The rune Berkana looks like a B and represents birth or new beginnings.  It is obviously feminine in nature and relates to the birch tress that were featured in fertility rituals.  It represents the month of March and the Mother Moon.  If one were to draw this rune, it could literally mean a baby, but is more likely to indicate a new project or season of life.  Whatever it is, will require a lot of care and attention in the early stages to get by.  As related to health, this rune could mean a return to wellness after a long injury or illness.  In a relationship, it signifies that the woman will take the lead.

In its healing interpretation, Berkana represents prayer.  Much prayer is always required in the infancy of any new person or project, when so much is out of our control and the conditions need to be just right.  Communication with God, or a higher power, should come before everything, both for the desires of the heart and well-being of the planet.

Even though I was out on the road again, the pandemic had ushered in a new season for me, one where’d I spent most of it in California with my mother, unable to go anywhere.  It had come at a time when I’d been looking for a transition from living out of a suitcase and going from job to job.  As much as I’d been ready for a change, that was not the way I’d wanted it to happen, being forced to evacuate Vietnam, having a seizure, losing my driver’s license, living in a pop-up camper for a year and a half. 

Essentially, I’d been destroyed, blown to bits, totally humiliated and humbled, but then things had begun growing again, I’d gotten my license back, some unemployment money had come in, I’d taken a car trip all over America.  There were ideas I had about promoting my music and travels, but the person who did so would have to be a more stable version of the one who’d lived them out.  I couldn’t go forward carrying all the depression and anxiety from the past anymore.

There is no sea bluer than the Caribbean.  As we raced along beside it, it appeared that the driver of the bus should’ve been driving in the Formula 1 races that were happening in Mexico City that week, going eighty miles an hour, weaving around the other cars, stopping on a dime when he needed to.  Back on Boulevard Kukulcan, I got off at a roundabout where the centerpiece of blue walls and seashells had been tagged by a team of graffiti assassins.   Some art elevates, some defiles.  This was just ugly scrawl.

I walked past City Hall.  A Mexican flag waved alongside an odd assortment of heroes: Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, the singer Juan Gabriel, and Khalil Gibran.  I stopped at a pharmacy to get something for gout.  Although I wasn’t sure what continued to attack my feet, once again I was nearly crippled by pain, my toes all pinched up and going numb. 

It was late afternoon and I headed towards the Parque de Palapas to get something to eat.  There wasn’t much going on.  A few kids were driving little cars across the plaza.  The stage was empty.  Over at the food stands, I got in line for tacos al pastor.  There were a few German tourists behind me with a Mexican girl who was answering questions for them.  They wanted to know what was safe to eat.  Not the tacos al pastor.  Twenty minutes later and I would’ve warned them.