Moving the Winds

In studying Curanderismo, an earth-based wisdom tradition practiced by her Mexican ancestors, Robyn Moreno used a sacred ritual called limpia as an energetic cleansing at home.

By Robyn Moreno

“ Babe!” my husband Lars called as I walked outside toward our garden, where he and our daughters Lucia and Astrid were watering poppies. “I want to show you something.”

“Mama, come see!” Lucia chimed in. As they pointed to a fresh spot in our flower bed, I knew instantly what they were going to say. “Someone buried an egg in our garden,” said Lars, totally bewildered. “I saw something sticking out, and at first I thought a bird made a nest, but it’s a chicken egg! It’s so weird.” He bent over and unearthed the brown egg.

“Egg, Mama,” chimed in Astrid, as mesmerized as if she were watching a magic act.

“Um . . . yeah, I put it there,” I said, trying to act as if this was all totally normal. I pointed to where velvety sage and spiky rosemary were overtaking the basil. “There’s one over there too.”

“What the heck?” asked Lucia. It was her new favorite expression.

As Lucia and her sidekick ran to dig for the other egg I’d buried, I answered my husband’s questioning look. “I gave Astrid and me a limpia the other day.”

“And?” he asked.

“You use an egg for spiritual cleansing, and then you can bury it.”

His raised eyebrows refused to lower with comprehension.

“You know, so the earth can absorb all the negative energy,” I said. “I thought our garden was a good place.”

Lars looked at me as if I’d told him I laid that egg myself. Then he laughed and said, “What the heck?”

A Reclamation Project

Setting out on my healing journey, I had felt determined, inspired, and ready. But now the dust had settled. My phone, which used to ring and ping with important business, now lay unnervingly silent. And after Lars went to work and I dropped the kids off, I’d grab my coffee and sit alone in my garden. Just me, my sage, and my whopping insecurity.

I had told very few people about my reclamation project Literally minutes after I resigned from my job, all anyone wanted to know was what I was doing next. What I felt like doing was going nowhere and dissolving—like the caterpillar before it becomes the butterfly. Except I didn’t even want to be the butterfly. I just wanted to wrap myself up and fall apart for a while. This genuinely didn’t seem bad to me, but nearly no one could handle the in-between, can’t-put-a-name-on-it life I was living. Our society doesn’t seem to value or support any sort of pause.

Add to that the “mystical” quality of studying Curanderismo, an earth-based wisdom tradition practiced by my Mexican ancestors, and many people would just write me off as having a midlife crisis, as one friend bluntly suggested. So I was keeping a lid on it all for now, which made me feel really lonely.

Omega faculty Robyn Moreno — Robyn Moreno

Fresh Starts

But as I turned my attention to my Curanderismo studies, I began to understand this hopeful/uncertain phase was a hallmark feeling of the east, where you usually start your healing journey.

The Mexica (Aztecs) believed there was magic in the sunrise and used it as a metaphor for rebirth and starting fresh. That’s exactly what I needed: a fresh start. Just as a good gust of wind cleans away debris and dirt before spring planting, I decided to channel this cleansing energy by sweeping and cleaning my house and clearing the space in my head and heart via the act of a limpia.

In Spanish, limpia means to clean, but in Curanderismo, a limpia is an energetic cleansing to remove dense or stuck emotions, creating new pathways and possibilities.

I began to practice self-limpia by cleansing myself with my sage bundle in the mornings and I began to practice limpia on my family when later in the week, I heard my youngest daughter Astrid screaming in a nightmare. I stayed with her, rocking her quietly until she gradually calmed down. That’s when she hiccuped, “Why . . . don’t . . . you . . . like . . . me?”

I felt as if someone had punched me in the chest. “I love you, Astrid! Why do you say that?”

“Because you didn’t ask me!” she cried.

“Ask you what?” I said as I cradled her tight, murmuring, “I love you, my baby, my baby. You’re safe, my baby.” Soon she fell asleep. Wanting to take her scary dreams away, I ran downstairs and grabbed a carton of eggs, which can be used as a limpia tool. I passed one slowly over her body, intently saying a prayer. When I was done, I grabbed another egg, running it over mine from head to toe, exhaling to release my stress and fear. Afterward, I crawled in bed next to her, and as she nestled in my arm, I fell asleep dreaming that I was falling and falling.

The next morning, I woke up exhausted. I took the egg carton downstairs to the kitchen along with the two eggs I used and placed those next to the compost bucket. After a limpia, some people break the eggs into a glass of water and “read” the contents to see if someone sent you bad energy or to determine the cause of your troubles. But some curanderos kept the egg whole after a limpia and buried it. Looking over at Astrid, who was bright and chipper eating a bagel, I picked up the still intact eggs holding our bad juju and decided to just throw them away. I already suspected what was bothering Astrid.

When I had started my last job, Astrid hadn’t even been a year old. Initially, I was only supposed to work two days a week in the office as a freelance editor, as my commute was two hours each way. But as I got promoted each year, the responsibility, and time away from family, grew to me going to the office five days a week and working 24-7. I always felt that, as the baby, Astrid had borne the brunt of that.

“Why don’t you like me? Why didn’t you ask me?”

The truth is that Astrid could have just been dreaming. But what I felt was that she was telling me to pay more attention—to her and to everything in my life.

Caring Becomes the Cure

Later, when I was making dinner, my mom called to give me an update on my older sister. Lety had struggled with substance use for years but had recently gotten sober. Through her recovery program, she’d applied for a job refilling greeting card racks at drugstores. She had been hired and was so excited. But they rescinded the offer because she was still on probation.

My mom said Lety was doing well and applying for colleges, but the shame and stigma she felt about her past weighed heavily on her. Though I now had way more time on my hands, I’d been avoiding calling Lety because I didn’t know how to help.

For the longest time, I thought a curandera meant someone who cured. I think that’s why I resisted the call of Curanderismo—because it felt so intimidating. But recently I came across another meaning for the word cura, and that is to care for. I didn’t know whether I would ever feel ready to cure anyone. But I was trying my best to care for my husband and daughters—and myself.

Maybe I could try to care for my sisters and mom. That I could do.

The next day, I was loading the dishwasher when I noticed the two brown eggs that I had used for Astrid’s and my limpia still sitting next to the compost. I grabbed both the compost and eggs and walked outside. As I emptied the edible waste into our outside bin, it occurred to me that we spend so much time avoiding the messes in our lives because it all feels so daunting. But maybe it doesn’t have to be so complicated. When crisis strikes, when all feels lost and you can’t make one more damn decision, maybe you just move toward what you can do. Pick up a broom, pass the egg, wipe the dusty window—with simple and holy care.

If we could approach the messy people and places in our lives with the humble willingness to support instead of the obsessive need to fix, then we might find that the caring becomes the cure. I went into the garden and placed my hands in the cool earth of my flower bed. I scooped out the moist dirt, gently plopping the eggs into the holes I had dug. Covering them, I felt a soft breeze blow on my neck. I sat back on my heels, looking up at the sky. It was time for a new beginning.