Soulful Travel: Mexico Pt 6 Finale - The End is the Beginning

Our Mexican adventure series comes to a conclusion with a kaleidoscope of rich experiences. We flashback to the end of episode 4, before the brush with the cartel, when my travel companions parted ways. I choose the call of the mystic path. Let’s rewind to this soul-stirring detour and then fast-forward because aren't all endings, simply new beginnings...

Our Mexican adventure has had 5 episodes (catch up here) and here is a flashback. Back in episode 4, we left off with emotional turbulence, sending us hurling in different directions to find refuge and recharge our senses. My go-to remedies? Retreating into stillness—picture a Maharaja draped in silk pillows—or diving into adventures where the wind rushes past my face. That day, I felt a pull toward altitude.

Leaving the steamy beaches and Mazunte’s rustic streets, we set off in our no-AC car, waving goodbye to palm-dotted farms. Within an hour, it was as if God had turned on the central air, and by hour two, we were layering winter coats over our shorts.

Winding through the mountain pass, we curved along ridgelines, zooming past rare, scattered houses clinging to cliff sides. As the sun began tucking behind the peaks and mist replaced its radiance, it became clear—we had entered a whole new world.

The narrow passageways soon widened just enough to contain San José, a tiny town seemingly cradled in the palm of God’s hand, high above the clouds.

A Night Among the Stars

Seeking warmth, we checked into a “fancy” forest hotel—only to find a sunken bed, a stubborn chimney, and cold water. Folded like a pretzel in six inches of bathwater, laughter became our only heat. But dinner saved the day. Beneath starlit skies, a 10-year-old waiter stole my heart, serving wine and his mother’s fresh pasta as we shared family tales perched on a hilltop.

Curious about the local culture, we asked his mother for adventure ideas. She offered two options the area was famous for: a spiritually guided quest with magic mushrooms or Temazcales (sweat lodges). Intrigued by the latter, we asked if she knew any wise elder women who could host us.

She vaguely recalled one but couldn’t remember her name. Still, the seed was planted, and our hearts were set on finding her.

A Journey to San Pedro

The next morning, we descended from our nest in the trees, fueled by fresh fruit and stories exchanged with a lovely young Mexican couple. Before continuing our search for the wise woman, we wandered through town to buy warmer clothes for the chilly nights. We hopped from one street vendor to another, supporting as many sweet ladies as we could—one wool sock from her, one scarf from the next. Our hearts felt both elated and heavy as each vendor beamed with gratitude over small earnings from their hand-sewn goods.

Ready with warm hearts and a mushroom-patterned hat too cute to pass up, we continued onward. No one in town seemed to know the wise woman. We paused for a restroom break at a roadside stop, and as we were leaving, I asked another girl. She leaned in and gently whispered, as if sharing a secret—Abuela Braulia vive en el próximo pueblo (Grandmother Braulia lives in the next town over).

We drove on, and the mountain ridge opened to reveal San Pedro—a nearby town brimming with vibrant, authentic expression.

We parked in the tiny center plaza surrounded by children playing ball, a bright green mini mart, a church, and a market likely the same since the 1900s. We parked before a lovingly decorated hut and asked the shop keeper, who gave us a general direction. Down this street, turn left…past the houses...Later, we discovered just around the bend, an artist covering the streets in giant murals who's images leaped from the walls, like prayers of hope at the heart of this town.

We meandered through increasingly narrowing passageways, past humble dwellings, and to where we estimated we might find this abuela.

My friend gently shouted towards the dwelling from the sidewalk: (¡Buenos días! ¿Se encuentra Señora Braulia? Just then, a little petite elder lady appeared. Her spirit felt familiar. This stranger felt like my own madrina (godmother).

My godmother, Caridad González, was a Cuban woman of deep faith who never had children of her own but embraced our family as if we were her own. When my grandfather arrived in this country—blind and alone with two small children—she became our family’s angel. Volunteering through her church, she helped raise my mother and uncle, offering them love and stability when they needed it most.

Years later, she poured that same love into my brother and me, nurturing us with abundance until her own angels called her away—light spilling into the room as she passed.

Her warmth and wisdom continue to resonate with me, and in this remote mountain village, I felt that same energy all around me.

Her warmth and wisdom resonate with me still, and I felt that same energy here, in this remote mountain village..

A Sanctuary of Peace

Warmth and strength of faith radiated from Abuela Braulia. She invited us to stay the night, and her son led us just 20 steps away, across the alleyway. The orange clay path guided us to a small lot with two adobe cabins, a courtyard, and a Temazcal built by locals. Surrounded by modest homes, it felt like an oasis—I was immediately swept with a sense of peace.

I had sought comfort in a fancy hotel, but here, in this humble setting, the energy exuded a comfort that seeped into my bones and touched my soul. It was not just grounding—it radiated a frequency that felt magnetic, an energy that pulled us into these grounds, not just devoted but drenched in sacred prayers.

Grins overtook our faces—it felt like divine synchronicity to have landed in this dot on the map. Abuela Braulia had her son begin preparing the Temazcal as we settled in, changed for our steamy adventure, and prepared for the lessons whispering to us.

Once the hot stones were ready, Abuela Braulia joined us, and we stepped into the small, warm adobe dome. Her son carefully heated volcanic stones and river rocks in a cauldron, placing them inside by getting down on his knees and using a shovel to bring them in while not entering himself to honor the sacred space and the purity of us women fully present for the ceremony.

Abuela Braulia would reach into a bucket of water beside us and with cupped handfuls gently ladle it over the stones, each splash releasing thick, steamy clouds that wrapped around us, filling the space with a dense, cleansing warmth. She'd shared words of wisdom and invite us to take turns cupping the water and rizzling it on the stones while sharing our own calls to prayer.

Doorways Through Time Abuela Braulia led us inside, crouching down in her simple cloth dress as she settled onto a small wooden stump. Her petite, frail figure contrasted with the strength in her penetrating gaze, which caught the fading light of dusk. She began by pouring water over the hot stones. As crackling sounds filled the space and the first hints of mist rose, she leaned in, almost as if sharing a secret, and explained that the ritual follows four stages—each a doorway honoring different phases of life.

The First Doorway: Ancestral Honor
First, we honored our ancestors and then turned to thoughts of our own mothers and the mothers of the world. My friend led heartfelt prayers for the countless mothers in Mexico and around the world who’ve lost children to violence and forced disappearances. She drove her words with such conviction through the misty smoke, it felt like a doorway opened into the experiences of these women—phantom spirits seen in the swirling vapor. It was as if we were vessels for their pain, calling it in, sweating it out, and alchemizing it into healing energy, sent to them as transmuted prayers.

The Second Doorway: Birth and Innocence
In the next stage, we reflected on our own life since birth—our youth and the children of the world, who do not choose the state of the world they inherit. I’ve never had children, yet I’ve always felt a strong connection with them. On this stage, with each gasp of steam, I felt I was drawing more deeply to child in me—reconnecting to the essence of innocence and purity.

Abuela Braulia left us after a while. My friend and I continued unprompted yet somehow guided, taking turns sharing words that seemed to seep from our hearts into the rising vapor. Huddled inside this clay womb, the few colored pieces of glass embedded in the ceiling felt like our only connection to the outside world. With each release of steam, we dropped deeper into a trance-like state—melding with the earth as if cradled in its womb, while glimpsing at the whole of life, vast and infinite, like the stars scattered across the night sky.

One hour or more slipped away into the cooling call of night.

The Third Doorway: Adulthood and Guardianship
For the third doorway of life, we prayed for the wisdom of adulthood—a time when we are called to be leaders of humankind and guardians of the planet, yet so often become too distracted by modern life to grasp the gravitas of the moment and realize we are shooting stars—briefly lighting the night sky before surrendering to the darkness. Another hour must have slipped away.

Following Abuela Braulia’s previous guidance, we let each ember fade completely, then flipped the stones as we poured water over them—allowing their fiery glow to release purifying steam. Only when the embers were completely out, would we call out to Abuela Braulia's son for him to bring in fresh stones to open the next door in the ritual. Suspended in this stage, another hour easily slipped away.

Finally, for the final door we acknowledged the quiet dimming of our last days. And as if to die right there is this moment, we felt drawn to lay down on the cool clay floor in complete surrender. It was as if there was nothing else left to do, we had passed the whole of cycle of life in our heart-mind-soul and were now like the last flickers of fading embers.

While this ended up a rare private experience between my new female Mexican friend and I, I felt like we were in the company of our ancestors and the Godverse.

With nothing but water and steam, we were transported into a state where 3 hours slipped away unnoticed and with it the weight of world seemed to evaporate.

When it was over, we dashed across the cool soil of the courtyard, the brisk air tickling the skin and took cold outdoor showers. Afterwards, stepping into our cozy adobe cabin, I immediately felt like a baby nodding off while standing. This handmade haven felt like I was again a baby in my mother’s embrace.

That night, I slept as if I had in fact physically cycled through every stage of life, and was in this slumber reaching a rebirth, which I now see was the Temazcal's exact intended purpose.

The next morning, I felt brand new as I began to pack up. Abuela Braulia came over and insisted on cooking her semi-sweet tortillas over leña (wood logs).

While she prepared breakfast, she shared stories of her life and her connection to the local mushrooms—wisdom passed down from her grandmother, whose image was painted on the wall. She spoke of the mushrooms as the true wise elders.

Her son showed us the different types—each, he explained, a teacher in its own right. Though we partake during this trip, learning about their perspective was fascinating and left us with a sense of reverence for their traditions.

Before heading out, we were eager to support Abuela Braulia. We paid for the cabanas and the experience, but learned from her son that most of the funds would not go to her, but rather the owners of the land.

I wanted to give her and her family some extra cash and a new sweater, as hers was battered and torn. Yalo asked Braulia's son for his suggestion, and he said what she needed most was groceries. We wandered through the meandering streets to a local store that felt like a 1900s pharmacy from a bygone era.

As we loaded up on a ridiculous amount of food, a few of the older women—each coincidentally named Maria—were captivated by our overflowing food box, so we gifted them some treats as well. The tiniest Maria had a flashing smile, a wicked laugh, and did a little dance to show off her style. She was simply delightful.

We returned with our gifts and shared warm embraces with Braulia and her family. She was shy about receiving anything and have us her godsend. Her son offered us some wild-picked mushrooms, so I bundled a small bouquet to bring back to our friends in Mazunte.

Here are a few moments worth highlighting to wrap this adventure up!

Flash forward to being back on the beach after our mental cartel scare, I took a day venturing through tiny towns with Ania and another day went snorkeling in Erandi. One afternoon, we stopped in a secluded beach cove with beers in hand, when two men walked up, took off their swim trunks, and, hand in hand, waded into the water. I snapped this photo of their clasped hands and sweet cheeks, a glowing declaration of love against the raging sky.

I felt what I call divine whispers nudging me—it was time to start heading back home to the States. Miami awaited, with projects in energy wellness calling me to California. And perhaps, most of all, it was my adorable dog, who’s care had been tag-teamed by my awesome parents but was keeping them up, searching for me in the dark. After saying my goodbyes, the girls dropped me at the bus stop.

Once again I ascended from the beach into the Sierra Maestra valley and mountains to make my way to capital of the Oaxacan State. And here are less words and more images to bring her feeling to you at home.

Oaxaca, famous for inspiring Pixar’s movie Coco, is a vibrant tapestry of color, bustling streets, and lively calacas—the skeleton figures so integral to Día de Los Muertos. The city overflows with alebrijes, fantastical creatures crafted from wood or papier-mâché in vivid colors, introduced by artist Pedro Linares in the 1930s and now a hallmark of Oaxacan folk art.

I loved my Airbnb nestled in colonial architecture, with hidden courtyards hinting at its past life as a grand estate. A free walking tour led us through local history, stories of Oaxaca’s most famous and controversial president, and the tales of an activist who ran through the streets with kites printed with the faces of missing youth, all while giving out tamales as a statement on McDonald’s lack of nutritional value.

The food was decadent—yellow, red, and black moles that revealed the strength and cultural richness of Oaxaca. I watched artisans craft fabric on ancient looms and wandered among murals of Frida and calacas, feeling the pulse of the city in every alley.

While sharing experiences is beautiful, solitude creates the space to let a place’s energy sink in. Alone, my senses awakened fully, allowing me to feel the heart of Oaxaca. I returned with handmade treasures—a painted hat, a wooden spoon from a family of artisans, and an alebrije carved by another family. Each piece is like a small relic of this adventure, carrying the stories of those who made them.

THE END...IS JUST THE BEGINNING!

HAPPY NEW YEAR~~~~~~ May all your hearts desires, dreams, and adventures be as bright, tasty, and heart pumping as this one was us.

From my heart, thank you for your patience, support, and energy!!!!

Note to Supporters: Thank you for your awesome support and patience in 2024. After deep diving in this multimedia blog experiment, I had to shift gears in the winter to hustle to bring home the bacon. It's natural that life ebbs and flows but I wanted to end with a vibrant bang, so I hope you enjoyed this mini book, photo magazine, and quest rolled together!!!! ENJOY! I'll be reaching out for feedback to collaborate on 2025 planning!