Jícara as Womb: Ancient Spaces of (re)Birth

It’s the first full week of 2025, and the first Monday of the year: the calendar day in which we honor Eleguá.

Eleguá, one of the most powerful deities in the Lucumí pantheon, is the Orisha who lives at the crossroads and street corners. He opens doors of opportunity, and closes those that no longer serve us. Synchronized with El Niño de Atocha in Catholicism, Eleguá is an Orisha survived by countless Yoruba-based Atlantic traditions, from Lucumí to Candomblé and Umbanda. Known by Yoruba as Ẹlẹ́gbá and Èṣù-Ẹlẹ́gbára meaning, “the Master of Force”, Eleguá is closely associated with Eshu. Èṣù (Eshu) an Òrìṣà/Irúnmọlẹ̀ in the Yoruba spirituality known as Ìṣẹ̀ṣe, is a prominent primordial Divinity (sent by the Olódùmarè). A warrior Orisha, He is one of the deities in charge of law enforcement and orderliness.

As Olofi’s messenger, Eleguá is the intermediary between all human communication, and facilitates our communication with Orisha. Portrayed as both being very young and mischievous as well as very old and wise depending on his path (or avatar), Eleguá encompasses all paths of life, fate, and destiny. He is present in the homeless and those who’ve fallen on downtrodden times. In those with battling addictions. In the pranks played by children. In the chaos of Mercury in Retrograde. In those running the block. He is there at every decision we make.

Characterized by the tricks he plays, Eleguá’s mischief is a tool that allow us to see people for who they really are. Con su garabato, Eleguá lifts the veil.

Every Monday (depending on one’s lineage) we tend to Eleguá, offering Him treats of dulces, tobacco smoke, and rum. Seated on his clay plate at the foot of the entrances to our homes, we speak “Agó Eleguá” as we lift Him up and begin our weekly process of refreshing His altar. This is done through the use of several items, including omi tutu (cold water), epo (palm oil), and oñi (honey).

I’ve been fortunate enough to have these lessons passed down to me through a my matriarchal lineage, as my mother is an initiated priestess within the Lucumí tradition. Years later, I too consecrated my faith by furthering my commitment to this path. Growing up in a household surrounded by daily ritual and ceremony, I was able to locate myself as a (budding) keeper of wisdom and tradition quite young.

Lucumí is a practice of alchemizing and preserving a traditional knowledge system and its ancient technologies crafted by our ancestors to ensure spiritual wellness, vitality, and strength. A religious-spiritual modality that landed in the Americas through the Middle Passage, Lucumí took shape in secrecy within the barracks of enslaved Yoruba men and women who remained steadfast in their devotion to maintain their cultural heritage, while also navigating the thresholds of a new landscape. One rooted in violence and exploitation characteristic of the birth of capitalism as we know it today.

Through the use of ancestral knowledge that honors and makes use of all natural elements, Lucumí is a very hands-on tradition; a practice activated through active participation. We learn from our elders. We use our hands. We use herbs. We use our breath. Our bodies are ignited. Books, music, and seminars are important, but these modes of education fall short when used separately in hopes of understanding the essence of the tradition.

Whether at home or at ceremony, there are certain staples that we use to call on the alchemy of the ancestors. Immersed in the refreshing of Eleguá and the energy of the New (a new year, a new week), the tool at the forefront of my mind today is the jícara.

The jícara is a sacred bowl made from a dried calabash (or, a coconut), that plays a central role in every ceremonial moment, big and small, in Lucumí tradition. Used to collect herbs or filled with beans and other dry grains to create musical instruments, the jícara is sacred technology—a tool cultivated by the ancestors that, through its use, is activated in both ceremonial spaces and in the rituals of daily life.

Whenever we utilize a jícara, something is (re)born. With the help of the jícara, Orisha come into this world, our Oris are refreshed, our spirits are lifted. Implementing the jícara as a vessel to carry water for ritual—its most common use—the jícara is transformed into the womb: a site of spiritual sacredness paying homage to the matriz and womanhood.

Matriz, or matrix comes from the Latin word “mater”, meaning “mother”. The original meaning of "matrix" was "uterus" or "pregnant animal". Later, it was generalized to mean "womb" or "a place or medium where something is developed.”

A place or medium where something is developed.

A sacred site.

A site of renewal.

Of metamorphosis and transmutation.

Jícaras, like wombs, carry sacred waters that are conduits of magic, change, intuition, and wisdom. For what is more magical than the womb’s physiological-spiritual capacity to gestate life. A womb, like the jícara: the wisdomkeeper of life’s first ceremony. An experience so transformational that none can remember ours into this world, despite all babies and mothers bodies intuitively knowing how to do it. Even when thinking of spiritual births—whether religious initiations or journeys with our plant allies and teachers—we have difficulty remembering the details of what we’ve just experienced.

Jícaras, like the womb, are integral to the preservation and continuation of Lucumí iles (homes), and society. Through the jícara and the womb, life survives. Without these embodiments of matriz, Orisha and their omokekere would cease to exist.

On this first Monday of the year, we refresh Eleguá with all the openness and receptivity:

For His blessings

For the New that awaits as we approach next Monday’s first Full Moon of 2025.

As we fill our jícaras, may new blessings be born.

May every engagement in ritual, big and small, remind of us the power of the womb, and be a step toward rejuvenation, rebirth.

An act of renewal only made possible through the sacredness of the jícara-womb: a portal.