Chapter 1: Full Moon 
El Salvador, 1977

"Señorita Michele, Señorita Michele." The urgent whisper at my cabana window pulls me out of my slumber. Anna, the wife of our guardián, Fernando, is gesturing for me to follow her. The light of the full moon pours through the window screen. The full moon! I had noticed it earlier in the evening. Noticed, but not paid attention. I had merely brushed the thought away as if it were only a mosquito. I told myself that this time everything would be fine.

For three months I've been here in the remote jungles of El Salvador, on a few acres of beach property bordered by the Pacific. I've taken on the job of property manager at a spiritual retreat being built by Walt Baptiste, my teacher, and have been given the responsibility of readying the grounds and the buildings of Retiro Espiritual for groups of students who will come from the Baptiste Yoga Center in San Francisco. Most of my days have passed uneventfully. I've been alone except for the company of Anna the housekeeper, her husband and retreat caretaker Fernando, their two young daughters, and the construction workers who come during the day. Aside from performing my duties, I've had a great deal of time for meditation and other yoga practices. Most nights have been peaceful, too. Except for those with full moons.

My short experience with Fernando and full moons hasn't been good. The first full moon after Walt left me in charge, Fernando rode his bicycle around in circles for hours, laughing hysterically like the proverbial lunatic. His antics had awakened me after midnight, and when I tried to get him to stop he looked past me with a glassy expression that let me know he didn't register my presence. Twenty-eight nights later, he and a group of native men gathered around a large bonfire drinking Tic Tac, a cheap rot-gut liquor, cavorting around the flames as if carrying out a ritual sacrifice dance. I have tried to tell myself it was coincidence, that there was no full moon mania pattern. Now, it seems that this night is already proving me wrong.

Outside my window, Anna is gesturing wildly. Moving quickly, I throw on shorts and a T-shirt, open the door, and step out into the sultry night. The roar of the ocean is deafening and I strain to hear her words.

"What is it, Anna? Qué pasa?" I ask, and then listen attentively as she carefully chooses the Spanish words she hopes I will understand.
"Fernando is very drunk. Tiene un rifle." I manage to register enough words to slowly grasp the severity of the situation. Neighbor's casita. Something about a rifle. Senor Baptiste's rifle. I think she's trying to tell me that Fernando is in some kind of a fight. Anna frantically points in the direction of a hut on the property bordering ours. I know the owners of that property are gone for the season, but they keep employees --including their own caretaker--on the premises. To make matters worse, Raul Ortega, their caretaker, is feared by all of the local natives for his reputation of chopping off a man's arm in a drunken machete fight. All the men carry machetes down here, the way Americans carry ballpoint pens.
Oh dear God, I think. What should I do? My Spanish is laughable. I've had minimal interaction with the natives, and I've never held a gun in my life. And yet, I've been given the responsibility of managing the retreat property, and my charge includes the safety of my surroundings and the people in it.

Fear and self-doubt set my mind spinning. All I can think of is a list of terrifying scenarios. But suddenly, Walt's voice comes into my head so strongly and clearly that I could have been talking on the phone with him. "Michele, calm down, go over there, and get that gun." I quickly look around to see if perhaps, by some extraordinary circumstance, my guru had returned from San Francisco to surprise me, but no, I am still alone. His physical body is nowhere in sight, but his presence--and most of all, his voice--is clearly with me.

I'm scared, I think.

Walt's reply comes immediately. "You will be protected."
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, my well-practiced mantra comes into my mind and repeats itself. Peace, harmony, well-being. Peace, harmony, well-being. As I experience the familiar words of the Baptiste teachings, I begin to calm down and feel my breath. I listen carefully for more inner guidance that might come. Peace, harmony, well-being. "You must control your own mind or negativity will." How often I heard my teacher say this in yoga class as he taught us to take responsibility for our states of mind. "When the mind calms," Walt said, "higher thinking is reflected, and the light from above is reflected." Peace, harmony, well-being.

I immediately feel a profound inner shift. The shadow of fear dissolves into the light of certainty. With absolute conviction, I stride to the neighboring property and open the collapsing wooden gate leading toward the dilapidated hut. None of the women in the neighbor's household are in sight, and Anna has not accompanied me. In this remote location, it is not uncommon to see men with missing hands or limbs lost in a machete fight. The women know all too well to stay away when things take an ugly turn.

I move toward the open door of the hut. Inside, I can see a bare mattress, a crude wooden table, a lantern, and two chairs. Several empty bottles of Tic Tac lie in a corner on the hard dirt floor. I can hear three men laughing wildly, but it's the kind of laughter that tells you nothing is funny. Then the laughter stops abruptly. Raul Ortega, the inhabitant of the hut, is attempting to stay on his feet as he slices his machete through the air like a sword. It slips from his hands and flies through the air, landing only inches from Fernando. Now, with both hands, Raul picks up a wooden chair and lifts it overhead, sending it careening into the chest of the man I do not recognize. The stricken man stumbles, grazing his shoulder on the small wooden table as he falls. The bare light of the kerosene lantern allows me to identify Fernando, pointing a rifle at Raul. I see well enough to note the menace in Fernando's eyes. This is no macho pose or drunken boast; this is real.
Taking a deep breath, I step through the door into air thick with kerosene and cheap alcohol.

"Buenas noches," I say solemnly. The three men regard me with complete and utter shock. I'm a girl, a gringa, in shorts no less. "Hola, Señorita Michele," Fernando finally replies, lowering the rifle with a semi-remorseful look--not for his action, but for getting caught. The guardián of the adjoining property follows suit, attempting to show a measure of respect despite his drunkenness. Fortunately, he's coherent enough to recognize me as Walt Baptiste's representative, the retreat manager. Both his son and nephew had worked on the retreat and jobs are scarce in this remote area.

The man on the floor is only semi-conscious. I stand as tall as I can, with all the calm authority that my twenty-eight years can muster. Inwardly, my heart is hammering and I pray for strength. I have to be very careful. I don't want to shame Fernando in front of the other two men, and yet I know I have to get that gun.

"Please, Fernando, give me the gun. It belongs to Senor Baptiste."
"Senor Baptiste gave me this gun. I am the guardián," he protests, unable to meet my gaze. 
"Only to defend the retreat property." I fumble with my limited Spanish vocabulary for the words that will convey to him the severity of the situation. I remain steadfast in my determination to get that gun.

Fernando stares at me sheepishly through an alcoholic haze. His guilty expression speaks volumes. He clearly knows, even in his inebriated condition, that he has broken a great trust. Looking down at the ground, he reluctantly hands me the weapon. I grasp it in both hands. Raul, looking relieved, flops backward onto his mattress, overcome by drink. I quickly walk out the door without looking back. 
For the remainder of the night I lie in bed wide-eyed, with Walt Baptiste's rifle under my bed. But I know that the gun is not what shields me from danger. Peace, harmony, well-being. Peace, harmony, well-being. Over and over I silently repeat the mantra that I had been given by Walt to defend my mind against fear and to help me abide in the knowingness that I am divinely protected. In the early morning hours I finally drift off to sleep as the words continue to slowly echo in my mind and into my dream state: Peace, harmony, well-being.