Experiencing the Mayan End of World in Jerusalem

Experiencing the Mayan End of World in Jerusalem

Danny and I are on our way to Israel‘s Western Wall for the Mayan end of world.

It’s December 21, 2012.

For months we sat on our couch, sipping ginger tea and manically conjecturing over what this day would signify. While many people around the world thought this date would hail the end of the world as predicted by the Mayan calendar, in New Age theory, this date would mark the beginning of the shift to a New Earth. Due to a great influx of light from the universe, receptive humans would reach a higher vibratory level, leading to a mass global awakening of love; old, harmful systems and structures would melt away for the enlightened.

“I’m worried I won’t make it to the New Earth, Lara,” Danny confided to me late one night, leaning on my doorframe.

“Not with that attitude,” I retorted. I wanted to cool Danny’s singular fervor. His obsession was quickly pooling in the base of my skull.

Experiencing the Mayan End of World in Jerusalem
Waiting for the end?

To unchain myself from the shackles of self-hatred, to erase the petty battles of the past, and to step into the light that is the love of the divine. Astrologically, it’s impeccable timing. Logistically, it’s not completely unfeasible. This is the year I told myself I would finally work on my issues before I’m inevitably pushed kicking and screaming into the workaday world of responsible adults. I hear the call from Danny and Aunt Kathleen and Eckhart Tolle and God. Then I stand dazed in front of the mirror and pick at my face with tweezers for two hours.

We decided the Western Wall would be a fitting place to usher in the world’s destruction, whether this destruction is literal or metaphorical.

Once we make it to Jerusalem, Danny and I board the bus. We are surrounded by exhausted young mothers fumbling with strollers, Hasidic men with shower caps over their black hats, and lots of random conversations in English. We decided the Western Wall would be a fitting place to usher in the world’s destruction, whether this destruction is literal or metaphorical. As a remnant of the outer walls that once surrounded the Temple, it is the most significant site in the world for Jews. The security guards scan our belongings and we emerge in the plaza. We huddle under an enclave with a swarm of teens on Birthright to wait out the rain and write down what we would like to put in the wall.

We split up and enter into opposite sides of the barricade, which separates men and women. As usual, the large men’s side is sparsely populated, while the smaller women’s side is jam-packed.

I take my folded-up note out of my pocket and slip it into one of the cracks amongst all the other tiny pieces of paper. I extend my small, raw fingertips out to the vertical expanse inches from my face. I flatten my palms on the icy, yellow rock and sigh heavily. Crisp, chilly air tickles my nostrils. Muttered prayers and the soft cooing of pigeons reverberate in my ears. I still myself. My body vibrates with thousands of years of hopes, dreams, wishes, and pleas. Ancient energies of optimism, desperation, longing, and desire overwhelm my nervous system. I rest my weary forehead on the stone, trembling. Ever ready to receive, not turning anyone away, the wall stands strong for us to lean on.

“Oh,” he sighs, “I thought that the Wall just kind of absorbed them to make room for more.”

People come to the Western Wall to ask God for help every day and every one of them is here with me. I think of the faithful, the questioning, and the non-believer. I think of the wounded, the strong, and the caregiver. I think of the beauty, the ugliness, the successes, the fiascoes, and everything in-between. And then I stop thinking, and I feel. And I feel these distinctions melt away, and I am no less and no more; no holier nor more damaged than anyone else because we are one.

I mentally repeat what I scribbled on my note: “Dear God, Thank you for helping me all these years. I’m ready to take it from here.”

I press my lips to the stone and back away slowly. Raindrops trickle off my hair and skirt.

On the bus ride back to Tel Aviv, Danny asks me what happens when all the cracks are brimming with notes.

“I think they take them out and bury them on the Mount of Olives,” I reply.

“Oh,” he sighs, “I thought that the Wall just kind of absorbed them to make room for more.”

I laugh; not because he is naïve, but because I know he is right.

 

 

 

About Lara Robinson

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