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Death on Dying: Toltec Telling

By: Viento de Octubre

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The stories of the times when it seems that death brushed by us come to rest in my heart softly. The story of the people in the family, my brothers, sisters, mother, father, and others huddled together in the darkness, Pirata not barking, soldiers banging at the gate and their guns and tanks roaming outside tell of the times just before death. It is odd in a way to know how calm they reacted, just waiting, some, and others wanting it to be over, hoping it would not happen. In different occasions I have known, when thinking of these narratives, that death came close.

Koyote's achieved something in the Toltec art of the story telling, which allows for a vision of what really took place. Death was not avoided. He shows it in the theater, in the tone, in the appearance. Death did come. Death did happen. All those times where the consciousness continues the game of memory and association are but the extension of the thread of consciousness. How many times I've missed it before! While going for a drive on the freeway, high on marijuana, a single blast of the air-horn from a semi explodes in my head. I swerve from right to left. I adjust well and am able to continue down the road—a spawning point. Death came and I did not even notice—death on dying. How many times has Koyote died in El Salvador, only to grasp his story is not dependent on time, and consciousness is not linear and 3 D.

Proceed ahead and I reach the moment when we lose connection with the online broadcast of Koyote's Telling and the moderators of the online group. We who are tuning in from a distance all wait, as in the living of El Salvador, when they awaken us kids up from our beds on the second floor of the house early one morning and they brought us downstairs to wait and be together. Gun fire was heard just outside the windows; screams from grown-ups outside that appeared frantic, full of directives and orders; boots of running feet stomping on our sidewalk; big vehicles with metal-chain tires rumbling down the street, shaking every window, shaking every wall, quaking our floors. Pirata was also silent then, and Oti, my cat, was just outside on the window sill. I asked my dad to let her in but he patted the back of my head instead, telling me that the doors and windows do not open anymore. They stay shut until the fighting stops. We wait, suspended in our little island in cyber-space, knowing this happens often, like us children in the living room of El Salvador. Soon, it will be over.

As I wait, disconnected from the ongoing performance, I feel my anger, my demon talking, that son-of-a-bitch. I am angry, unable to handle my resent disembodiment with the grace and skill I once knew. I blame others, the spirits, the unresponsive guides, as if I am the sufferer, the only one that is. I feel a blare-up; it is the demon, the Me-Within, the I-Demon, telling me to leave; it's been forty minutes and nobody has given a shit that you are no longer with them; just disconnect and go! I oppose those orders, but I unable to control my bitch, the demon; and the anger and rage are contained within my shell. It is clear to those close to me.

When we are linked again, Koyote starts to breathe and sing, or hum. It is very potent, the vibration, the vigor, the impulse shakes the horrifying demon scared. It cleanses and soothes, though they feel harsh. It sounds like an alien attempt, from out of this universe.

Facing death with a bit of awareness is a great teaching, a great practice that has arisen with this Telling. The Tequihua Foundation:www.tequihuafoundation.org

Article Source: http://depositarticles.com/

Viento de Octubre, member of The Tequihua Foundation and practitioner of the Aka Dua, with a Level Three Mastery certificate in the mail to prove it, embodies the stink and the wisdom of the Holy Hobo by coincidental choice and not any particular practice or discipline. Born of the Volcano, Viento De Octubre remembers his name when the voice of his Teacher Koyote is heard, has been given the work of remembering the call of his ancestors, and rema

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