A song por la luna y por ti
It was a full moon in Colombia, the “Wolf Moon” of January, and my fellow nomads were already waiting by the bonfire outside. Laughter and trails of music and mantras swept through the windows of my chalet as I readied myself for the cold mountain air. We were in Santa Elena—a little pueblo nestled in the mountains, just outside Medellin, and the nights and mornings always required fires to get the blood flowing again. With scarves wrapped round and round and uke in hand, I trudged up the little hill, guided by the flickering firelight and the illumination of my friends’ faces.
The night lost its chill when I reached the circle and exchanged warm hugs. I found my place in the huddle around the earthen fire bowl and relaxed as its bright blaze made my toes thaw and my face too hot. The Colombian woman to my left had also brought her uke. As she tuned, she told the story of how, a few years ago, she’d been in a coma for over a month—upon waking up, she’d heard beautiful music, and it had changed everything that had come before. It became her sacred work to sing medicine music and share the peace she’d found in her out-of-body wanderings. She began to sing in a voice of pure crystal that resonated around the circle and into our souls, and nothing else existed. It was the kind of voice that can only be gained when your spirit has traveled to the edge of death and back again. These songs told of oneness with the Source of all life, the adoration of the Universe, and our gratitude for Her care and love for us. My whole body felt calm as our voices lifted with hers, and it felt like nothing had ever been wrong in the world or could be wrong again.
When she finished, the circle turned to me and my ukulele. I played “Make You Feel My Love,” and the memories flooded back, and everything flowed and emptied through my voice and fingertips, releasing to become part of the consciousness of the world again. My friends were still, witnessing and understanding, for these experiences were shared by all of us. Time relented as the moon held us in her light, and another person offered a song, another a mantra, another a story, and with every offering, we became a deeper and higher part of the broader “us” that we all belonged to. Even the dark became friendly, hugging the edges of our circle where the firelight and shadows danced. I never wanted it to end, and I sang again and again. It was the most beautiful intimacy with these near strangers who, at that moment, were as close as any human had ever been to any other human.
It was late when we reluctantly said our goodbyes and let the fire burn down to embers, but I was younger and lighter than when the night began. With every song I’d sung that night, I’d recovered something I’d forgotten and released something that’d been too heavy. Something transcendent had happened in our communion in the mixing of firelight with moonlight—we left the circle knowing to our marrow that everything mattered and that we were seen. La Luna drew luminescent paths across the length of my bedroom through the curtains, and I fell asleep, grateful that I was never alone.