Mati here at the Axis

Finding myself at the axis, in the days when the Earth seems to pause upon itself, I moved through the closing of an intense process. It was not an abrupt ending, but a slow decantation. As if everything lived throughout the year had been waiting for that exact point—that instant when the light stops advancing—to reorganize itself from within.

During 2025, I began to understand that the serpent was not only a mythological symbol or a spiritual archetype inherited from ancient cultures. The serpent is a real structure of the planet. A living geography. A body extended through space.

If one observes the Earth through its great telluric movements—faults, mountain ranges, tectonic plates—a continuous path appears, beginning in Anatolia, crossing the Middle East, Iran, Central Asia, the Himalayas, Siberia, descending through Japan, crossing the Pacific, reappearing in the Americas, moving down through Central America, running along the Andes, and ending in the deep Patagonia, in Tierra del Fuego. This path draws a planetary serpent. A backbone.

It is not a forced metaphor. It is the same principle that, in the human body, we call kundalini: an energy that ascends and descends along the central axis, activating centers, memories, and tensions. The planet also has an axis. And that axis, like ours, can also become misaligned.

Along this path, the Aegean region and Anatolia function as the head of the serpent. Not only because of their geographical position, but because languages, myths, systems of thought, and conflicts converged there, shaping the collective mind of the world. From that sea—the Aegean—routes, ideas, philosophies, religions, and wars were organized. As if that ocean were a fractal of the great ocean of human consciousness. What was thought, spoken, and written there ended up conditioning the way the world learned to navigate its own mind.

At the opposite end lies the tail. The base. The point upon which all the weight rests. Patagonia, and especially the deep south, functions as the coccyx of the planet: the last vertebrae that support the entire axis. It is no coincidence that many ancient cultures placed primordial forces there, inner fires, guardians of the end of the world. When the base tightens, the whole body enters compensation.

That is why one of the final anchorings of the year took place in Neuquén. Not as a touristic or symbolic destination, but as a geomagnetic act. Going to the base of the serpent was necessary to restore stability to a body that had accumulated too much tension at the top, too much confusion in the head.

When the coccyx is misaligned, the whole body suffers. When the base does not hold, the mind accelerates, the heart overloads, and consciousness fragments. The same occurs at a planetary scale.

This work was not “spiritual” in the usual sense. It was anatomical. Reading the body of the Earth as a living organism. Recognizing that space is not neutral—that it has memory, direction, and function. And that for time to reorganize itself, the axis must first return to its place.

The serpent does not ask to be worshipped. It asks to be listened to. Because when its spine straightens, something within us also stops twisting.

If the planet can lose its axis, so can the human body.And it does not happen suddenly. It happens by accumulation.

Constantly traveling, changing territories, languages, people, and symbolic fields expands consciousness, yes—but it also unanchors it. The body needs stable references to orient itself. The nervous system, the blood, the brain, and perception function in direct relation to the geomagnetism of the place where we were born. Just like birds, just like pigeons that, even when taken far away, know how to return to their origin.

It was interesting today to remember that in front of my house stood the Colombophile Club of Venado Tuerto, founded by my great-grandfather. My grandfather Héctor would bring me a pigeon home every weekday after lunch so that I could release it from the garden or the roof and watch it return. A practice that clearly left something imprinted deep within me.

For years, I moved nonstop. I listened to many voices. I received messages, symbols, requests, expectations. Also gifts: stones, necklaces, bracelets, objects charged with intention. Some of those intentions were loving; others, not so much. Some were conscious. Others, unconscious. And all of it entered my field without clear filters.

That is where the loss of the axis began.

This is not about “dark energies” as an abstract concept. It is about excess information that does not belong. About weights one begins to carry believing they are one’s own. About invisible pacts—with people, histories, religions, lineages—that persist only because they were never examined.

When the body is not geolocated, consciousness disperses. The inner north becomes confused. Deep fatigue appears, anxiety, sadness, the feeling of always responding to external demands—not because someone imposes them, but because the axis no longer holds.

At that point, I understood something essential: not everything that arrives should remain. Not every symbol adds. Not every tradition protects. Not every devotion liberates. Some bind. Some disorient. Some fragment the field and cause vital energy to be spent sustaining what is not one’s own.

De-geolocation is not only spatial. It is psychic, emotional, and bodily. The body begins to live as if it were in many places at once, without truly being in any. And there the real exhaustion appears—not physical, but structural.

That is why the work with space did not begin outside, but within the body. In reviewing what was excessive. What was binding. What was diverting the inner north.

And suddenly, the image of the turtle appeared—long before I could understand it.

In my childhood, the patio of my house was always surrounded by turtles. Not one or two: many. They arrived because someone brought them, because someone found them, because they “didn’t know what to do with them.” And they stayed. As if the place were calling them. Venado Tuerto—my point of origin—was always guarded by them. They were my favorite animals, and every day in the patio I would sit and play surrounded by at least ten of them.

The turtle is one of the most ancient symbols of the Earth. In many cultures, it carries the world upon its shell. It does not move fast, it does not expand, it does not conquer. It holds. Its body is home, defense, boundary. The turtle does not flee the world; it withdraws when necessary. And in that withdrawal, it protects what is essential.

This year, while I absorbed the venom of confusion, while I carried weights that did not belong to me, while body and mind were saturated, the turtles were still there—fulfilling a silent function: keeping the skull stable, protecting the center, preventing pressure from breaking the structure. Like a mental firewall the universe had designed specifically for me.

The night before this Christmas, one of the last two turtles left at my home died. It died from a neurological issue. In that moment, without words, I understood that it had held on as long as it could. And now the function had to pass to me.

It was not a loss. It was a transfer.

That is why the following gesture was not emotional, but geomagnetic. To place it. To orient it toward the north. To return it to the Earth as structure. To recognize it as base, as skull, as defense that had completed its cycle.

Immediately, I called my mother that night when I realized what was happening, asking her to re-anchor me through Tota, the turtle, and to anchor me through a small tree. An oak. And it was not by chance.

For years, I had felt that when I die, I want to become an oak. Not as a poetic metaphor, but as a function: deep roots, a firm trunk, a wide canopy. A fixed point that does not move, yet allows others to orient themselves.

During the Solstice, someone in Neuquén gifted me a small sapling—but it was not just any baby oak. That oak was a sprout from the Tree of Guernica. And at that moment, everything realigned.

My maternal surname, De Stefano, carries an Italian lineage. My paternal surname, Bide, means “path” in Basque. I did not meet my father until I was 27 years old. And it was at that age, in Neuquén, on the banks of the Limay River, where I felt a deep, silent reconnection—without words. As if space itself were closing an ancient circuit and telling me: it is time to calibrate your lineage and meet your father.

I understood then that it was not about changing history, but about ordering references. Basque memory appeared as linguistic and symbolic protection. Not as political identity, but as anchoring. Ancient languages do not only communicate—they order the mind. They protect against the unconscious spell of the modern world.

There I understood something even deeper. Suffering was not emotional. It was directional.Suffering comes from sub ferrum: to be under the iron. Under an incorrect orientation. Iron—like the needle of a compass—always points north. But if the internal field is altered, that north becomes confused, and the body suffers.

The change was not of surname or culture. It was of inner north. When the internal iron aligns, the body stops resisting. The blood finds its course. The mind stops forcing.

Being today in the Canary Islands—axis of the Atlantean world, center of the myth of the Garden of the Hesperides where the dragon guards the tree of golden apples in ancient myths, that is, where kundalini weaves the network of the world’s nodes—just as in the year 2012, I found myself beneath Mount Teide, beginning a path toward the axis on the very day the Earth aligns upon its axis. I felt, in its force, the need to re-locate my own inner axis.

Today I took all the venoms that had been controlling my direction in the world and burned them, re-localizing my consciousness in the Earth, seated in power upon my coccyx.

And so a question remains open—one that is neither mystical nor symbolic, but profoundly physical:

What would happen if we all began paying attention to those small things that have gradually pulled us away from our geolocation?What would happen if we understood that returning to the origin is not a romantic idea, but a living necessity in our cells, in our brain, in our blood, in the iron that inhabits us?

Perhaps, like pigeons, we would remember the way back.

Not to remain still—but to move without getting lost.