Inspiration
Articles to inspire authentic living on the topics of resilience, spirituality, and self-growth with touches of storytelling, depth, and humor.
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Beeper in the clouds and a smile in my face
Today it would have been my dad’s 75th birthday. It kind of defeats the purpose to celebrate a milestone that it was never achieved, but January 5th will always be my dad’s day.
As I was remembering him today I thought of his insistence to help so many people. An altruist, he was one of those people that gave himself away to too many people. One of those larger-than-life figures, I guess. Not only on my eyes. He truly treated it each person as he or she was the most important and that happened with more than his family and friends. That happened with every patient he crossed paths with. To be honest, every patient ended up becoming his friend. In fact on the most surreal moments of my life happened at his funeral. So many people crying and saying he was their best friend and confidant. Hundreds, maybe even more than thousand saying the same thing and there I stood realizing that my dad was a man who belonged to the world.
Farewell 2020!
I am grateful for 2020! This is not a joke, although for most of it those words sounded like a fictional statement.
How many things happened in one year? There were so many unexpected blows. It brought me to my knees, and it gave me hope. It showed me to drop expectations but to hold on to the faith that things always work on our favor. It taught me to release the “hows” while keeping an eye on the “whats.”
A Blind Eye And An Open Soul
I might be either the most illusory person on earth or I do live in an alternative reality but I do believe that the universe, God, Higher Being, however we want to call it, is always watching after us. That is my safety net! Whatever happens, does so for a reason and a master plan that I don’t necessarily understand at the moment. This allows me to release the reins when the road gets bumpy. Kind of like saying “I am not sure why I am going through this, but I am sure there is a plan that will work on my benefit at the end.”
This approach that I called stubborn optimism had helped me in so many occasions.
And then life decided to play some kind of dark joke on me and my theory went overboard with the ease of an autumn leave on a stormy day.
How I Learned To Walk Through Fire
I wasn’t planning to write about this, mostly because I don’t usually like calling attention to my problems. If there is an universal truth that I am still waiting for one person to challenge is that 2020 has been a very hard year. For me, 2020 probably holds the record as the most-tear-producing year ever. Adjusting to the pandemic, the lack of contact with the outside world, the new economy was actually tolerable. But early July I received one of those phone calls that we ever dread: I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
First of all let me be clear: I am fine, I am cancer-free and in the last part of this chapter. The amount of lessons I collected in this journey had been sitting in my soul and in my journal for the last few months and suddenly I felt the need to share them in case they can help anyone who is going through this, will go through this or knows somebody who is. In this personal odyssey I grew up, I discovered so many truths being revealed with the force of a duct tape pulled from my eyes. People who walk the same path may have a different experience, but these are some of my takeaways.
Kindness Is a Two-Way Road
It was a warm Summer day, the kind that warms your skin and lifts your mood. But a call later in the afternoon made the world stop on its track. They were not good news, at least not the ones that we ever expect to get. From that moment on, the world, my world at the very least, was going to look a little bit different and scarier
But I don’t scare easily. In fact, my body is wired to fight so when things get difficult I put on my boxing gloves or my armature, whatever is needed before I face the ring. That day, though, I could not move much. After the initial shock, I went to my studio to try to process the news in the best way I know: through prayer and meditation. I lit up a candle, turned up the music and sit down in silence while tears started flowing down. I sat with the fears, with the pain and the uncertainty. I let it all flow while I observed from a distance in a intent to be mindful while I allowed the numbness to shake out of my soul. I felt the hands of a thousand angels holding me up; I felt the warm embrace of loved ones surrounding me; I felt the certainty that the journey I was about to embark on was not going to leave me unchanged. All of that had proven to be true.
As I opened my eyes, aware of the significant moment I was experiencing, I took my journal and wrote my goals for the journey I was about to embark on. What was I going to learn? What was I willing to master? What parts of myself I was going to surrender and what parts I was going to embrace? Two answers came to mind, and I wrote them with big letters, the way one signs a declaration of independence:
1. I am going to learn to be selfish
2. I am going to learn to receive the help I need.
“F” is for *@uck Fear!
He was mad at something, I don’t even remembered what. But my five-year-old son was having a major tantrum. And by major I mean lots of kicking, hitting and throwing stuff. I was helpless. My usual “let’s-talk-about-our-feelings-approach” was not working. I had seen tantrums before but none like those. It started happening more frequently on the following days. Of course I started reading, researching, trying different methods without significant success. Then one day I was driving back home after an appointment and I had the need to scream. Not to anyone in particular, but to the air, to the world. But I didn’t. I am a relatively put-together adult who meditates regularly and who has an obsession with processing my feelings. I don’t always have my act together, but if there has been a year who had put me to the test it has been the wonderful, unpredictable and always beating-its-previous-record 2020.
Lost in my thoughts before the light turned green I realized what was happening to me. I wanted to allow myself to do what my son had been doing for the last few weeks. I wanted to have a major Tantrum, with capital T. I wanted to throw myself on the floor and scream and cry and say I didn’t want to cooperate, that I wanted to be left alone, untouched. I wanted to ask “why” knowing that I did not care about the answers. I just wanted to be heard. I imagined myself doing exactly that. Acting like an out-of-control 5 year-old.
The beautiful mirror of my son made me see that the cause of both of our tantrums was the same: we were in FEAR. We were both like two frightened tiger cubs trying to defend ourselves and all we need us was someone to hold us tight and tell us everything was going to be fine.
Don’t Assume: a Prelude To The (Usually) Right Answers
Nothing like being a “why” kind of child to annoy a parent. It is a bottomless well: the more answers you get, the more questions arise. I was that kind of child, and it has taken me hours of therapy and self-help books to understand the effects of that in one’s psyche.
When we are always curious for answers, we are never satisfied with a statement. We need to know where that came from. Why did someone acted that way? Why did we reacted like that? Why that look? Why, why, why….
When I was in my early thirties, I was going through a very difficult time. My head could not get around to understand why someone had hurt me so cruelly. I played different scenarios, tried to put myself in that person’s shoes, questioned if I was in fact the one that was at fault. Through all my years of practicing the “let’s-find-the-reasons” game, I thought that there was always a motive for people’s behavior and even when I did not agree with it, understanding it made it easier to process and let go of any hurt. Was it healthy? I don’t know, but it certainly became a way to understand - and also justify - people’s actions.
While I was in that questioning process, a wise woman taught me a phrase that would become a sort of mantra for me: “don’t fill in the blanks.” It took a lot of repetition until it became second nature. If I did not have all of the absolute information, preferably from its source rather than somebody else’s recount, then I was not going to fill in the black with information I could not prove. I understood that in relationships, as in anything else, we could never take for granted we know the truth or that the other person has understood us unless we talk clearly about it. So, I practiced asking WHY to the people that had me on the dark. (continue)
The sensibility of numbers
Being born an artist is quite a gift. Curiosity is your biggest talent and it is easy to delight in the simplest things because wherever you see there is beauty. There is a certain rawness that comes with it as in order to create artists need to experience, to live, to feel. Yes, I love being an artist with its presents and its challenges. We tend to be boxed into a category of dreamers as if we were disconnected with reality. As in any other profession or lifestyle, that is a generalization and I got proof of it years ago.
When I was about to finish High School, we were asked to take a career aptitude test. My results were somewhat unexpected. There was a tie on two - very different - careers recommended for me: Art and Math. Art was very obvious; Math not as surprising as you would think. The fact was that I love numbers. Math was one class that I always excelled at. I enjoyed solving questions, equations, finding patterns, the fact that there were formulas to solve simple or not so simple problems. Because I had played instruments from a young age, I knew math was interlaced in every musical rhythms and pattern. So, yes, I have always being an artist with a love for numbers, and history has proven that I am not the only one.
Lately, numbers have come to chase me with the force of an axe and I has been forced to deal with the way I relate to them. No, I am not talking about home schooling through the pandemic.
The Threat of Climate Change (Internal Climate Change, That Is)
For decades it has kidnapped headlines. Climate change has come to stay! Scientists have been puzzled by the shift in weather conditions due to global warming. It has made us more conscious of our environment: we now recycle and reuse, refrain from using plastic, donate to environmental organizations, applaud little girls begging the UN to do something to save Earth. Climate change is quite an equalizer: it affects us all regardless of our socio-economic conditions, religion or race. But what can global warning teach us about our internal world? How do we deal with the constant shift in temperatures of our character?
Growing up in Caracas, with its perpetual Spring-like temperatures all year round, was (at least in the topic of weather conditions) pretty simple. By looking for grey clouds or the singing of birds you would know if it was going to rain or not. Should you bring a sweater for the early morning or chilly nights? Do you want to wear boots or sandals (both appropriate at different times of the day)? You could crave a hot chocolate or ice cream, a cold beer or a port? Jackets and shorts could really been wore every month, which means there was no need to have different wardrobes. There was no need to look at the weather forecast. A look outside would tell you if you needed an umbrella or not, the only variable accessory.
The Joy Bank
“My soul is very anxious to die soon.” Those words have hunt me for more than two decades.
I met Mrs. Elizabeth my senior year in college. I was working on my thesis, a documentary photography project that ended in an exhibit and book. It was called “Searching for the Soul”. For moths I went several times a week to a retirement home to interview and photograph residents. My introductory question, because I thought something light would break the ice, was “What is the soul?” Yes, most residents did not find it very inviting at first. A natural shy person, I had a hard time establishing conversations with the residents at first. Many of them, confronted with the resistance to aging, hated having their pictures taken. Nevertheless, I came back everyday with prints to my improvised models. Some were grateful from the beginning eager to share the photographs with their loved ones. Others were so self-conscious that hated seeing their photos. One woman, tore up a print with anger in front of my face. It took me almost three months for her to like her pictures but by the end, she was the one begging for one more photograph.
One afternoon, several residents were playing bingo in a social area, teenage volunteers calling numbers aloud. Some folks were sitting parallel to each other without talking, lost on the realm of their memories; a few men and women were absently minded precisely because they were in the process of losing their precious memories. As I walked around taking candids of the residents, I observed a woman in her nineties standing next to a column. She was thin, just like her hair that hit at her shoulders. A yellow headband with a tiny bow in the center on her head and a blue jacket that she hugged around her waist. Her grin…although partially toothless, was the shiniest, biggest, most extraordinary smile I have ever seen. I had to go talk to her.
“Excuse me, can I ask you a question…” I said timidly while I approached her, camera and notebook on hand.
Mrs. Elizabeth looked at me with her grayish eyes and her imprinted signature smile. I was not sure if she heard me. The sound of music and talks in the background made it hard to strike a two-way conversation, especially when hearing was a skilled commonly reduced among the residents.
“I am not sure what you are asking me, but I will try to respond…My soul, my soul is very anxious to die soon.” Mrs. Elizabeth said without losing a single ray of sun coming out of her smile. Judging by the way the room suddenly got lighter, I could swear golden beams extended from her body.
When The Tide Goes Out…We Learn The Kind of Warrior We Are
We couldn’t have chosen two more perfect days. The weather was glorious: hot and breezy, clear skies, end-of-July warm water, perfect for one night camping in an island off the Long Island Sound.
I had not been able to swim for two weeks and I was determined to make up for it. Summer is short in New England after all, and the water is not usually that warm for long. So I swam as I had not done in years, up to the middle of the cove and back. I floated, I glided, I felt the delicious water surrounding me, the taste of salt, the heath of the sun setting over the coast, and seeing the reflection of a clear blue sky turning orange over the flat surface of the sea. Once the night set in and the sight of the first starts appeared, I swam again under the moonlight. The water surprisingly warm and the sensation of small fish coming to greet my legs. Growing up on the Caribbean imprints you with a natural draw towards the ocean, I guess. I had been in so many pristine beaches of crystalline, turquoise water and white, powdery sand, but that swim under the moon has been one of the most delicious and surreal experiences of my life
About Porcelain Dust and Happy Dances
Growing up - although if I do an open disclosure it has not changed much since then - I used to be a restless child. I had an excess of energy that I could barely contain. I am not sure if there is a scientific name for it but I would guess it would go by the name of JFWES or Jumping and Fidgety When Excited Syndrome. I was that kid that could sit for hours to do art projects, write, read, play music or study but when I was excited, I just jumped and had to move my whole body.
My mother, who is way more passive than I have ever seen, was smart enough to understand that what I had was a force that could barely be contained. So she being the cool mom she was, just let me be. That was until my display of energy had irreparable consequences.