Yachaq

Today, along the path, I met a yachaq — one who knows.

I knew almost immediately that he was learned. He carried a confidence that didn't need to announce itself. Before him rested a staff, a kero, a pututu, and coca. I recognized each of them from my travels, but he seemed to understand them differently. To me they were objects I had encountered along the road. To him they were tools, and he knew precisely what each could do.

He gripped his ceremonial staff firmly in one hand and raised his kero with the other. The gesture felt deliberate, almost like an invitation. He was offering what he knew to those who might need it.

Around him, the whole landscape seemed alive. A condor crossed the sky. A puma rested nearby. A serpent moved along the stone beneath him. A llama stood quietly within the land. Above them all was Inti, the Sun God.

I began to understand that his knowledge did not stop with the objects before him. He knew this land. He knew its animals, its mountains, its sacred relationships, and the powers people understood to move through their world. He knew where he stood within all of it. Perhaps that was why he seemed so certain of himself.

He was not waiting to discover whether he possessed what he needed. He had learned. He had practiced. He had gathered knowledge and developed skill. Now, when someone called upon him, he could reach for the right tool and act.

As I continued along the path, I found myself looking at my own hands. I wondered how many things I already know how to do, yet still hesitate before using them.