Valladolid (Part II)
(This story begins with Valladolid Part I)
Dinner is served.
I survey my food. Immediately a name drops into my left ear. “Maria” is indicating she’s Sophia’s mother. She’s trying to reach her daughter, but Sophia is stuck in her own tragedy of some four hundred years ago. She’s unaware of the support available to her. Her mother is there and can’t help her.
Maria is concerned. That’s why she’s here by my chair. She knows Sophia can see me. I’m the bridge.
Kate interrupts the impressions flowing into my mind.
”Is there something else? What’s going on?” Again, Kate is sensing but not seeing this energy. Because she’s a little nervous, Kate has unconsciously dialed down her clairvoyance and clairaudience – kind of like safety valves being shut off.
But Kate’s body has sensed the new energy around her. And herein lies a valuable tip for you, dear Reader: If we choose to listen, our body can be our strongest intuitive tool.
I tell Kate: “Sophia’s mother is named Maria. She’s here in Spirit. She’s trying to reach her daughter. But Sophia doesn’t see her. She doesn’t realize she’s not alone. She’s earthbound. Her mother is not. ”
“Poor Sophia,” says Kate.
“Poor Mom,” I reply.
Time for the dessert menu.
“Helado, por favor” is one Spanish phrase Mathilda has quickly learned to use. There is no doubt: Mexicans know how to make delicious ice cream. As the waiter takes our dessert orders, I’m given the nudge. And I step in without hesitating.
I glance up at the mesero. “You have worked here a long time?”
“Two years now,” he nods pleasantly.
I take a deep breath to try and remove the sheepish look that’s developing on my face. I ask, “This is probably an unusual question, but… have you had any strange experiences here… with ghosts? Spirits?”
The table seems frozen in time. Little Mathilda is staring at me with jaw dropped: She knows I don’t normally talk about this stuff with strangers. My husband has his eyes trained on the white linen tablecloth in front of him. He seems distant. Perhaps he’s reevaluating his choice in life partner? Kate is staring expectantly at the mesero, waiting for his reply.
The waiter’s eyes instantly enlarge.
“Espiritus? Fantasmas???? Siiii!!! Siiii!!!!”
And before I can say another word, the waiter leaps into an extraordinary tale in Spanish. Just this past week the overnight chef (there’s 24-hour room service here) heard the loud cries of a young woman. The sounds came from above his head, while he worked in the kitchen. The cries seemed to move around in the darkened restaurant. The chef was terrified. It happened around 3 a.m.. Earlier other staff members have seen the apparition of a young woman floating up and down the inner arcade dressed in a wedding dress. And also recently, the newspaper was in to take photos of the restaurant, and when the pictures were viewed, a shadow appeared to be moving across the room in the photos.
In English, I relay the mesero’s surprising story to Kate. She’s staring back at me in astonishment. And what might be described as a poorly disguised grin. We simultaneously raise our hands to high-5 each other. It’s always nice to get third-party confirmation of intuitive hits – validation supports the learning curve and develops our ability to trust the messages. Trust is fundamental to mediumship.
I’m feeling a little guilty about my impromptu glee.
A high-5 is not particularly respectful to Sophia who’s lost and needs help. I turn to the waiter.
“You have a ghost here. We’ve seen her every time we’ve visited. Don’t worry. She’s a nice young lady. Her name is Sophia. She died here in the 1600’s. She was engaged. She is looking for her husband-to-be. She died of some kind of poisoning. It was painful. She doesn’t know she died.”
The waiter’s eyes are saucers. Mexicans seem much more open to other-worldly worlds. He quickly excuses himself to place our order of ice cream. I can only imagine the conversation going on in the kitchen right now.
The four of us quietly await dessert.
It’s time to honor and close the session: I pull in and turn down my energy. I breathe through my chakras and cut any energetic chords that may have attached. I ask for assistance with Kate, and feel Kate’s energy being pulled in, turned down and cleared. She’s too excited right now to pay attention to these protocols. I thank all involved and say a prayer – asking that Sophia and her mother, the chef and the hotel staff be assisted in this experience. I rewrap us all in light – to make sure we don’t bring home an uninvited souvenir.
My husband breaks the silence.
With his logical inquiring mind, he’s been carefully appraising what just happened. Hubbie eludes to my Spanglish: It’s passible, not flawless. Something could be lost in my translation. The details of the waiter’s story are uncannily synchronistic with Sophia’s appearance. My quick interpretation of the waiter’s words is possibly too good to be true?
“When did he say they saw the ghost? When did the chef hear the woman crying? Seems like it was a long time ago?” Hubbie wants to be sure I’m not making a quantum jump to conclusions. He heard what the mesero said, but the waiter was talking so fast, it was hard to take it all in.
I want to clarify this information too.
The mesero approaches with his arms full of ice cream. And without hesitating, he speaks to me in English, “It’s very interesting what you say about the Lady fantasma.”
“Yes,” I say. “We’ve been here a number of times. This is our fourth year. She’s here every time. There is no need to worry. She’s just sad. She’s also in pain. She was not well. Her mother is also here. Her name is Maria. She’s not a ghost. She’s in spirit. She wants to help her daughter.”
The waiter nods his head.
“The chef es soprendido (shocked). He hear the cry of a woman. It is 3 o’clock in the morning. Nobody else here. He hear the cry move around the restaurant. He come out here. But she is nowhere. He go to the kitchen. He scared. ”
“When did the chef hear the woman crying?” I inquire matter-of-factly.
“Two nights ago, Lady.”
“When did the people see the lady floating through here in the wedding dress?”
“Just a few days ago, Lady.”
I further my questioning. “Where did the chef hear the noises?”
“Around here, Lady.” The mesero points to the area of the restaurant around us.
“Where exactly? Do you know?” I ask.
With his index finger pointing up, the waiter makes an L-shaped motion in the air that delineates the area below Sophia’s upstairs quarters.
Kate is now bouncing in her seat.
I’m smiling. I point to the Juliette balcony in the far corner overlooking the courtyard. “Sophia’s bedroom was over there.” Then I point to the area above our heads. “And her main living area was here.” With my index finger above my head, I retrace the same L-shaped area the waiter just traced – the same one Sophia had shown us earlier. “She moves in this whole area.”
The bug-eyed waiter nods emphatically, “SI! SI!”
My husband is silent, but his energy has shifted.
There are no more questions. Every once and awhile, my husband needs a little extra reassurance. It can be a surreal experience for even seasoned spectators like my husband to watch how easy it is to access other planes of consciousness.
I admit: It can take a leap of faith to absorb this as real. Even for me. Even with witnesses. Why do you think I write them down? I’ve learned that fully processing the experience is a critical aspect of being a clear and accurate medium. Writing helps me integrate what I’ve learned and becomes a part of my new normal. Back to the story….
I reassure the mesero.
“Please tell the chef there is nothing to worry about. Tell him she’s sad. Please let the other staff know not to be afraid. She’s just a nice young lady who is lost. She’s been very sick.”
I don’t want these people to be freaked. They have to work here. It can be unnerving. Especially late at night. I know what it’s like.
I explain that the fantasma is the reason why I asked the waiter earlier about El Mesón’s history. I mention that I clear spaces of ghosts and other uncomfortable energy. Ghosts are normal. Sophia is not a bad ghost. She’s upset.
The mesero has a lot to process.
And it’s only his first table of the evening. He manages another nod.
We leave the cloistered confines of El Mesón. This courtyard looks very different now that we’ve had a glimpse of the ‘living’ history of this colonial hacienda. The night air is fragrant. A full moon shines upon the Zócalo. The main square is packed with people. The Cathedral is holding Sunday night Mass.
My busy-mind is already gearing up to chastise me with thoughts like this: “What was THAT all about? You didn’t actually DO anything! You say you only like to deal with ghosts when you can help them to the light… She’s still a ghost!”
And she goes on, my inner mean girl.
Ahh. The ego. It wants to beat me up to take control. Ego is right. I left the gal in limbo. Some places I can clear from a distance. Other clearings – like this one where a spirit is firmly entrenched – are not so easily done over dinner. I’m not going to beat myself up. I acknowledge these thoughts and put them aside.
My calm-mind, my higher self, slides in. Its message: “You helped people. You left it better. All is well.”
It seems each of us received something of value. My question was answered. It’s a haunting not an imprint. The Spirits of Maria and Sophia were acknowledged; Sophia was given an empathetic ear to tell her story to; Kate and Mathilda got to participate in a spiritual encounter in real time; Hubbie got third party proof; Our waiter and the chef (and possibly the entire hotel staff) got reassurance. Everyone was given a compassionate perspective, not a fearful one.
Epilogue.
Next morning back at the B&B, we’re chowing on delicious Huevos Casa Hamaca. I ask our knowledgeable host about El Mesón: Denis knows the current owners who started the hotel back in 1967. It was a ruin before they turned it into their home and a 4-room hotel. It’s grown ever since to some 90-rooms and 4 stars. El Mesón is considered one of the oldest buildings in Valladolid. It’s captured a steady lunch business from a few bus-tours who’ve chosen a mid-day stop in the region.
Denis side-tracks to Valladolid’s recent honor as a “Pueblo Magico” by the Mexican Tourist Board. The new “Magical Villages Program “points visitors to a series of towns around Mexico that offer a “magical” experience – because of their natural beauty, cultural riches, or historical relevance. I tell him we are captivated by the history of this town. (I don’t mention Sophia.) I work around to asking him what kinds of things people naturally died of back in the 1600’s. Without prompting, Dennis cites dengue fever as a common plague.
When we fly home, one of my first pursuits, after laundry, bills, grocery shopping and answering messages, is online research. I find no specific historical information about El Mesón. But what I uncover about Valladolid validates the scenario Sophia had shown us.
Valladolid has a rich yet violent history.
The city was founded by Francisco de Montejo, who had been gifted all land east of Mérida by his ambitious Spanish conquistador uncle (founder of Mérida) of the same name. The first Valladolid was established by Montejo on May 27, 1543 at a lagoon called Chouac-Ha some distance from the current town. But it was not a success: Early Spanish settlers complained about the humidity, mosquitos and the malaria at the original location, and petitioned to have the city moved further inland.
On March 24, 1545, Valladolid was relocated to Zaci, an ancient Mayan town named after the adjacent deep cenote that supplied water to the Mayan tribe that lived there. The Mayan town’s buildings were demolished and the stones were reused to build the Spanish colonial town that is now Valladolid.
Montejo followed quickly with arbitrary acts of domination that would shape events for centuries to come. He displaced indigenous Maya and began granting their lands to well-connected Spaniards. He forced the Maya into indentured servitude, and abolished their indigenous water rights.
The following year the Maya people rebelled against the Spanish overlords, but were put down by additional Spanish troops brought in from Mérida. This revolt was the first of many Mayan uprisings that would become a continuous cycle of indigenous rebellion followed by conqueror subjugation.
It was some two hundred years later, in 1847, when the law of karma was exacted upon the Spanish. The bloody massacre known as the Caste War of Yucatán, that included vicious battles in Valladolid’s Zócalo and Cathedral, ousted the Spanish from their economic, government and societal stronghold.
On the surface, there are no obvious traces of the violent fighting that occurred in the Yucatán between the Spanish conquerors and the indigenous Maya. It’s hard to believe that reserved and elegant Valladolid was a central stage for these rebellions. We were given an incredible peek into the past while dining at the Hosteria El Mesón del Marqués.
- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.
