My name is Joan, and I am from Cusco. I work as a translator, among other things, alongside Maestro Raul Apaza.
I support their mission to share their wisdom with the world, particularly with those committed to planetary healing. Because of this, I spend a lot of time with Maestro Raúl—sometimes alone, sometimes with groups.
I find it essential to document the conversations I have with him during these moments.
Maestro Raúl often shares that explaining his prayers can be challenging.
He says, “When I’m asked to explain, I can’t do it exactly. I learned from my father, and I simply express what I feel in that moment; the words just come.”
In the Andean worldview, profound explanations for phenomena aren’t always necessary; sometimes, it’s about feeling and embodying the wisdom, which is often silent and intuitive.
To me, Raúl is not just a teacher; he is an heir to a tradition that has preserved complex wisdom for generations—wisdom that can be hard to articulate. In our time, we must strive to keep this knowledge alive.
On one occasion, while traveling to conduct a Haiwarikuy ceremony in the Sacred Valley, my curiosity led me to discuss the Quechua language with him.
We talked about the intricate nature of this indigenous language, particularly its polysemy.
For example, the word “Munay” can mean both love and will, highlighting the richness and complexity of Quechua.
This complexity offers a different understanding of concepts and reality, which can be challenging to translate from the indigenous world to the Western context.
Later, I inquired how to translate the word “abundance” into Quechua.
Maestro Raúl replied, “Kawsay.” I initially thought, “But Maestro, Kawsay means life, and abundance is a different concept.”
He then shared a story from his childhood in the community: “My grandfather referred to the colcas—sacred storage places for our most important seeds and food—as Kawsay.”
In the Andes, colcas were revered spaces where children weren’t allowed to enter or even play, especially wearing sandals. They served as sacred sites for prayers and requests for good harvests.
Reflecting on what Maestro Raúl shared, I see that the Haiwarikuy ceremony, with all its complexities, creates a space for our food.
In modern times, money often replaces this understanding of abundance.
In the West, asking for abundance is frequently equated with wealth—which isn’t inherently bad, as we all need it. However, it’s vital not to forget the sacredness of food and our harvests. Without them, we cannot thrive.
To give thanks is to recognize what truly nourishes us.
