Observing and Listening: A Quiet Lesson from Umbanda

A different way of learning

When I first began attending Umbanda ceremonies, I spent most of the time simply observing.

Like many people arriving at an Umbanda terreiro for the first time, I knew very little about what was happening there. People would arrive with their stories, wait for spiritual guidance, and speak with the entities — the beings who work through mediums during the ritual gatherings known as giras

Most of the time, I knew nothing about the problems people were facing.

Only when someone chose to share something directly with me would I understand a little more about what they were going through. What was said privately remained private. Each person received their guidance with respect and discretion.

But there was something interesting happening as well.

Sometimes, during these consultations, the entities would share reflections that seemed meant for everyone present. Not because anything personal was being revealed, but because certain lessons were spoken openly — the kind of guidance that could apply to anyone listening.

That was when I began to realize something important.

In Umbanda, much of the learning happens simply through observation and listening.

Umbanda and learning through listening

With time, I understood that this was not accidental.

Umbanda, like many spiritual traditions, is largely an oral tradition passed on through experience. Much of what is learned in a terreiro does not come from books or formal instruction, but from shared experience, observation, and attentive listening.

One learns by watching the work of the entities.

One learns by listening to what the entities choose to say openly during the spiritual work.

One learns by observing how the more experienced members of the house behave inside the terreiro and how they help sustain the spiritual atmosphere of the space.

Not everything is explained directly.

Many things are understood slowly, almost silently.

And sometimes words heard during a gira only reveal their meaning much later.

Observing the entities

One of the first things I began to notice was the way the entities carried themselves.

Each one had its own way of speaking, moving, and approaching people.

The Caboclos, for example — spirits associated in Umbanda with the ancestral presence of Indigenous peoples of Brazil — often spoke very little. Their words were direct, sometimes firm, and always precise.

There was a certain rigor in the way they offered guidance.

Sometimes only a few sentences were enough for someone to understand what needed reflection or change in their life.

The Pretos Velhos, on the other hand — entities who present themselves as elders marked by the experience of slavery — brought a very different presence.

They spoke gently.

Their words often came through stories, simple metaphors, or reflections about life. Many times it felt as if they were less interested in giving answers and more interested in helping the person think.

And there was also the simple gesture of an embrace.

A simple gesture that, at times, seemed to soothe something difficult to describe.

The Exus, meanwhile, often provoked a different reaction.

Many people arrived with some apprehension, often influenced by misunderstandings about these entities. But what I witnessed was something else.

They frequently brought forward truths that were not always easy to hear.

Truths that could leave people unsettled, but that also seemed to open the door to important changes.

Observing the people

With time, I also began observing the people who formed the mediumistic circle — the group responsible for sustaining the spiritual work of the terreiro.

Even before the entities manifested, something already stood out.

The way people were received.

Many who arrived at the terreiro carried deep worries, fears, or sadness. And yet they were welcomed with respect, care, and a kind of simplicity that made the environment feel lighter.

That, too, was a lesson.

It showed that spiritual work in Umbanda does not happen only through the entities, but also through the people who sustain the terreiro with their presence, discipline, and dedication.

Small observations that repeated themselves

Over time, I began to notice something even more curious.

Certain situations seemed to bring similar kinds of guidance.

When someone arrived deeply saddened or seeking comfort, the forces of Oxum were sometimes mentioned — an Orisha associated with fresh waters.

When difficulties or challenges arose, it was common to hear the name of Ogum, often connected with strength and the opening of paths.

In moments when people were searching for direction, certainty, or confidence, the name of Oxóssi would often come to mind.

And when the conversation touched something deeper — questions about life, hope, or faith — the presence of Oxalá would be invoked.

At the time, I did not fully understand the meaning behind these associations.

But slowly I began to sense that the spiritual work followed a kind of invisible organization.

As if different forces connected to nature and human life were present, each one appearing at certain moments.

A myth about learning by observing

Over time I came to realize that this way of learning — through observation and listening — was not something that existed only inside the terreiro.

It also appears in many myths from the Yoruba tradition, the cultural and spiritual heritage that influenced many Afro-Brazilian religions, including Umbanda.

One of these myths tells how Exu learned by observing Oxalá.

Here it is important to clarify that the myth refers to the Orishas Exu and Oxalá, figures from Yoruba cosmology. They are not exactly the same as the entities in Umbanda that are also called Exus and who work during the giras.

According to the story, many people would visit Oxalá’s house bringing offerings. They would stay for a few days, watch the old Orisha at work, and then leave.

But they left having learned nothing.

Exu was different.

While many came and went, staying only briefly, Exu remained.

He stayed and observed.

For years he watched Oxalá’s work, paying attention to everything that happened there.

The myth describes this learning in very simple words:

Exu did not ask questions.
Exu observed.
Exu paid attention.
Exu learned everything.

After many years of learning in this way, Oxalá entrusted him with an important task: to care for the crossroads, the places where paths meet.

That was how Exu found his work.

When I encountered this story years later, it felt strangely familiar.

In some way, it echoed something I had already begun to notice in the terreiro.

In some way, it echoed something I had already begun to notice in the terreiro: that learning often comes before any formal role.

First one observes.
First one learns.

And only later, with time, does each person begin to find their own place in the work.

And by those who have the patience to remain long enough for learning to unfold.

Versions of this story appear in different collections of Yoruba mythology, including Mitologia dos Orixás by Reginaldo Prandi (Companhia das Letras, 2001).

A lesson that continues

All of this began when I was still simply observing.

But that learning did not remain in that moment.

Even today, many years later, I still notice how observing and listening remain essential parts of the spiritual path.

We do not always learn only when someone speaks directly to us.

Sometimes we learn by listening to what the entities choose to share openly during the spiritual work — words that, although spoken within a particular situation, carry reflections that can resonate with everyone present.

Sometimes those words make sense immediately.

Other times they return to memory years later.

Entre Mundos.

And perhaps learning to listen is one of the first ways to cross between them.