The Altar of My Soul

by Marta Moreno Vega

  Zenaida’s passion raised the temperature in the room, and I could only assume that there was a personal story that had caused the emotional intensity of her response, but I did not think it appropriate to ask. For me, the story struck home. Memories of my own family’s breakup immediately came to mind. Viewing my family’s turmoil through Ochosi’s tragedy was helpful, yet I realized that the lessons in the patakís carried various meanings, dependent upon the interpretations brought to the stories.

  My godparents enjoyed telling the stories of the orishas. We talked late into the night, sharing stories that helped to reveal the logic behind Santería. Enthralled by the beauty of the patakís and their messages, I lost track of time. Coming to the close of our session, Elpidio said, “Let us not forget Osun. We must always remember that we have an orisha that resides deep in the recesses of our minds. It is the intuitive spirit that saves or destroys us. Our challenge is to know how to respect and use this sacred gift wisely. We must use common sense, and the gift of logic mixed with faith.”

  Touching his head, Elpidio said, “Our head is so sacred that it must not be touched by just anyone. My daughter, remember these words: Hold your head up high, respect your orisha, and make certain that you know who touches the crown of your head. Osun is the messenger of Olodumare and Obatalá. When an initiate receives the warriors, Osun represents his personal guardian angel.”

  The long day had taken its toll on Elpidio, and it required all of his strength to pull himself up from the chair. Zenaida suggested that he take a nap before returning to the site of Javier’s initiation. Although he was exhausted, Elpidio explained that it was his duty and responsibility to make certain that his godson’s initiation was proceeding accordingly. Giving Zenaida a tender kiss on the forehead, he commented, “You know that we must follow our tradition to the letter. I will spend the evening with my new godson.”

  Deciding that it was too late for me to return to the hotel by myself, Zenaida encouraged me to stay the night. I agreed and remained seated while she gathered the items Elpidio had left on the table. Pleased with the results of my first class, she took the opportunity to reemphasize parts of our discussion. “Remember, my daughter, the patakís help us look at situations we often do not want to confront. All these stories exist in life,” she said, nodding her head. After cleaning the kitchen, Zenaida lit a stick of sweet-smelling incense. “Oh, how I love the way the apartment feels and smells when I burn sandalwood fragrance,” she commented on her way to prepare my bedroom.

  Too excited to sleep, I jotted down the information that would become part of my personal journal. What impressed me most about my first lesson was that all the stories were applicable to incidents in my life. All of the stories touched upon different experiences I had had.

  As I sat on the bed, a tingling sensation slowly started climbing from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Unable to move because of the numbing sensation, my vision became exceedingly detailed and clear. The image of my abuela in her usual white clothes gradually appeared at the foot of the small bed. She had a slight smile on her lips, looking younger than I remembered, her skin, youthfully soft and wrinkle-free, glowing like polished mahogany. Surrounded by a glistening aura, the white of her clothing sparkled with a pearl-like radiance. Soon, the whole room began to glow.

  I watched motionless as another figure began to emerge alongside Abuela. Much older, slightly bent, the woman’s small thin body was leaning on a hooked wooden cane made from the branch of a tree. She was dressed like Abuela, but her darker skin was heavy with wrinkles and stood out starkly against the white of her long cotton dress. Her small eyes, the color of roasted coffee beans, glimmered as she looked my way. As I searched her face to see if I recognized her, the tribal marks etched on her face began to shed tears of red blood.

  Slowly, Abuela and the older woman walked toward me, the elder woman leaning heavily on the arm of my abuela for support. As they moved closer, the beaded necklaces around their necks began to radiate a blinding light. My abuela was wearing the red and white colors of Shangó, and the older woman was wearing white, the color of Obatalá. Then the older woman’s cane transformed into a white horsetail whisk, the handle shining with opalescent beads like the ones that encircled her neck. As they came within arm’s reach, the older woman raised her arm to hand me the beaming whisk. Sensing my abuela’s approval, I felt my arm reach out and accept the gift. And as I did so, I felt an electrical shock rush through my body. My arm, the whisk, and the older woman’s arm became one.

  A Message from My Elders

  In our first session, Elpidio gave me a small, smooth, flat stone, piedra de rayo—a lightning stone. It is believed that these are the stones that Shangó hurls to Earth from heaven when he is angry. The second gift was a double-headed ax, covered with red and white beads, the symbol that represents Shangó in his path as a warrior. He advised that I place the ax in a prominent location in my home and always carry the piedra de rayo to protect me from the wrath of war. He cautioned me to remember that we all carry the warrior spirit of Shangó; therefore, we must learn to control and direct our tempers effectively in order to win our personal wars.

  Before my initiation, I collected small stones that possessed a special attraction for me. Wherever I traveled, somehow I would find a stone that seemed to carry a “special something.” On the beach of Loíza Aldea, I found a beautiful polished black stone that I treasure to this day. In Bahia, I found a piece of coral that reminds me of the African rhythms that permeate that beautiful city. During my sessions with my mentors, I came to understand that there are stones that are alive; when they are part of ritual ceremonies, they become sacred symbols of the orishas. It is important to bring natural elements into your home. Seashells, rocks, flowers, plants, and similar items bring nature’s positive energy into a home.

  Orula is the orisha who divines with the oracle system of Ifá. He has the skills to read the odus and to interpret the myriad patakís that reveal our destiny. It is he who teaches us the lessons of the orishas. The babalawos are the sons of Orula. Like him, they interpret the divining signs. And based on these signs, the babalawo selects a patakí that offers a solution to the client. The odu is determined by the babalawo’s manipulation of sixteen palm nuts, ikins, between his right and left hands. The babalawo covers a round wooden divining board, called an opon Ifá, with a powder made out of pounded yam, yefá. Depending upon the palm nuts remaining in his left hand, he identifies whether one or two lines are to be drawn on the pounded yam with the middle finger of his right hand. The resulting pattern defines the odu, as it identifies the appropriate patakís that the babalawo should discuss with his client. The diviner knows if the symbol carries positive energy, iré, or negative energy, osogbo. If the client’s symbol reveals osogbo, the babalawo then prescribes an ebó, a sacrifice that the client must make in order to bring a positive balance into his or her life.

  Just as there are many versions of a single fairy tale, there are many approaches to teaching these legends. The explanation of an orisha’s role in a story or even the final outcome of that story may change, depending on who is telling it. This multifaceted approach is an important aspect of Santería, suggesting that there are many truths, directions, and solutions in any one story.

  It was wonderful to share my experiences in Ile Ife with Doña Rosa and to learn from the perspectives of the many initiates there. Over the past eighteen years, I have had the opportunity to gather knowledge from the many priests and priestesses who opened their hearts and homes to me in Africa and the Americas. It felt wonderful to have the chance to open my own heart in return. Doña Rosa was fascinated by a photograph I gave her portraying an African babalawo sitting behind his opon Ifá. The round board was covered with sacred powder, and it was similar in shape and form to the opon Ifá seen in Cuba. Doña Rosa asked, “Is he Cuban?” After many years of research and meeting with international representatives of the orisha community, I felt privileged to have the opp
ortunity to connect my global experiences and share them with the beloved Doña Rosa.

  The morning of Javier’s initiation, Zenaida was busy in the kitchen, filling large burlap bags with rice, beans, and potatoes for the ceremony. The overflowing bags of food reminded me of Elpidio’s teachings about how the Santería community must feed not only the spirits and orishas but also the community.

  Each time we visited the house where the initiation was taking place over the course of seven days, we found rooms bustling with members of the religious family, both young and old. People were cooking, cleaning the house, serving food to large groups of people, washing mountains of dishes, cleaning again, cooking some more, serving another group of people, and washing more dishes, all in what seemed to be an endless, dizzying cycle.

  The honored elders sat on old rockers, observing the endless traffic of visitors and initiates, casually commenting on the degree of efficiency of the chores performed. Occasionally an elder would call out, admonishing a younger initiate for carelessly performing a task. They would then teach her the correct way in an effort to maintain the standards of the Santería house.

  In Santería, novices select their godparents and accept the responsibility of functioning within a religious family. This has important implications for repairing the often devastating effects that result from the increasing disintegration of families. As a part of the Santería community, I have come to understand that the concept of family extends beyond my immediate family ties. When I was initiated into the religious family of my padrino, Elpidio, and my madrina, Zenaida, I acquired a familial community of initiated brothers and sisters who live throughout the globe. Although my godparents never left Cuba, they had an international community of godchildren who provided a worldwide network of support.

  In 1995, I traveled to Puerto Rico to begin researching my family’s roots. During my travels, I arranged meetings with elders who had contributed to the growth of Santería in New York. I went to a housing complex in the outskirts of Caguas, Puerto Rico, to meet with Doña Cato, a Cuban woman in her early eighties. I telephoned in advance, requesting to meet with her. She reluctantly accepted, saying, “I am an old woman, and my memory is failing me. I probably will not remember very much.”

  When I arrived, Doña Cato was sitting on her porch, leisurely swaying on her rocking chair. She was a tall black woman, dressed in white from head to toe. She greeted me civilly, but with cool reserve. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked how she had become involved in the religion. “Oh, my dear, that was so long ago, how can I possibly remember?” she quietly replied. Then, noticing my elekes, she asked, “Are you involved in the religion?” When I mentioned Elpidio and Zenaida, her memory suddenly returned.

  Explaining that she and Elpidio were old friends, Doña Cato requested that I enter her home and pay my respects to her orisha Yemayá. Again, the feeling of familiarity embraced me when I walked into the sacred altar room of Doña Cato’s Yemayá. As I had done in Brazil, Cuba, and Trinidad, I saluted Yemayá. Afterward, I was embraced by Doña Cato warmly. I found it personally empowering to feel that I belonged to an extended supportive family, because it created a sense of historical and cultural continuity that I had not understood in my youth. I felt I was part of a spiritual legacy.

  My sense of this spiritual legacy was really awakened for the first time at Javier’s initiation ceremony. The old farmhouse where the initiation was taking place was located in a rural farming community outside Havana. Surrounded by an ample field with lush green trees, rich soil, and a small stream, the broken-down home was transformed by the ritual activities.

  It was bursting with love and attention from devotees in the community.

  The room where Javier was undergoing initiation was barred to all but initiated babalawos. Intermittently, we heard the babalawos’ sacred prayers sanctifying the ritual. As the babalawos entered the room, we could hear their greetings. “Iború, Iboya Ibo Cheché, Blessings to all in attendance.” My godfather taught me that when in the presence of a babalawo, I was to acknowledge the aché of his Orula by bending down and touching the floor with the fingers of my right hand. Then I was instructed to kiss my fingers and recite the greeting while the babalawo offered me his blessings.

  Suddenly, all activity ceased as the Yoruba chants from inside the initiation room grew louder, indicating that Javier was receiving the oracle orisha, Orula. From outside we heard, “Orula Iború, Blessings to Orula.” Then a stillness fell over the house as we heard the chants that signaled the crucial moment of initiation, “Orunmila [another name for Orula] taladé; Baba moforibale, Orunmila, we honor you; Father, we salute you.” Suddenly everyone in the courtyard burst out singing, “Orunmila taladé; Baba moforibale, Orunmila, we honor you; Father, we salute you.”

  Outside on the patio, santeras and santeros waited attentively to assist in cleansing the sacrificial animals and began to prepare the evening’s dinner, which would feed more than sixty people. They chatted among themselves, discussing the difficulty of finding basic products in the poorly stocked stores of Cuba. They unhappily complained about the lack of food, bath and dish soap, toilet paper, sanitary napkins, deodorant, aspirin, and, most important, medicine for children.

  Despondent about the difficulties of finding rice, beans, milk, and meat on the black market, they asked themselves, “How much longer must we live like this? Even when we have money to purchase these items at higher prices on the black market, we cannot find them.”

  One of the elders chimed in, asking, “Is it worth being caught and placed in jail?”

  Methods of Divination

  Olga, the medium, shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Vieja, old one, how can I let my grandchild go hungry? I must struggle along with his parents to find his nourishment.”

  Erica, the other priestess, responded, “How can I let my child go without milk? As it is, we eat only one meal a day.”

  The hurt and desperation in their voices filled me with grief. For the first time, I understood the full meaning of Elpidio’s words, that the rituals of Santería were also saving lives. The food and the animals sacrificed to feed the orishas functioned as a lifeline, nurturing the life of the Santería community. In the worst of times, the only food that was available to members of the religious community was the food distributed at ceremonies.

  A makeshift kitchen had been built on the patio. Six large metal drums had been turned into charcoal-burning stoves to cook the food. An unsteady wooden table made from old planks served as the surface for cutting meat and cleaning the rice and beans, as well as a storage space for the burned pots, pans, old cracked dishes, and bent silverware that was carefully guarded and put away. The sink, made of stone, served to clean dishes, wash the food, and even to wash clothing. There was always a santera or santero working by the sink, making sure it was clean and ready to be used for the next meal. The busy work area was outside, and it was burning hot from the sun, the crackling fire, the coal stoves, and the steam rising from the boiling pots.

  Most everyone seemed not to notice the suffocating heat, continuing to perform duties long into the night, their work illuminated only by candlelight. The harmony of the group reminded me of the strength of a family, something I remember experiencing as a child. Whenever a job had to be done, someone would quickly jump into action in a selfless act of spiritual cooperation.

  After the ceremony, when the sacrificial animals were brought out, an assembly line formed before them. Some santeros skinned or plucked the animals; others boiled them in hot water; and still others seasoned the meat and continued with the cooking. The santeros and santeras, accustomed to the long hours and hard work of ceremonies, moved with a rhythmic gait that was as elegant as the movements of gazelles.

  The following year, in Nigeria and Brazil, I would witness the same cool elegance in the stride of elder practitioners. According to Mãe Lucia, an elder in Brazil, the settling of aché in the bodies of initiates creates this grace. It is the process of bec
oming whole, of melding with your spiritual power. She stressed that when we learn to work with our spirits, understanding their likes and dislikes, our spiritual and our physical selves begin to merge. She used a Yoruba legend to explain this to me:

  “Once upon a time, heaven existed on its own, as did Earth. Then, like two halves of a calabash, they joined and formed heaven and Earth. So it is with humans. When our spiritual half connects to our physical part, we are complete.”

  Surrounded by the elders, the history of Santería came alive for me. The caramel-soft skin of the matriarchs radiated with the wisdom of ancient knowledge. Their bodies were like boats gently swaying on the smooth waters of heaven, with silver hair sparkling like foam on the crest of oncoming waves. They had a particular cool, an itutu, displaying strength and self-confidence and good character, iwa, respected qualities to Yorubas in Africa and the Americas. It was as if the elders were cradled in the arms of Obatalá and Yemayá, possessing purity, wisdom, and motherly love. Despite the whirlwind of activities around them, they were able to sit quietly, observing and waiting.

  Elpidio had again arranged for the use of Ernesto’s car to pick up more bags of food required for the ceremony. Zenaida took advantage of the availability of the car to arrange for us to visit the homes of the elder santeras and santeros who lived in the area. Brimming with energy and excitement, she believed the best way to help me understand the meaning and power of the orishas was for me to meet with her mentors.

  “My daughter, it is important that you hear the stories of the elders. They are each a storehouse of information; they are living patakís,” she said. With a week left of my stay in Cuba, Zenaida was including me in as many experiences as possible.