I started this piece in late November of 2025.  It is now mid-January of 2026.  The Ides of January in fact.  I started with a specific focus but all too quickly what I was writing mutated into a ramble.  Ramblings seem incoherent and they frequently are, but not always.  Sometimes, as in the case of poetry, there are verities to be gleaned in their tangled depths.  At the very least, within a rambling’s shadows, within its hues and tints, there may be clues as to the nature of the person rambling.  Clues that may or may not be meaningful to others but may well be introspectively important to the one who’s opened up his or her streams of consciousness which, for some reason, he or she felt compelled to share,

The following certainly shares the odor of a rambling.  Hopefully though, a benign rambling albeit perhaps a bit too long, for which I apologize.

I’m an expatriate, an expatriate squared or perhaps an expatriate unraveled.  I was born in the Republic of Colombia but soon after I turned six I “was emigrated” with my sister to join my mother and new step father in Miami Beach.  I use the phrase “was emigrated” because leaving Colombia was not my idea, I loved Manizales, the city where I was born and today recognized as one of the best places to live in the world, but I admitted that the idea of moving to the United States was exciting.

I’ve lived in diverse parts of the United States during most of my life; however, since the Ides of October in 2007 I’ve again become a resident of north central Colombia.  Now, as it was before I was six, I live closer to the Pacific than to the Caribbean.  I now, once again, live in the summit of the central range of the Colombian Andes, again in Manizales, a city blessed by perpetual spring and surrounded by snow clad peaks whilst overlooking valleys where summer always dwells, all within a ninety minute radius. 

So, … since I was six I was a Colombian expatriate in the United States, a Colombian expatriate for over half a century and, as tends to occur, in the process I acquired important links to the United States but I never lost my spiritual links to Colombia.  Now that I’m back though, and I’ve been back for almost two decades, I’m a sort of United States expatriate in Colombia. 

That’s not all that unusual.  As is the case with the Irish as well, many who leave their homes for perceived opportunities in foreign shores long to return and the lucky ones eventually do, but changed.  We tend to be twice torn, happy to have returned but longing for the many places we’ve lived while abroad.  In my case, pining for Miami Beach and Charlotte and New York and the Carolina mountains and Central Florida, but especially for Manhattan, and for Charleston.

My apartment in Manizales, one I bought within a month of my return in order to make it difficult for me to change my mind (I knew I’d miss my family and friends a great deal), occupies the entire tenth floor in a condominium set where one starts to enter the city center.  It sits across the street from a beautiful little park centered on a fountain gifted to the city by the Fourth French Republic about a century ago.  On the other side of the park is the city’s large cultural complex which features a large theater and auditorium.  There, the departmental (a mix between a state and a county) symphony frequently performs as do theater groups from diverse parts of the world.  It also features a number of event rooms and an art museum.  My apartment is a block away from the principal hub of a recently installed cable car complex that drops down to the regional bus terminal and then to a nearby city.  From the regional bus terminal, one can take bus transport to all parts of the country and, in a different direction, by cable car again, to an uptown commercial, civic and educational hub.  Because the condominium is designed with a single large apartment per floor and because I’m on the tenth floor, I enjoy unobstructed three hundred and sixty degree views of the entire city and of the surrounding mountains and of the valleys far below. 

To the west, just before twilight, I can see sunsets in brilliant scarlet fading to purple, with gold and green highlights reflected off of clouds over the distant Pacific Ocean and sometimes, during the evenings, lightning flashes over the Pacific covering that part of the sky.  Also to the west, the spires of one of the world’s tallest cathedrals, one with a very long name: “La Catedral Basílica de Nuestra Señora Del Rosario”, climb towards heaven.  On top of the tallest spire a gentle crucified Nazarene seems to be casting himself to those below, apparently having finally accepted the challenge mistakenly attributed to Lucifer (the tempter’s real name was Hêlêl).  Rippling beyond the cathedral flow what the Chilean Nobel Laureate, Pablo Neruda (my favorite poet), once described as “a sea of mountains”.

To the south, very far to the south, many departments distant, lies the planetary equator which crosses the southern regions of Colombia.  Picture windows in my den and bedroom overlook that southern view which also involves a sea of mountains but, in that direction, dormant volcanoes lie resting as well (well, sort of dormant).  Ironically, the tallest four peaks are crested in white reflecting snow covered glaciers (rather than sea foam); a “sea” like the one to the west, both mountainous seas dressed in myriad shades of green morphing to blues and purples in the distance.  Similar sights, but for the volcanoes and the crested white peaks, also dress the north and west.

All the windows in my apartment are wide, tall picture windows which capture entrancing scenery and a great deal of light as well.  One would have thought that having returned from the United States to the north, the north would have been the direction on which I focused and, initially, I did, always with melancholy and nostalgia.  But it was the windows that faced south, those in my bedroom and in my den, which for some reason, enchanted me.  “Enchanted” in the mystical sense as well as the aesthetic.

From the southern windows, when I first returned to Colombia I almost immediately began to engage in a ritual of sorts.  During the evenings, as the sun set just before twilight, I would “call” one of the four cardinal quarters, the one meant to open the spiritual gates to the south.  That was sort of strange as, in my case, while I’ve always been fascinated by the concepts of divinity and deities, I’ve rejected organized religion and find organized mass prayer, prayer where ritual words are repeated without reflection and introspection as to their meaning and their context, troublesome rather than inspiring, and hypocritical as well[1].  I was thus engaging in actions that seemed indistinguishable from those I found objectionable and drawing comfort therefrom, apparently drawn to a primordial need for solace when faced with profound changes for which I was not totally prepared but couldn’t avoid.  I didn’t actually believe that the ritual really had any real validity but it brought me solace nonetheless.

Anyway, … when I left what had been my life for well over half a century behind, which I did in the fall of 2007, I for, some reason, adapted as my own, aspects of rituals employed by non-traditionalist, non-Abrahamic, purportedly primordial religions; rituals used when seeking to both open and close hallowed spaces, usually in the form of sacred circles, spaces in which to commune with that which, to some, seemed hallowed.  I did so as an individual rather than as part of a group and I limited the ritual, which is normally quadridirectional, north-east-south and west, solely to the south.  The ritual I designed for myself involved opening a gate to the southern quadrant, engaging in nostalgic and melancholic reflection and introspection, and then closing it.

After I would metaphorically “open” the gate I’d reflect on my life and on what I’d left behind, most importantly, on my three sons, Billy, Alex and Edward.  And I’d think about many of the acquaintances and friends with whom I could no longer interact, at least not physically.  I’d reminisce concerning my former students, classmates, mentors and colleagues at the old Eastern Military Academy in New York and about my classmates and the stream of special people that somehow consistently flow from the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, my alma mater (my son Billy’s alma mater as well).  And I’d grieve for those graduates from both institutions whose lives had been so cavalierly wasted in useless wars where all the victims on both sides were mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and sons and daughters of others, but rarely the relatives of those politicians and entrepreneurs who had insisted on the conflict and were made wealthy thereby.  My return to Colombia coincided with a large popular movement to end armed conflicts which had plagued the country and its people for centuries and, in part, my return was motivated by a compulsion to participate in a positive manner in efforts to see such efforts succeed.

During the ritual, I would also recall my classmates and teachers at the St. John’s University School of Law and at the graduate division of the New York University School of Law, my alma maters as well.  And I’d recall my classmates and teachers at the University of Florida’s Center for Latin American Studies where I’d attended classes in the graduate program in linguistics and translation studies in 2005 and 2006.  I also frequently recalled Debra Allen Vazquez, a wonderful professor I’d had at a creative writing course I’d taken at a community college in Ocala in the late 1990’s, a wonderful woman who was murdered in front of the Ocala police station with her infant granddaughter in her arms by an estranged, xenophobic husband.  Xenophobia, racism and misogyny, the triple pillars that have always haunted the so called “American Dream”.

I initially focused my reflections on academic acquaintances and experiences because I’d returned to Colombia to work as a member of the faculty of the Universidad Autónoma de Manizales, first, briefly in the Language Institute but then in the Department of Juridical and Political Studies which I briefly chaired, and then in the university’s political science government and international relations programs which I chaired for a significant period.  That, of course, does not mean that I didn’t reminisce and reflect on many other people: on acquaintances, friends, colleagues and lovers.  Too many of the latter, unfortunately; I’ve emotionally hurt too many women who’ve loved me, although I never meant to.  I’ve seemingly been engaged in a quest for a perfect soulmate and perfection is not only hard to find but leaves behind too much disenchantment in its wake, on both sides.

I’d also reflect on the many places where I’d lived and worked while in the United States.  I’d reflect on Miami Beach where I’d first lived with my new family, and on Fort Lauderdale where I’d had two of my three sons much later on, and on Charleston in South Carolina and on Charlotte in the north, and of course, on New York.  And with respect to New York City, I’d recall my life in Ozone Park and Hollis and Jamaica and Queens Village and in Manhattan which I loved, and in Whitestone and, in Long Island.  And with respect to Long Island, the part of it which lies outside of New York City, I’d reminisce about Glen Cove but most of all, on the castle where I lived for so long, the castle that topped the highest point of Long Island in Cold Spring Hills in Huntington. Today the castle is called OHEKA but back then it was the Eastern Military Academy.  I loved those places and left pieces of my soul in each.

At any rate, after I was through with my reflections, reflections which too often involved a dash of self-pity (of which I’d quickly repent, or at least attempt to repent), I’d usually find the motivation I needed to restructure my life, hopefully in a better manner than I had in the past.  And then it would be time to close the gate to the southern quadrant.

I’d open and close the gate with the following ritual phrases uttered while facing the south and looking out through the large picture window in my den.  Opening the figurative gate to that quarter, I’d softly declaim (after all, I was alone):  “Spirits of the South, of fire, of heat and passion, of energy and creativity, I invite you to join with me in this space and ask that you grant me your peace, your wisdom and your protection.  Be with me now. Blessed Be.”

And later, when I was done, I’d close the gate to the southern quarter by softly declaiming:  “Spirits of the South, of fire, of heat and passion, of energy and creativity, I thank you for attending my rites and guarding this space, and now, I invite you to stay if you please or depart if you must, in either case, with my peace and blessings.  Blessed Be.”

I didn’t do anything similar with respect to the other cardinal points, the East, the West and the North, I’m not sure why.  Perhaps because the South represented the present and the future and that’s where I most needed help.

Despite my lack of belief in an anthropomorphic divinity, I’m not an atheist.  I am perhaps more of a curious agnostic but I do seem to sometimes need a bit of magic in my life, a bit of something still unexplained albeit not inexplicable, a bit of something supernatural, of forces beyond my ken.  In fact, I believe that questing to understand “whatever gods may be” (a quote I love from the poem “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley) is a duty and not just a curiosity.  One I’ve always taken seriously based on a pact I made with “whatever gods may be” when I was seven.  Apparently I was somewhat bold as a child, … and perhaps irreverent.  I was bathing, looking at the ceiling and trying unsuccessfully to reconcile what I was being taught in catechism classes when it occurred to me to strike a deal with the god I was being taught to worship but in whom, even then, I couldn’t quite believe but feared to disbelieve.  I couldn’t accept that an omnipotent, omnibenevolent, omniscient entity would be so insecure as to insist that he, she or it be worshipped based on fear and faith rather than on real love, real love earned, and on real knowledge, gnosis some had called it but I hadn’t yet heard of Gnostics.  And so I promised to explore and research until I attained sufficient knowledge to worship the deity based on evident realities but to behave morally and ethically as if it existed, even if that existence seemed improbable.

At any rate, the foregoing is now relatively long ago. 

We tend to change and I am not the inchoate man I was as a child, or the one I was before … et seriatum, etc.  It’s been a full life so far hopefully with a good deal more yet to live although, with the world in the horrible state in which it finds itself, the future is no certain thing and the longer I live the more I learn that most of what we’ve been taught, most of what I once believed, has been false; most of what I myself taught was false, especially the history I taught when I was in my twenties.  I really believed what I’d been taught and what I in turn taught as so many still do; however, I eventually woke to the reality that most history is only propaganda and that discerning truth involves not only hard work and objectivity but also a great deal of luck.  Since my late twenties, now many decades ago, I’ve done my best to find truth, and to share it.  To share it all too often with people for whom I care but who have no interest in having their illusions shattered.  And the truth is that objective certainty concerning history is never certain.  It’s something that we can perhaps approach but never attain.  There are too many variables and too many contexts and too little time.  We can’t even successfully discern the accuracy of the news concerning current events that we’re fed daily; something many of us have come to realize as we lose faith in the media and even in the entertainment industry, both institutions used successfully to control us. 

Notwithstanding the foregoing, despair concerning the absence of verity does nothing positive.  We need to keep plugging along doing the best we can, especially those of us in academia, whether as instructors or researchers.  But we need to inform those to whom we seek to impart knowledge that we can be as wrong as those who sought to do the same with us.  That means we have a great deal of constant research in which to engage if truth matters.  And it does to me.  And a great deal of listening to do as well as pontificating.[2]

It’s long since I’ve engaged in the rituals I’ve described but such rituals seem to have worked.  I arrived in Colombia knowing virtually no one and today, almost two decades later, I have many local acquaintances, some among them friends and most of them special people.  And I’ve been very active, active in academic circles as well as in cultural, civic and political circles.  The current president of Colombia, Gustavo Francisco Petro Urrego, visited me in my apartment on several occasions, albeit prior to his ascension.  In fact, seven years ago he sat granting televised interviews from the desk where I now sit and write these introspections.  Yes; I’ve been very fortunate.  Surprisingly so.  Inexplicably so.  Probably undeservedly so, especially with respect to the wonderful women with whom I’ve been involved, especially with respect to the one who’s become my wife.

For some reason I recently recalled the rituals I’ve described and after a search through my computer archives I found the specific phrases I used to evoke and invoke them, the ones I shared above.  And I decided that they deserved to be honored and that they deserved to be thanked.  The rituals were not entirely unfocused, they were directed at the evolving monist, panentheistic divinity I think may exist, one about which I frequently write and on which I frequently speculate, not always in a manner which it would find pleasing were it both sentient (possible) and anthropomorphic (unlikely).  But what I write reflects my honest opinions, always represented as such, and are never, or perhaps better said, rarely, undertaken in a quest for favor but rather, frequently, perhaps usually, to either give thanks or to attempt to attain introspective understanding.  After all, it’s what I promised a certain purported divinity many decades ago.

Anyway, … having written this ramble in the form of an elegy of sorts to rituals in which I may not really believe, an elegy written in a spirit of thanksgiving, a real spirit of thanksgiving unrelated to the celebration on the last Thursday in November involving a celebration of genocide and ethnic “cleansing”, one undertaken in the country I love but left, I’ll close, by first, acknowledging that the rituals seem to have been at least helpful in assisting me to better know the person who stares back at me from my mirrors and, secondly, as I did when I closed the gate to the southern quarter, by sincerely saying to one and all, friend or foe:

“Blessed be!”

This ramble, or perhaps rant, is too long, I know, but that is often the nature of rambles and rants.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2025; all rights reserved.  Please feel free to share with appropriate attribution.

Guillermo (“Bill”) Calvo Mahé (a sometime poet and aspiring empirical philosopher) is a writer, political commentator and academic currently residing in the Republic of Colombia (although he has primarily lived in the United States of America of which he is also a citizen). Until 2017 he chaired the political science, government and international relations programs at the Universidad Autónoma de Manizales. Previously, he chaired the social studies and foreign language departments at the Eastern Military Academy in Huntington, New York. He is currently the publisher of the Inannite Review available at Substack.com; an intermittent commentator on radio and television; and, an occasional contributor to diverse periodicals and publications. He has academic degrees in political science (BA, The Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina), law (JD, St. John’s University, School of Law), international legal studies (LL.M, the Graduate Division of the New York University School of Law) and translation and linguistic studies (GCTS, the University of Florida’s Center for Latin American Studies). However, he is also fascinated by mythology, religion, physics, astronomy and mathematics, especially with matters related to quanta, cosmology and cosmogony. He can be contacted at guillermo.calvo.mahe@gmail.com and much of his writing is available through his blog at https://guillermocalvo.com/.

[1] However, there is no denying that others find such rituals not only meaningful but essential and I strongly believe that that whatever the objective validity of our respective positions, attacking the “faith” that makes another’s life tolerable is unjustifiable.

[2] On the other hand, an ex-wife of mine used to insist that she’d rather be happy than right and that truth was relative anyway.  Most people today, it would seems agree with her.