to enjoy Spanish colonial architecture and top-notch coffee, then to Atitlán for nature’s majesty and mystic meaning. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to stay in the place where the rainbow gets its colors—an interpretation taken literally at Casa Palopó, the striking, multi-hued luxury boutique hotel on the shores of the lake where our ceremony was held. Dripping in hand-woven textiles, ceramics, and wood carvings, the hotel is a gorgeous kaleidoscope of local crafts and cuisine. We ladies had spent long dinners and longer car rides over the past few days bonding over Guatemala’s beautiful scenery and delicious food; we chatted about pop culture and politics.

But our conversations kept rolling back to the universal experience of family: our complicated and significant relationships with our parents and siblings, or lack thereof; partnerships and romantic love; our lives as children; our children’s lives. En route to Atitlán, our exchanges deepened further into the nitty gritty (and sometimes sensational) aspects of kinship: co-parenting; miscarriages; marital conflict and infidelity; birthing, fostering, and adopting children (or not having them at all); mom guilt; going low- and no-contact; generational trauma; sickness, aging, and death.

Did I mention it takes about three hours to get to Lake Atitlán?

At the time, no one realized we could be summoning our ancestors simply by speaking them into existence, but looking back, who could’ve resisted all that good family gossip?

Not my kin!

Boo-Hoo, Also, Boo, Who?

The shaman blessing is billed by Casa Palopó as a healing ceremony. Since I am a paradigm of mental health with no psychic wounds and who never cries (pass me my benzos and SSRIs), I did not expect that I would need any such “healing.” But I love the idea of wellness and self-care, and I wanted to see what kind of vortex energy might shine through, if any.

I tried out some of the more literal wellness activities offered by the hotel: painting and meditation kits; pillow menus and bathtub experiences; birdwatching and stargazing excursions; soundbaths, yoga classes, everything but the cosmic kitchen sink. I figured the bathtub experience–secluded on my outdoor patio and under the starlight, complete with candlelight, essential oils, and bougainvillea petals–would be the closest I got to the divine. It was pretty damn close.  

But then my new friends and I inadvertently hosted a phantasmic family reunion. 

The shaman blessing opened at sunset, on a grassy helicopter pad overlooking the lake and her Three Giants. The fire pit served as an altar, an offering to our ancestors and the Indigenous gods. The offerings placed in the fire included colorful candles, wood chips, seeds, herbs, flowers, cacao, and other local ingredients. The blessings were intended as a feast for these spirits (I should have known, my family loves to eat), and the shaman explained the symbolism of the items and colors placed in the fire.

The alchemy was fueled by our manifestations and intentions. Those always make me feel weird. I love the idea of aphorisms and self-love and putting things out into the universe and following your bliss or whatever, but it also makes me deeply uncomfortable, in that lol/cringe sort of way. Trying to be sincere–in public!–makes my heart palpitate. I started to sweat at the idea that my participation would need to be wholehearted if any of this was going to produce results. My anxiety rumbled at the anticipation of humiliation. Then the ceremonial directives started:

Give the rose your intention. Now place it on the fire.

Individually, purposefully, we stepped forward to sacrifice the flower. I looked up to see the woman at the edge of the group wiping tears from her face.

Drink the cacao. Let its warmth open your heart.

I sipped the bitter drink. Next to me, another participant began rubbing her eyes and sniffling. Was I supposed to be feeling anything besides alarmed and stressed that women in my vicinity were crying? The fire crackled as the wind whipped up again, diminishing to embers, then roared back to life. 

Let the feather’s tap release what’s trapped inside you. What do you want to let go?

This was getting so awkward. Everyone around me was crying. I tried to swallow the huge lump in my throat. I imagined a flashing sign: NOPE! NOPE! NOPE! Someone passed a tissue.

Tell the fire your parents’ names. Tell the fire your ancestors’ last names.

I spoke my family’s many surnames. No sooner had the words left my mouth than water began to fill my eyes. My body was betraying me. I gritted my teeth. The tears spilled anyway, and I rushed to wipe them away. I stole a glance at the other participants, all weeping unabashedly. Was this possession? Is a spirit puppeteering me?! 

But they weren’t pulling any strings. In fact, my strings had been cut: I seemed to unwind, to release. My shoulders relaxed, my muscles untensed. It was as though I’d been gently tucked into bed. My anxiety dissipated–instead, I felt comforted. I let myself cry.

What had I expected? I had called for my ancestors by name and invited them to our circle of gratitude. Why wouldn’t it get their attention? If my eternal slumber was being disturbed by some great-great-great-great-grandchild begging me to visit and offering treats and thanks, I’d definitely at least stop by to see what all the hubbub was about. And while I was visiting, I’d probably do what my older relatives do when they reunite with their younger generation: bestow praise and congratulations on them just for existing. And wow, did I feel that. It was like thousands of years of cheek-pinching aunties all grabbing hold at once. A tightly pressed but not unwelcome hug from a long-missed loved one.

Come See About Me (and Tea)

According to Mayan mythology, Huracán, the God of Wind, is often acknowledged as the deity who appears in every phase of human creation:

U K’ux Kaj (Heart of Sky—also called Huracán) … K’ux refers to the heart as the source of the “vital spirit” of a thing, or that which gives it life…it is also believed to be the center of thought and imagination. This deity, therefore, combines the powers of life and creativity … Heart of Sky is the deity who first conceives the idea of what is to be formed. Other deities then carry out his will by giving it material expression.

The Wind God is the bringer of storms and chaos, the necessary force that sparked creation and its manifestation on the physical plane. And what more significant creation of life (and chaos) is there but family?

So there we were, big ol’ emotions getting blown around by the surprisingly insistent Wind God, a mystic mystified by the blustery element, and a group of crying ladies. The shaman urged us to continue. I guess that meant just keep crying. And we sure did that.

The ceremony came to a close with renewed focus on gratitude, creativity, and probably some other things–I couldn’t properly pay attention by this point. We six sat around the smoldering fire in a bit of a daze, wiping our cheeks and gathering strewn personal effects. The wind died down to stillness.

We were directed to a private patio at the hotel to recover with fabulous local Guatemalan tea and pastries, but everyone, finally back in control of herself, was deeply bewildered by the unilateral blubbering reaction to the experience. I had no great healing or deep meaning to offer to the theories of why we’d lost our cool. But I had a hunch.

My relatives are the type of people who repeatedly yell your name from the other room when they want your attention, or to announce a meal. Eventually, curiosity (and hunger) will bring anyone to the table. If I know my family, they couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see what all the commotion was about. I had summoned my ancestors, and they had delivered a simple yet powerful message:

You’re doing amazing, sweetie!!!

Aw, shucks. It’s enough to make anyone cry. Either that, or it was just the wind in my eyes.