Woman Without a Country: Finding Sacred Space

By Mira N. Lazarevic Ph.D.

The reader takes a death-defying journey with a woman whose life is torn apart by two wars, assassinations, and loss of home, family, country, and identity. She is welcomed to safety in another land, but at a high priceyears of torturous sexual abuse and suicidal depression, and loss of faith in God and in her adopted home. Just as she gives up, a miraculous cure intervenesshe recovers her identity, the truth of her origins. Transformed, she lives as an enlightened being, but without a home.
This unprecedented pilgrimagea search for healing and identityrecounted in this book can be considered a search for truth. Why? Because knowing ones True Self is the ultimate healer. The Buddha stated this principle as dhamma, a law of nature. Living in truth is living with full awareness of the miracle of lifeall life. This is it.
Miras journey out of the madness of destruction and serious mental illness demonstrates how creativity, Yoga, meditation devoted to self-inquiry lead to self-knowledge, strengthen intuition, bring one to eternal essence or universal intelligence. Specifically, combined with breathwork, intentional meditation can provide self-healing, manifestation, pain elimination, and guide to self-realization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524612962

Mira N. Lazarevic Ph.D.

Miroslava assists individuals to maintain or regain optimum physical and mental health in order to live with peace, vitality, and joy. She has been teaching classical yoga as taught by Swami Vishnu and Swami Mukundananda’s JKYog for over thirty-five years and has trained and been certified both in India and the United States. She also works as a board certified art psychotherapist and licensed clinical counselor. In addition, she makes and exhibits her art and facilitates mandala, chakra, and meditation workshops and Frida Kahlo performances nationally and internationally. Although she instructs meditation in accordance to a person’s levels and needs, her preferred personal method is Vipassana—an ancient Bhuddist technique. She works in many types of settings—private and public venues, colleges, clinics, hospitals, retreats. Miroslava has been teaching meditation/mindfulness and yoga at Microsoft, SNAP, Scottsdale Shadows, Magellan, Discover India Series at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, and she continues to teach at Unity of Phoenix, Biblioteca Publica in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and other international locations. She also maintains a private practice, which includes art psychotherapy, yoga therapy, life coaching, and counseling.

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© 2016 Mira N. Lazarevic, Ph.D. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/15/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1297-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1298-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1296-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016909144

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1 Do You Believe in God?

Chapter 2 War

Chapter 3 Ecstatic Nights—Then the Nightmares

Chapter 4 Art in My Heart—My Careers

Chapter 5 Pain as Teacher—Peace as Healer

Chapter 6 Pilgrimages—Transformational Journeys

Chapter 7 Taming the Wild Me—Serious Yoga, Self-Responsibility, and Resistance

Postscript

Gratitude

About the Author

Illustrations

(All photographs and art by Mira Lazarevic unless otherwise indicated.)

Deda and Baba’s wedding (1918, photographer unknown) Frontispiece

Chapter 1

1. Church door painting of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, patron saint of Mexico (1989)

2. Retablo to Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, patron saint of Mexico, Mira, 1998

3. Two-Faced Dealing (drawing, 1990)

4. Mama’s traditional Serbian kolac and zito, representing body (bread) and soul (wheat sweet) of Christ, for feast day of Saint John the Baptist (1984)

5. American Ethic and American Ethnic (sculpture, 1991)

6. Freedom of Speech Denied to Serbs! (poster, 1993)

7. Site of murderous crimes, Beograd, Serbia (2015)

Chapter 2

1. Serb Children Suffer Too! (poster, 1993)

2. Deda’s Saint Sava medal from King Alexander I for contribution to Serbian culture

3. All Bright (sculpture, 1998)

4. Congressional Record, May 28, 1992 (2016)

5. Rainbow Headdress for Peace (sculpture, 1998)

Chapter 3

1. Luscious Back (photograph, 1980)

2. Miss French Curve (sculpture, 1993)

3. Kundalini Devi: Yoni and Lingam (drawing, 1982)

4. She and He (sculpture, 1983)

5. Kiss of immortality, Khajuraho, Madhya Pradesh, India (2008)

Chapter 4

1. Madonna and Child, Mira’s first drawing at age nine, Camp Lingen, Germany (1949)

2. Clients at mask-making workshop, Baha’i Senior Center, Skokie, Illinois (1993)

3. Client’s drawing, Black ‘n’ White, Outside/Inside Workshop, City College, Chicago (1992)

4. White Rose for Mark Tobey (mandala painting, 1994)

Chapter 5

1. Bloodknot (a foreboding forecast) (drawing, 1993)

2. Sucking Malevolence (drawing, 1992)

3. Friend making a healing mandala for Diwali festival of lights, Mumbai, India (1993)

4. Mandala visualizing successful surgery (drawing, l993)

5. 365 Meditations (mandala drawing, 1993)

6. My Frida (drawing, Mira, 2016)

Chapter 6

1. Babitza’s Bogomil triplet/talisman for unity of all faiths

2. Czarina Mira, fresco, Ljubostinja Monastery, Trstenik, Serbia (1982)

3. Fish Mother sculpture, Lepenski Vir prehistoric settlement, Sava River, Serbia (1994)

4. Beli Angel (White Angel) of Manastir Mileseva (drawing, 2015)

5. The Great Mother Dream (drawing, 1994)

6. Bodhi Tree, The Diamond Throne of the Buddha, India

Chapter 7

1. Meditation: Tocando, You Touching the Golden Flower (drawing, 1999)

2. Yoga class in Kaivalyadhama

3. Kundalini Awakening (drawing, 2007)

4. My Crown (sculpture, 1995)

Mama’s Mandala Tapestry

I

dedicate this book to my Deda, Baba, Tata, Mama, Mentor Dr. A, and to all who strive for Truth, Love and Beauty.

Preface

My First and Lasting Encounter with Yog (Yoga)

Just after my first suicide attempt at fourteen, a book on Yoga appeared on my bed. It was Paramahansa Yogananda’s book on the philosophy of Yoga. It addressed questions of the nature of existence, Karma and self-releaziation—questions I was asking. It inspired me with a glimmer of hope, as my childhood, and adolescence, were filled with anguish. Still, I longingly searched for answers.

At twenty-one I encountered Yoga again—Hatha Yoga. Immediately the practice provided relief. Challenges confronted me in all areas of my life—emotional, physical, social, financial, professional, and relational. My father had just been murdered, my mental illness ravaged me; living alone without skills or support was chaotic and frightening—but Yoga practice strengthened me. At the same time two guides appeared who assisted me in initiating a thorough and still-evolving inner/outer transformation—my very first Yoga teacher Benina Love; my truth teacher Dr. Aurbindo.

Most people logically develop families, careers, equity; instead, I was forced to remake myself. For many years, my instability prohibited any chance at a successful career, though I had all the skills, experience, and credentials. Slowly the practice of Yoga instilled in me accountablity for my health and development which led me to succeed in being my true self.

Why have I written this book? I have asked myself that question, as I am not really an author, and this three-year writing odyssey has been the biggest challenge of all my careers. I have not only shared my story, raised questions and challenges, but I hoped to be of service to others, a vital ingredient in Yogic life—Karma Yoga. This book is a giving back or giveaway a tradition also in Serbian and Native American cultures. As I wrote I kept thinking If I can do it (heal), anyone can do it.

Witnessing my process—the variety of changes in me—has been amazing, surprising, at times disgusting and at last miraculous! Karmically, in this one lifetime, I have lived a multitude of lives—from innocent child to slut, from actress to fine artist, Yogini, therapist, healer, spiritual teacher, goddess, ultimately to loving woman! I have worn many masks and finally pulled aside the veil of Maya—the tricky illusion of physical, apparent reality. And what did I see? I was privileged to see the underlying, immutable, eternal reality, the essence—a glimpse of my Awesome Self. To me, this evolution-regeneration, like nothing else, demonstrates the power of Yog (Yoga).

Introduction

At Age Three I Went to Hell—At Sixty-Three I Crawled Out

World War II and the Serbian civil war wrecked my country, ruined my family, even my fetal self. After my tragicomic birth, members of my own family traumatized me. Seriously sick with PTSD, I was retraumatized with every war instigated by my once dear, adopted home the United States. At age fourteen I had made my first suicide attempt; my favorite fantasy consisted of planning my funeral. Ironically, at the same time, I received a prestigious award, and scholarship to the School of Art in Chicago, where I would later earn both my bachelor’s, master’s degrees, teach, and be courted by two highly respected artist-educators, one of whom I would marry. No one knew that I had been in and out of treatment for borderline personality disorder, bulimia, PTSD, bipolar disorder, major depression, and suicide attempts.

But I had a promise to fulfill. My brave father—an amputee, assassinated years before—had left me a legacy: Find the truth. Classical Kriya, Sivananda Yoga, and JKYog practice and teaching, along with the oracular method of meditative mandala art, guided me. My first guru Dr. Aurbindo kept me focused, led me to Buddha’s Vipassana meditation via S. N. Goenka and the path of dhamma, truth.

Because I felt inadequate, it was imperitive to test myself in death-defying feats, make pilgrimages to sacred sites. I engaged in hallucinogenic trance and animal sacrifice rituals with Huichol Indians in Mexico, illicit shamanic journeying in sweat lodges with Lakota Sioux, vision quests with the Hopi, Navajo—all to purify and expand my consciousness. I followed Paul Gauguin to his forbidden house on the island of Moorea in the South Pacific—and got really sick. I climbed to Stolac in Serbia/Bosnia, where I discovered my spiritual lineage from the Cathars and Bogomils—self-determined truth-seeking people burned at the stake during the Inquisition. I dove from a 30-foot cliff into the Mediterranean on a death-defying challenge from Bosnian men—a hard won bet. I trekked all over India on my own, hitched a ride to the jungles of Rajasthan to meet the famed Sri Wow. Last, but not least, I shared ashrams and beds with CEO-gurus, shamans, and yogis. And I adored Osho.

Amid all of this, I sustained twenty-three surgeries, two kidnappings, attempted rapes, and five abortions. I went through at least ten therapists, five psychiatrists, a multitude of men and meds—some helped, most did not. The precise turning point that led to self-realization came from the Devi’s shaktipat in India. Without doubt, the enduring, heartfelt sense of my grandfather sustained me long enough to meet my guru (bringer of light), and later to partake of Wayne’s kindness who became my stand-in for The Budhha. Swami Muktananda’s teaching on Kundalini Yoga, Swamiji Mukundananda, his classical JKYog both sustained me during the last phase of catharisis, and energetic reformation. OM.

chapter%201%20(1).jpg

Church door painting of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, patron saint of Mexico (1989)

Chapter 1

Do You Believe in God?

Make an island unto yourself, make yourself your refuge; there is no other refuge. Make truth your island, make truth your refuge; there is no other refuge.

—Gautama Buddha

Unexpected…Weather

Chills ran up and down my spine; my soaking wet sweater and my flowing Norma Kamali skirt now clung to my cold, trembling hips and legs. The torrential rain poured and poured; the water dropped on me, then dripped from me. Relentlessly the wind tossed, lashed my face with freezing strands of my own hair. I silently pleaded, No open wounds, please! Already I had six too many scars on my once beautiful face. And squashed inside my fashionable Lauren boots, my numb feet felt like two blocks of ice. That is it! I’ll take whatever cab comes along, and God, Goddess, help me.

Just then a VW Bug sailed alongside, Disponible (available) on the sign. Automatically my hand waved to the cab. The door opened; I took a deep breath, quickly glanced at the driver through the downpour, than decisively dove inside. His plump brown face looked honest enough as I peeked again. My body collapsed onto the seat, but a sting arose in my belly. Breathlessly I uttered directions to my apartment in Colonia Condesa. He nodded reassuringly. As we drove on, the sharp sensation subsided.

More comfortable, I wondered why I hadn’t looked for the fact sheet on the window. Why didn’t I check his ID? But I was desperate. Should I ask him now? I debated with myself. Well, it is a little late, and he did look okay. And I am so relieved to be out of that downpour. It was so cozy inside the cab. I switched my thoughts. Remember positive thinking, Mira, I reminded myself—part of my own cognitive retraining. When I get to the apartment, I’ll change, get my file and art materials out for my last session with Jose… I organized my thoughts. Then out for some fun—dinner to celebrate my success. The turnout for my first workshop with Mexican mental health professionals on art and image in psychotherapy had been phenomenal. I had been compensated well over $20,000 pesos, roughly US$2,000. This was the first of many workshops I planned.

At seven o’clock in the morning when I had left the apartment, the weather was nice, brisk and sunny; but it had changed dramatically in the late afternoon and become a stormy eighteenth of October, 1998. I had waited at least half an hour in the arched doorway of Liverpool, an elegant department store, after picking up a new linen suit and stopping for coffee. With my new purchase and my professional portfolio in hand, still perked up by my delicious treat of cappuccino and concha (Mexican puff pastry), I had stood there patiently. Normally, people walked about leisurely; but they were darting about today, struggling with their umbrellas. Polanco, a chic business and residential district of Mexico City, seemed chaotic as the wind raged and water flooded the streets. In spite of it all, including the rumors that this city was the kidnapping capital of the world, I was still enamored with it, and happy to be living there.

But it had been an hour or more since I first stepped out, when I had immediately asked the doorman for a cab. His response, with upraised hands, had been one of futility. "Impossible—llubia." (Rain.) After a while he looked at me again, still waving his hands up in the air. My thought was, You could do better. I trudged over to the curb. I’ll flag one down myself. Loaded with my portfolio, my trendy bag, and a wallet stuffed with $20,000 pesos, I had felt empowered—but I was getting tired. It had been a full day, from seven o’clock in the morning to now four o’clock. I had waited and waited as the stream of secured sedan cabs passed, all occupied; only the VW Bugs displayed the Disponible sign. What was preventing me from taking a Volkswagen cab were recent reports that some of these were illegitimate—that the drivers were caught in kidnapping crimes.

Finally my vitality had become sapped, and so had my patience. I needed to get home, get out of the wet clothes, and prepare for my final session. I also looked forward to a short nap, then a nice evening dinner with my good friend, Lorenzo. We had planned to dine at a gourmet vegetarian restaurant, El Bistro. Lorenzo was a graphic designer; he both worked and lived in his spacious apartment, which he generously shared with me. It was a great location in the artsy community of Condesa, only minutes from Polanco, Centro Historico, and all the shops, boutiques, theaters, museums, and yummy restaurants.

What a relief, I muttered as the cab driver pulled up in front of my apartment building. I paid him, and he reached over and opened the door to let me out. The rain had subsided. I gathered my belongings and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Seconds after my feet touched down, a huge shadow came over me. Three men jumped in front of me, barred me from going farther. They pushed and stuffed me right back inside the cab. Two squeezed themselves in the back with me; the third jumped in the front alongside the driver and commanded him to speed away, yelled out directions. Reflexively my mouth opened, I began to let out a scream, than a large hand slapped over my mouth.

The men snarled at me, No gritas! No gritas! (Don’t shout!) My eyes searched out through the windows, hoping to catch someone’s attention on the street or in another vehicle to signal for help, but my effort was useless. Quickly, two of these swarthy thugs bound my feet and wrists while the third directed the cabbie. Stinking of perfume, the one on my right grabbed me by the throat. His icy fingers and sharp nails dug into my flesh. He pressed so deeply into my neck that he almost choked me. I gagged, couldn’t breathe. He saw me struggling for air and slightly released his hold. I took small, imperceptible breaths to keep myself alive—conscious yet frozen with fear.

The cab came to a jolting stop on a deserted street where buildings staggered in various stages of demolition. Creeping along my arms were the two sweaty hands of the thug on my left—he groped and grabbed my body, found jewelry, snatched it off. I moved from side to side, squirmed, and struggled, but then he tightened his hold. Again a scream escaped from my gaping mouth. The burly hood in the front reached back, swung his huge hand over my mouth again, muffled my cry. God, oh Goddess, help me. Senora Guadalupe, ayudame, I silently prayed for help.

Soon I was thoroughly stripped of my jewelery, now in their hands. The probing violation of my body by those huge, sweaty mitts felt depraving, painful, and shameful. I asked myself, Why? What did I do to deserve this? They robbed me of all my precious adornments, including my blessed gold cross that my father had given me so long ago—his only little gift—and my little gold-and-turquoise turtle, a beautiful topaz-and-gold ring, my gold bangles from India, my favorite gold loop earrings. I continued my silent invocation: Now that they have all I have, oh Great Spirit, please don’t let them rape me, or mutilate me Juarez-style. They shouted commands at the cab driver. He drove on, winding wildly around deserted, rundown neighborhoods. Helplessly I wondered, What next will they do to me?

The perfumed hoodlum on my right again eased his hold on my throat while the thug in the front grabbed my purse from my frozen fingers. Although I tried to stay perfectly still, my eyes opened wide. As my body became numb and rigid, I wondered, Am I going into shock? Still, I clearly saw those fat gristly fingers, which tore into my favorite purse, searched greedily inside. He grabbed the contents and threw my keys back on my lap. Then he exploded with excitement; he found my wallet, exclaimed to the others, Aqui, aqui, mira. (Here, look.) He pointed and held up my wallet as if he had found a grand prize. He hurriedly pulled out the business cards, the change, and the cash.

The cab driver stopped for a moment at a light. I wondered if now they would let me out. I whispered, Degame aqui. (Let me go here.) But they didn’t even acknowledge me. No hope. I sat there shaking and sweating profusely, not knowing what to do. I thought, I am close to death. Definitely, these are my final moments. I felt my energy, my life force, drop to my feet; the sense of finality overcame me. This is the end; certainly, by the close of this day, these criminals will dump me on the outskirts of Mexico City after they shoot or mutilate me to death. Then they will leave me to rot, and no one will ever know what happened to me. My head throbbed violently with thoughts of death. My neck, throat, shoulders ached; my mouth, lips were parched as I tried to swallow.

Although petrified, I still felt anger and repulsion toward these thugs. How dare they violate me so; yet…yet I am powerless! I can’t do anything, nothing at all. I have to accept my fate, give in, and give up. Not since my childhood—not since the dreadful days of World War II, those long, frightening postwar years—had I been overcome with this same sinking sensation of certain death. My fate on this day was no longer a victory but a victimization.

The thug in the front seat, searching my wallet, yanked out all my money and counted the $20,000 pesos I had clipped together carefully. Then he found and pulled out my Bank One card and waved it in front of my face. Hysterically he yelled, Su PIN, su PIN! They all turned, glaring at me. Comprende! They wanted my PIN.

I nodded I understood; but I also shook my head from left to right, indicating I had none. I looked at them directly, one by one, and quietly replied, No tengo. No tengo. No tengo.

For a second all was still in the cab; they were stunned by my response. The one on my right stirred, grabbed me, shook me by my shoulders, and snarled, threatening to kill me. Vamos a matarte! Vamos a matarte! Obviously they were not happy with the $20,000 pesos and the jewelry—they wanted more, demanded again, Su PIN, su PIN, ahora! They wanted my bank card number and now. I had none; because I worked in the city, I did all my banking in person with the tellers (and still do).

I tearfully pleaded to be released. Por favor degame.

Te matamos! They yelled their death threat into my face. Like a pack of wolves, they barked furiously at me, gripping my neck and arms again.

There was nothing more I could give them. No tengo, senores! I softly and genuinely replied.

They looked at one another in disbelief. La gringa no tiene mas! (This gringa doesn’t have any more money.) They were so confused by this turn of events that they halted their assault on me.

Suddenly, compelled by a strange, insistent inner voice, I seized the moment—I had nothing left to lose. Softly I spoke, Creen en Nuestra Senora o en Dios? I asked them whether they believed in the patron saint of Mexico, or God. Now, ensued a still longer pause; my question had distracted them, putting them on the defensive. Now their eyes opened wide, stared at me with disbelief or awe—as though they had been struck. I waited apprehensively, but calmly, suspended yet on alert, my eyes remained riveted on them.

Their deep sighs surprised me, as all three nodded their heads in answer to my question. They whispered in deep, masculine tones, Si, si creemos en el Dios y en La Virgen de Guadalupe. They acknowledged their belief in God and in the patron saint of Mexico, La Senora Guadalupe (also my patrona), whose medal they had grabbed from the chain on my neck.

Enormously relieved, I risked even further, cautiously ventured; a little more daringly, I asked why they were violating me. Entonces, porque hacen eso? Once again they responded, but looking away, avoiding eye contact with me.

Necessitamos dinero para vivir. No hay trabajo. They explained they needed money to live, they were recently fired and there was no work. Cautiously, I continued to build rapport with them. I wished them to know that I was not a wealthy American tourist but a curandera, a healer; that my tools were art, images, breath work, meditation, and Yoga; and that I had come to Mexico to help people with my unique skills.

I urged them to open my portfolio. Mira que hay en me maleta—soy una terapueta, no rica. Aqui en Mexico quiero ayudarlos ninos, y adultos tambien. I explained that I loved Mexico and came here to help children as well as adults, and that I did not make much money. (Today’s seminar had been an exception, with an unusually good response.) The burly, excitable man in front unzipped my black legal-size portfolio. To my astonishment, he carefully examined the photos of my clients and their art: Mexican children, adolescents, adults, and families. I prayed he would understand the good my work did. He then turned to a newspaper article with an accompanying photo, and held it up so the others could see. They all looked at the headline—Milagro: Andres Anda con Ayuda de Ms. Lazarevic—about a little crippled boy who I had helped to begin to walk; for many years, I had worked with emotionally and physically challenged youth at Centro Creciemiento, a clinical school, volunteering my skills of art and Yoga therapy. They passed my portfolio around and then dropped it on my lap.

The man on my right turned to me. He spoke deliberately and clearly. It was good that I spoke Spanish, because his directions meant the difference between life and death. He said, Te dejamos aqui. No vueltas, o te matamos. (We are letting you go. Don’t turn around, or we will kill you.) Obviously they didn’t want me to read or remember the cab’s license plate. They directed the cab driver to stop at a desolate underpass then opened the door and ordered me out. (To this day I don’t remember where it was.) The thug in front forced my medal of La Senora back in my hand. I don’t know how I scrambled out to the street, but I held tightly to my medal, keys, and portfolio. I do recall distinctly how I stood there in the gloomy, deserted space, not believing, I am alive and free! Oh my God, oh my Goddess, I am so lucky, so grateful. It’s over, it’s over. Again and again, I murmured my gratitude, Thank you, Senora. Thank you, Great Spirit, God.

Weak and exhausted, I could barely stand. Sharp jabs sprung from my neck and throat. The fight for my life had taken every bit of energy out of me. My body swayed as my legs trembled. My arms were full of black-and-blue bruises with large welts. I tried to take a deep breath but gave up; it hurt too much. I tasted blood on my lips. I must have looked as bad as I felt. But I am still alive, I consoled myself. I dragged my wounded body slowly across to the other side of the bleak street. I felt like a martyr who’d been tortured in a car instead of on a cross.

I stumbled along until I saw some small stores, one with a light on. I stopped. I couldn’t make my body move another step; my shoulder leaned against the windowpane of this little shop. Night was falling rapidly, it was dark on the street. But the bright light from inside illuminated the small sign, Relojeria (watch repair shop); it also illuminated the outside area where I stood. As I moved my head slowly, gazed inside, I noticed a white button next to my shoulder. I pressed my shoulder on the button, hoped it worked. It is ringing, maybe…

Ah. The buzzer sounded back. I placed my hand on the door; it opened easily. Miraculously I was allowed inside. I lunged forward, almost collapsed, except for the elderly man who rushed toward me. He grabbed onto me, held me up, placed his arms under my arms, and step by step led me to a green chair. He sat me down, urged me to relax. Relajate. He was slight but strong, dark skinned, gray haired, with kindly brown eyes. While he poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on the counter, he explained that he was the owner of the shop and introduced himself. Me llamo Senor Santos.

I whispered, Me llamo Mira; gracias.

The water sparkled in the crystal glass. He offered it to me. Tomalo. (Drink.) Although I was thirsty, the touch of liquid stung my throat. Tentatively I sipped, letting it dribble down, hoping the moisture would ease my pain.

Senor Santos studied me, then lowered his voice and asked, Crees en Dios?

How strange. He posed the same question to me that I had just asked of the thieves. I was bewildered; then I nodded my head with wonderment. Si, si.

I had a strong conviction in the existence of a force, be it Goddess, and God, but in my own way. And I had an awesome affinity to La Senora. He smiled and reassured me that I had nothing to worry about, he would take care of me. He explained a friend of his would drive us to my home safely, since he didn’t own an auto. I sat back in the chair, sipping the water, while he dialed and then spoke with his friend. He locked some drawers, took watches out of the window, turned the alarm on, and prepared to close the shop.

While we waited for his friend to arrive, I asked Senor Santos if I could call the police. He replied, Si, pero no vale nada. (Yes, but most likely it would do no good.)

When I spoke to the policia, he immediately asked for the license number of the cab. I stated that I had been forbidden by the thieves to look at it; otherwise they threatened to shoot me. He replied apologetically, Lo siento, no podemos hacer nada. He was sorry, but there was nothing they could do for me, and he had to hurry to guard a bank.

Senor Santos raised his hands. Nuestra policia. He helped me into the car and introduced me to Senor Vargas, an old friend with whom he shared a house. Senor Vargas explained that he owned a little jewelry shop close by and the two men often drove together. He listened carefully, nodding his head as I gave him my address; he seemed familiar with Colonia Condesa.

We drove on, I recognized the streets and buildings, then my apartment building. Just hours ago, from the very spot where Senor Vargas stopped, I had been kidnapped. I cringed; Senor Santos placed his hand on my shoulder and looked through the windows before unlocking and opening the car door. He then took my key, helped me out, and carried my portfolio. Still unsteady, I was grateful that he unlocked the heavy glass door of the building. We slowly walked up the three flights of stairs. After we entered the apartment, he took my hand, patted it. With kindness he whispered, Descance. He encouraged me to rest and then turned to leave.

But I asked him to wait. Espere, por favor. I wanted to go look for something—a little gift.

He smiled, understanding my intention, shook his head, and repeated, Descance, descance. Solo rosas para La Senora. He left without leaving his address or phone number, only suggesting I bring roses for La Senora, which is a custom I planned on following. It was also my intention to make a retablo. It is customary in Mexico to make a little painting commemorating a miracle or when petitioning for one. It ritualizes a profound bond between the saint and the person who received the intervention—a guarantee of protection, benevolence, and demonstration of devotion. La Senora, La Virgen de Guadalupe, has made many miraculous appearances, evidenced by the thousands of ex-votos or small paintings documenting those exact personal miracles. (Frida Kahlo, the well-known Mexican artist, owned hundreds of them, which are still on view in her house, Casa Azul, in Coyoacan, Mexico City.)

I stood at the door, listened to the echo of his footsteps as he descended the stairs, and reflected on the day. In a mere four hours, I confronted horrendous evil and was graced by awesome goodness; such an incredible encounter—so close to death, yet saved by a mystical intervention or even the sacred power of a saint, a goddess. I thought I understood, but was there a cryptic message? And then the synchronicity of the question, Do you believe in God? That, to my mind, was still an unbelievable coincidence. Yet was it a coincidence? Was this proof of a power that protected me? Deep inside my body, my heart knew, and will always know, that I had been graced by a special energy that marked the reclamation and confirmation of my connection to the divine, in the form of La Senora. The connection with God that I had lost, even severed, long ago in a bombed-out basement in war-torn Germany was mended. The silver cord reappeared intact.

After I locked the door, I stepped into my room; with a humbling bow, overwhelmed with the deepest sense of gratitude, I lit a candle. As I looked at her serene image, it occurred to me in that instant that the quality of grace was my most profound lesson from her while living in Mexico. I had learned grace, humbling even the thieves, the men who captured, robbed, and violated me, then acknowledged their wrongdoing and freed me, in Her Name.

Now I couldn’t think anymore; I hurt and desperately needed rest. I went into the bathroom, switched on the light, studied my face covered with black and blue marks; my bulging eyes were totally bloodshot. But I am alive. Gently I patted my stinging wounds—my face, neck, arms, legs. The sensation of warm water flowing over my aching body was soothing. Softly I patted myself dry, applied aloe vera salve on the scratches and bruises. Still very thirsty, I poured and slowly sipped from a glass of water. It was late, but still I remembered to call my client. I left an apologetic message and offered to reschedule. I sat on the edge of my little cot, gave thanks, and eagerly lay down. My large puffy pillow cradled my head, and I hugged my furry white bear. In my last waking moment before sleep, I thought, I thank you, Senora. Muchisimas gracias. With a tremendous sigh, I snuggled further into the warm flannel sheets.

The light of the morning sun through the flimsy curtains woke me. As I stirred, the aching in my body stirred too; the ugly bruises and bloody scratches, the swollen face, all brought the whole traumatic scene back. Again I repeated, But thanks to Senora I am alive. I didn’t know what to do, but my body always goes into Mira’s a.m. routine—only today, stinging pain and stiffness abruptly stopped my morning stretch. How sad that people must hurt one another for money, mostly because the rich are so greedy. Slowly I moved to the side of the bed, facing my altar. Her Grace reminded me to remain grateful, as I was safe, alert. A little groggy and sad, but I would heal.

How to Get Home?

My only thought was to get home to quiet little San Fernando Bonito, but how to get there? It was some three hours north of Mexico City. I have to take a cab to get to the Terminal Norte bus station. How will I walk out to catch another cab after what happened to me, and looking the way I do? It’s early, six o’clock on a Sunday morning. Could I wake Lorenzo this early? He has no idea what happened to me. I longed to be back inside my little house as soon as possible, to avoid Sunday morning traffic, and to get the hell out of this neighborhood—artsy Condesa was suddenly fartsy. The charm of poor artists, crumbling walls, colorful graffiti, makeshift theaters, tiny hovels made into cute bistros, dogs and cats sleeping on the streets—it now seemed seedy rather than sassy. Still, I am grateful.

Mickey, my husband, would help me gain clarity. I needed to speak with him, but from my home phone. Huge doubts and questions lurked. First, how to get to San Fernando, and then, perhaps, we would need to make other plans. Knowing this disastrous experience would force me to make some decisions I had been putting off, it was imperative to get home as soon as possible. But how? I didn’t have any money, and Lorenzo was still asleep. He hated to be roused—but I had to do it. With great care, I slowly pried open the door to Lorenzo’s bedroom and tiptoed toward his bed. Bishu, his black cat, lay by his side, purring. I put out my hand and stroked her silky-smooth fur. One eyelid popped open, and the other remained closed. Nevertheless she accepted my gesture with satisfaction. I stuttered as I whispered, Excuse me…excuse me… but Lorenzo had already begun to stir. He opened his eyes attempting a polite smile, which flipped into a frown. Sorry, Lorenzo. I need to get back to San Fernando, real soon.

The frown on his face turned to an expression of horror. Wait, wait, Mira. Why do you look awful? What has happened to you? Last night I saw you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you, but had no idea… Why do you look like that? Why do you want to leave looking like that? What is wrong?

Lorenzo, I was kidnapped in front of your building, thrown back in the cab I had taken here, then robbed by three men. I don’t think the cabbie was in on it, poor guy. They finally let me go, I don’t know where. Another man—Senor Santos, a very kind person—returned me here safely. I must get home and call Mickey. Could you please help me get a safe cab?

Mira, Mira, calm down. Let me get my clothes on. We’ll have a cup of coffee. I will take you to the bus terminal and put you on the bus. Give me a little time. You poor thing, you look awful. There is so much of this crime going on. Worst of all, kidnapping and assaults are happening with frequency in this area now, and not only the rich anymore. Just about anyone is a target. I would feel so much better if you stayed so I could take care of you for a day or so.

No, no, no, no, I need to go as soon as possible, I said. You know I have serious PTSD. If I do not take care, it can escalate and throw me into shock. I must try to work this out as soon as possible. But I would appreciate it if you would go with me to the bus station this one time. Yes, yes, yes, let’s have some coffee, maybe something light to eat. I can answer your questions as we ride, and I’ll call you when I arrive home. We can talk more freely when I am comfortable in my home. Or you can come along to San Fernando. What do you think?

Lorenzo thought and consulted his agenda. I would really like to, but I have a busy day. I have some illustrations for a magazine that are due on Monday afternoon.

I couldn’t drink very much coffee, but I sipped a bit, and I could not eat. I