This past weekend, I entered the underworld.
Not through fire or darkness alone, but through water. Cool, ancient, mineral rich water that seemed to breathe. The Maya called these places dzonot, cenotes, sacred openings in the earth. They were believed to be portals to Xibalba, the underworld not as a place of punishment, but of passage, trial, and transformation. A realm where gods listened closely, where offerings were made, where the boundary between worlds softened.
These waters were never thought to be empty. The Maya believed cenotes were inhabited and protected. Watched over by deities and spirits who governed rain, fertility, death, and balance. Chief among them was Chaac, the rain god, often depicted with a long curved nose and carrying lightning. Cenotes were considered his dwelling places, reservoirs of sacred water that sustained the land and the people. To enter one was to step into his domain.
Alongside Chaac were the aluxob, small guardian spirits known for their mischievous intelligence. Protectors of sacred sites, caves, and cenotes, they demanded respect. If honored, they could guide and protect. If ignored or mocked, they were said to confuse travelers, hide pathways, or create small but unsettling disruptions. Their trickery was not cruel, but corrective. A reminder that boundaries matter.
Cenotes were also watched over by the balam, ancient jaguar guardians associated with the four cardinal directions. These beings protected thresholds between worlds. And deeper still, within Xibalba itself, ruled the Lords of Death, including Ah Puch, not as a demon in the modern sense, but as a necessary force of decay and renewal. Death, to the Maya, was not an ending, but part of a continuous cycle.
With this understanding, it becomes clear why these waters were approached with offerings, prayers, and silence.
I visited four.
Pool Uinic was my first descent. Hidden within a cave, enclosed and quiet, it felt like an initiation. Light did not greet the water directly there. Darkness wrapped around the pool instead, and the stillness made every sound feel intentional. Entering the water felt like stepping into something watchful and intelligent, as if Chaac were listening and the aluxob were quietly deciding whether I belonged. I moved slowly. Respect came naturally.
At Santa Ana, the experience unfolded in contrast. One cenote opened itself to the sky and to motion. Sunlight filtered down as a small waterfall spilled gently into the pool, its steady rhythm turning the space into something ceremonial. Standing beneath it felt like a cleansing ritual, water cascading over shoulders and spine, dissolving thought into sensation. Floating on my back afterward, I watched the sky drift above me while the water held my body with ease. It felt generous and joyful, as if this cenote existed to remind visitors of abundance.
The second Santa Ana cenote required effort and intention. A steep staircase led downward into a cave where the air cooled and the world narrowed. Sound softened. Stalactites hung overhead, intricately formed, some massive, others delicate, all shaped patiently by time and mineral rich water. This was a place that asked for quiet and attentiveness. A space where moving too fast felt like an invitation for misalignment.
San Antonio was the most mysterious. Also enclosed within a cave, it felt layered and complex. Our guide pointed out underwater tunnels leading to other caverns, hidden passageways connecting unseen chambers below. These submerged routes echoed the stories of Xibalba itself, a realm accessed through water and darkness, filled with trials meant to reveal character rather than punish wrongdoing. Floating there, gazing up at the cave ceiling where enormous stalactites loomed like stone sentinels, I thought of the balam, jaguar guardians standing watch at the edges of worlds. Respect felt essential here. Not superstition, but awareness.
Each cenote carried its own presence. Some felt welcoming, others deliberately reserved. All of them felt alive. Deeply spiritual, regardless of belief. The water seemed to remember how it was approached.
The cenotes are filled with minerals, and as I swam, I was reminded of the mineral springs in Florida that I have long loved visiting. There was the same sensation of restoration. Skin softening, hair becoming silky, the body quietly absorbing what it needs. You emerge not just clean, but renewed. The kind of refreshment that feels earned, as if the water has agreed to give something back.
Between immersions, I met people who shared the day with me. Enrique from Venezuela, traveling with curiosity and warmth. An Australian woman who teaches, thoughtful and observant. A German woman in the Navy, stationed in Mexico City, working in security at the consulate. Conversations flowed easily, shaped by shared awe rather than dominance.
There were also Americans. A family traveling together, louder than the rest, their conversations filled with talk of drinking, complaints about food, expectations unmet. It was not cruelty, just dissonance. At one point, while speaking quietly with the German woman, I admitted that I sometimes feel embarrassed to be an American abroad, especially in places that feel sacred and not built for entitlement. She laughed gently, not unkindly. Something softened between us then. A recognition that humility travels farther than nationality. That moment felt like the beginning of a friendship.
I do not believe the cenotes judge us. But I do believe they respond. Water that old has learned discernment. These places ask for presence, humility, and respect. They remind us that we are visitors, not owners. That beneath language, nationality, and habit, we are simply bodies floating in the dark, held by forces that predate us.
As I drifted on my back, eyes tracing stone above me and water below, I felt suspended between worlds. The ceiling of the cave pressed close, heavy with time, while beneath me unseen passageways stretched outward, leading who knows where. This is the power of the cenote. It makes mythology physical. It allows you to feel what the Maya understood. That the underworld is not only a destination after death, but a living threshold you can touch, if you arrive with respect.
When I climbed back into the sun, I carried that with me. The minerals on my skin. The quiet in my heart. The sense that I had crossed a boundary and been gently allowed to return.
This residency is still unfolding, and the work is developing alongside it. Through my mailing list, I share works in process, completed pieces, and select insider glimpses into experiences and moments that are not shown elsewhere. It is a more private space, for those who want a deeper view into how the work is shaped before it enters the public sphere.Â
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