The Toltec Art of Life and Death

“Miguel,” he said gently, with a sweet smile on his face, “all the things you’ve learned in school, and everything you think you understand about life, comes from knowledge. It isn’t truth.”

Didn’t he realize that I was a man now? He was speaking to me as if I were a child. I felt heat in my face as his words began to anger me.

“Don’t take offense, my child,” he went on. “This is the mistake everyone makes. People put their faith in opinions and rumors—and out of this, they construct a world, believing that their constructed world is the real world. They don’t know whether what they believe is true. They don’t even know whether what they believe about themselves is true. Do you know what is true, or what you are?”

“Yes, I know what I am!” I insisted. “How could I not know myself? I’ve been with myself since birth!”

“M’ijo, you don’t know what you are,” he said calmly, “but you know what you’re not. You’ve been practicing what you’re not for so long, you believe it. You believe in an image of you, an image based on many things that aren’t true.”

I didn’t know what to say next. I had expected praise, or at least an argument against my point of view. I would have been happy to participate in an intellectual boxing match with my grandfather. In my opinion, I had enough information to debate the master, and to win. Instead, what he gave me was a knockout punch to the self. Everything I thought about Miguel, my grandfather disqualified in a few hard sentences. Everything I knew about the world was now in doubt. Doubt!

It’s hard to overstate the importance of doubt when we’re bringing down the intellectual house we’ve built. We learn words, we believe in their meaning, and we practice those beliefs until our little house is solid and strong. Doubt is the tremor that brings it down, when it’s time. Doubt can cause a citadel of beliefs to crumble; and that kind of tremor is necessary if we want to see beyond our private illusions. An earthquake is necessary. I looked at my grandfather, and he smiled back at me, as if we had just shared a happy secret. Did he even notice that my self-esteem had been shattered?

“I know what I am, and I know about . . . things,” I stumbled. I was feeling defiant, as if defiance would save me from my embarrassment. “I know about the world I live in, and I know that good must always fight against evil.”

“Ah!” he said, with a flush of excitement. “Good versus evil, yes! The age-old human conflict! Do you see this conflict in the rest of the universe? Do you see good and evil wrestling within the forests and the orchards? Are trees anxious about the evils of the world? Are animals? Fish? Birds? Are any of Earth’s creatures consumed with worry over matters of good and evil?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not? Then where does this conflict exist?”

Was this a trick? Was he determined to make a fool of me? “In the human species,” I said warily.

“In the human mind!”

“Well, yes . . . and there’s nothing more noble than the minds of men,” I added pretentiously. “If animals—”

“If animals could think, they’d be as worried about evil as we are? I hope not, for their sakes!”

We both laughed, and for moments after we were silent. “Miguel,” he said, when he felt my defenses weakening, “the conflict you speak of exists in the human mind, and it is not actually a conflict between good and evil; it is a conflict between truth and lies. When we believe in truth, we feel good and our life is good. When we believe in things that are not true, things that encourage fear and hatred in us, the result is fanaticism. The result is what people recognize as evil—evil words, evil intentions, evil actions. All the violence and suffering in the world is a direct result of the many lies we tell ourselves.”

I suddenly remembered the words of a great philosopher: Men are tormented by their opinions of things, not by the things themselves. I couldn’t remember where I had read that quote, or who had said it. A German, perhaps. No, a Frenchman.

“Miguel, stop,” don Leonardo said sternly, bringing me back from my fixation. “Stop, please,” he said, patiently this time. “Great thoughts should be applied, not catalogued. The privilege of knowledge is to serve the message of life. Knowledge itself is no message at all. Left in charge, it will drive us mad.”

I could sense that he was right. After a moment, I told him so, and he leaned back in his lawn chair and looked at me for a long time, considering. I thought the conversation was over, and that by agreeing with him I would be released. I could grab an empanada from the kitchen, say goodbye, and ride back to the city, where people appreciated me for my intelligence and wit.

“Miguel,” he said, his expression so serious that I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. “I see you’re trying hard to impress me, to prove you’re good enough for me, and I understand. You need to do that because you’re not yet good enough for yourself.”

Tears rushed to my eyes. I saw right away that my determined efforts to appear confident were a waste of time. All my opinions and assertions were hiding the fear that I wasn’t wise enough or smart enough. Don Leonardo could see more than I could see, and knew more about myself than I was willing to discover. I looked away from him, unable to handle the truth in his penetrating gaze. I looked away, yes—but I stayed where I was. I stayed with him to listen.

He told me much that afternoon, and it has taken me a lifetime to digest our conversation. What each of us wants above all is the truth, and it cannot be told in words. Like everyone, like everything, truth is a mystery posing as an answer. The letters I learned in school point to revelations that point back to mystery again. Truth existed before words, before humanity, and before this known universe. Truth will always exist, and language was created to be its servant. Words are the tools of our art, helping us to paint images of truth on a mental canvas. What kind of artists are we? What kind of artists do we want to be, and are we willing to give up the nonsensical things we believe to become those artists?

My grandfather told me that my greatest power was faith. It was up to me to direct that power wisely. The world was full of people eager to put their faith in an idea, an opinion, the opinions of other people. He urged me not to invest my faith in knowledge, but to invest it in myself. Though I didn’t realize it then, our conversation that afternoon set me on a path I would never abandon. From then on, I wanted to make sense of things. I wanted to understand myself and find out how it was that I had begun to believe in lies. It was my nature to seek answers. It is everyone’s nature to find the truth, and we will eagerly look for it anywhere, everywhere—except in us.

I wanted only the truth after that day, and all I had to guide me in the beginning were memories—memories based on random images and stories, leading to more distortions. But that was only the beginning. How quickly things would change for me! How generous truth is when we are willing to feel it, accept it, and be grateful.

Sarita, my lionhearted mother, is taking a similar path on this long, dream-fueled night, guided by the same memories . . . while the voice of knowledge whispers earnestly in her ear. For her troubles, she will bring home a pretender—the flesh-and-blood likeness of her youngest son, who has already found the truth, and has gleefully dissolved into its wonders.

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Sarita was tired. She had been listening to the speeches of a dozen or more student activists on the university campus. Miguel had been the second to last to speak, and he was something to see, rallying the crowd to this cause and that one; but she was tired now, and unsure how all this would help her get him back. She removed one of her slippers and gently rubbed a swollen foot. It would be a long night, she knew, but it could not last forever. Her grandchildren would be asleep by now, their parents still drumming by candlelight, still watching Mother Sarita as she held the trance and continued her peculiar journey. This was hard for them, too.

“I know he was a good speaker in college, Lala” she commented to the woman guiding this expedition, “but this is not such a special day in his life . . . nor would my son count it as memorable.”

Sarita fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable within these surroundings, as she was reminded of things she had long forgotten. Escaping the night massacre of Tlatelolco—that was memorable, she thought to herself. Miguel and his brothers, students at the Autónoma Nacional University in Mexico City, had traveled home that week and so, thankfully, were not in the Tlatelolco neighborhood when the military opened fire on thousands of students and bystanders during a peaceful rally against government policies. The killing had continued into the night, ending in the tragic loss of many of her sons’ close friends and professors. Yes, it was important to remember the young and vital ones who had been killed, whose promise would never be fulfilled; and it was important to be grateful for the lives of those who had avoided the massacre’s horror. That was not the only time death had spurned her youngest son. No, he and death would face each other and depart as cautious friends many more times.

“Indeed, he was so young,” Lala agreed, “but you see how persuasive he could be, even in his first year at medical school. He had a way with the spoken word. He had charisma. He brought his fellow students together, as we see. With such a forceful personality, he could have influenced a nation.”

Sarita nodded, remembering how intensely her son had been courted by government officials in those days. His brother Carlos had advised him on the dangers of politics, and Miguel had been quick to understand how recruitment into that kind of life would compromise his personal freedom.

“I must find don Leonardo again,” the old woman sighed, massaging the other foot. “He will know what is important to this quest.”

“Men know about men, I suppose,” the redhead muttered. “There’s a good chance he’s observing couples in bed.”

“Is it time for that again?” Sarita exclaimed. It seemed that young men were unduly proud of their lovemaking, as if they thought they had invented the thing. She pictured Miguel as he’d been then, so young and so amorous. She thought of Maria, his wife, and their beautiful sons. Of course, sex came with great rewards—physical joy and the pleasures of parenthood. Nothing touches us more than marriage, more than birth . . . more than death.

Sarita lifted her head, slipper in hand. “Death,” she said, turning pale. Looking away from the park, from the people, she saw something that had escaped her notice until then. In the distance, a young man was driving a junker of a car, weaving slowly through the crowd of students as if looking for someone.

“Memín,” she whispered, her mind reeling with the memory of another son . . . and then she fainted.

Sarita,” Miguel called softly, “Madre, are you there? Sarita?”

From the depths of a dream, Sarita became aware of his presence. With eyes closed and a mind spinning in and out of worlds, she gave him silent assurance. She imagined him sitting in his tree with Earth blazing behind him; pictured him laughing at her as the madness continued. She could not bring him back against his will, nor could she stop trying. She had invested too much, and involved too many. She submitted to the crushing pain of a mother on the verge of losing another precious child. Miguel was near her, watching her, she knew. He was there and not there, just as she was. She could feel his closeness, his attention . . . but oh, how she wished to hold him again! She moved her lips, still not speaking, and yet somehow words were shaped, and they were heard.

“I am here, child,” she whispered into the unknown. “I am with you, in you; and my intentions will not falter. Old as I may be, I still have strength. Frail as I am, I will conquer your resistance. Brave as you are, I will win.”

Sarita felt an overpowering yearning, wishing for a glimpse of her son’s face, the touch of his hand on hers. She felt his closeness then, as he seemed to respond to her wishes, and was comforted.

It hadn’t always been like this between them, she thought, as she slipped farther into a dream state. There had been a time when the only thing the two of them could not tolerate was being apart. It had seemed a never-ending, enchanted time, one that had begun as soon as mother and son first recognized themselves in each other’s eyes. From their earliest moments together, they were bonded by a force greater than love. Greater than love, yes. Love was a word corrupted by misuse and selfish wants. It was a glorious gift sullied by conditions. Over time, the symbol of love strengthened its hold on the human heart like the grip of a lioness at the kill. It was true that their bond was greater than love, and far greater than the terror that has sometimes run like a jackal in the wake of love.

From the moment of her son’s arrival, she had sung to him, and from that moment on they were as one. As Sarita now struggled to hold the connection between them, she remembered how the infant boy had lain naked in her embrace, wearing the bloody residue of his journey from the womb. His face was pressed against her damp breast and his tongue tapped at her nipple as he relaxed into his mother’s scent and breathed to the rhythm of her heart. The sensation washed her in comfort. She submitted to the primal silence and marveled at his guiltless eyes. With her fingertips she traced the curve of his tiny face and the soft bend of his arms and legs. She caressed his smooth, amphibious flesh and wondered at the fragile warmth of him.

“Yes,” she whispered aloud as she dreamed, “I cried happy tears to finally look upon the child I had conjured with a wish . . . and had hidden within me like a secret. You, my jewel, had arrived, and with your coming, all pain and worry passed from me. From that moment, we were joyful in each other’s arms and never doubted that the joy would last a lifetime.”

Doubt came, of course. It came later, and it has come many times over the years, as the bond that had once been so strong began to tear. It came the day Memín was killed. He was the youngest child from her first marriage. He was her treasure, and the symbol of heroism to his little brothers. That painful day led to many painful days, and by the end of it, she and her youngest child were changed forever. By the end of it, Miguel had begun to see humanity as it truly was.

Qué pues! What have you done to my daughter?” don Leonardo demanded. The university campus was gone. Sarita was lying on the grass within a cemetery park, her bag clutched to her chest and a bare foot exposed to the sun. She was barely conscious, hearing noise but unable to derive meaning from it.

As she lingered on the edges of a dream, cars pulled up to the curb close by. People gathered near an elegant elm tree, all of them dressed in black. They exchanged quiet greetings and a few tears as they prepared to bury a loved one.

Lala, apparently unaware of the scene around her, knelt beside Sarita, stroking her gray hair and clutching her hand.

“I did nothing!” she barked, her voice strained with worry. Lala was feeling an odd sort of fear, suspecting that Sarita had become too exhausted to pursue her cause. She could not let that happen. Miguel must not be allowed to die. His existence was important to all of them, but few knew how important he was to Lala.

“Well, then,” the old man retorted, “why is she lying like a stupefied eagle, wingless and insensible?” Having only just caught up with his daughter, he berated himself for leaving. He worried that his absence might have weakened her resolve.

“Where are we?” asked Lala, looking up at the growing crowd of mourners. “What event is this?”