Depression

Today while riding the bus, I was wondering how I haven’t written and it’s been a pretty dry season, literally speaking here in Costa Rica we are experiencing a serious dry heat wave in rainy season, where it is supposed to rain every day and sometimes all night long and everyday it seems like summer, and as far as my writing is concerned I have not sat down to write like I use to.

However, this morning during my one hour trip to work, I kept thinking about Robin Williams’ death, and I realize it doesn’t matter where you are, in my case “central America” you feel this great loss. His movies in general affected me, he carried a message, he transmitted the message and I would go as far to say he carried the light and it burned through his passion and art. He felt, and could transform like a magician transforms. Yet, he suffered depression, lack of a spirit connection some say, desperately seeking it,

too many falls, and it got to me, on the other side of the planet –

My whole family has suffered from depression, some of us tried to commit suicide more than once.

Some died.

Some drowned into alcoholism

Some are still denying any of the abuse happened.

“You just bury it and move on” Is one of the family’s motto to deal with the pain.

Some simply died while still alive

Some simply died while still living

Some tried drugs until they could feel nothing –

Some mutilated their bodies in order to feel.

And so you wonder after all this work,

This rise, this passion to give and make people laugh, these great films with great messages and all the money to prosper and share and help and give….

Then come home and be in so much pain, guilt, remorse, whatever shadow took over that was so overpowering that you had to slash your wrist and hang yourself to end this life. And perhaps that is all that he could give at the end.

There are people angry “it was too soon” was their comment from his suicide….like 20 years later it would of made a difference?

Others are saddened by this because we are all connected, and some of us have lived it closer than others,

Others prefer not to talk about it, feeling too exposed to reveal what the heart feels , and we do feel, I feel this loss like a brother I never met in person but a soul I knew.

Conversations with the Universe,



Mothers

my mother desintegrating
her life before her eyes

change of tone
no other choice
but the body claims,
disease erupting from her breast
through her skin
spread along the lymph nodes

no other choice but
moved by her pain
to forgive
ask to be forgiven

'Ill never change...she said"
but now its different,
life shortens
the body claims

her voice softens
with forgiveness
as her words change
as her skin is taken
piece by piece
patches of suffering

I tell her to use
aloe vera
to bring the cooleness of winter
on her skin
to seal with love
her open sores
one more chance to have an ally
to open conversation with the Earth

wishing a change
is not enough,
only a suspicion,
of what could be and a wish
that is not enough, wanting to go through with what is needed
willing, a strong will is necessary,
the support undoubtely
is in place
and then experience the courage
firing rising to the Sun

its early morning, just now winding down from all
the aviary announcements,
all the rooster calling
and the incessant hunger chicks joining in
for some more food,
some more fun

early dawn,
sometime just before sunrise,
when its an in between the night about to end
and the opening of a new day,
somwhere in between
the crack of another layer
the sun will come through
somewhere

that is the maze and winding road
of the long awaited journey,
yes...somewhere in between
is where it rests
waiting for you to open your eyes

there is no hope
no wish 
nor longing 
the crack opens wide 
with your hands so the SUNLIGHT
can walk in
so the MOONLIGHT 
can guide through
your movement, 
a strong will and persistence 
and belief will break through most things
and then there is others that simply is just 
not time,
more sleep,
more rest 
for other gestations

tic tac
tic tac 

With my eyes wide open and seeping through
the flow of my wind,
and the flow of humankind,

walking and dancing
to exist,
to savour each love encounter
those grandiose trees
brothers and sisters of mine,

i am dancing in your roots,
you see I see now,
and those hands that reach
to the sky,
to the neighbors house,
leaves over streets
each seed spread

tells me I am alive,
tells me there is more,
definitely something more

all over,
all around my words, our talk,
the walks,
take me ancient brothers and sisters.

I write that is what I do, 
I write to share my
discoveries, 
the beauty that i see
the sounds that I hear that mellow my heart
i see the 
blackbirds dancing under yellow flower leaveless trees
bathing in the sun,
i see
i see  the great hearing tree
the national tree of Costa Rica
green shaped by 
perfect ears, they say is the 'Signature of all Things
the 
being that designed everything
to show us, to talk to us
yes. it is the listening tree
you sit by a tree and close your eyes and drift away
to hear deep in the heart
the silence that is stillness that is able to
connect more profoundly to one another 
more profoundly of who we are
the Signature of all things, rings my ears that there is a
being behind all this 
consciousness of mother Earth
the great being that loves us into the womb as we sleep and  
yes it is supporting every step we take 
every word that we love
that we utter
every word, every fear forgotten  
it shelters us
and
liberated into our hands we see
i see 
there are beings that are with us
and embracing every single moment, thought, word 
each being like 
the wind is a being that carries every growing movement  
it moves us
shift us
shapes us
each wind 

i am the woman of west wind
and I move with God
that mysterious discovery of calmness
compassion, softness 
gentleness 
Yes
i acknowledge the heart of the west wind woman
riding and leading without shame
without chains,
travelling through  
here i am seeking to know, learning more about being completely transparent as I was born 
at the beggining, i long to recuperate that transparency fully
that we conquer when there is 
awe
passion 
excitement to 
see,
 how we can see always
if we still just believe

working and walking and breathing in my words to hear you...

Oropendolas fascinate me by their hanging nests from palm trees swinging with the wind, sun, storms, night and day, 'golden oriole' http://youtu.be/zDer1nof8ZU are day after day.

teach me the magic of song 

how to delve into the stillness of heart

teach me the tunes of melody when you 

fly into the sky 

teach me the intricate weaving of your nest 

to later flight into the woven darkness of your 

birth

before bursting into light

Soy un latido en el Universo 
me verso en tus raices 
Soy arbol, agua y viento 
sonando en tus entranas cada noche
 cada momento que se resuelve en tu consciencia
 escucha 
escucha ... 
se van las horas
 segundos 
y mirando hacia el horizonte esta aquella nina, 
aquella mujer hilando las respiraciones en cada instante 

Soy un latido en el Universo y el corazon mi fuerza interior 
cada latido es una sonrisa en el Universo 
Cada gota de sangre
 mi legacia

Victimhood

Victimization - Victimizacion



Deletreado diferentemente pero el mismo personaje, ya sea en ingles o en español. Uno de los tantos personajes del ego. La victima se presenta con su quietud o en su tormenta de personaje arrasando con todo lo que viene en su camino. Ya sea silenciosamente o con una gran ira hacia el mundo. Siempre el mismo dialogo: ¿Por qué yo? ¿Es que no se dan cuenta lo que duele, el sufrimiento que he sostenido? Nadie me entiende realmente. El personaje se aprovecha de la soledad, del cansancio, del hambre.

Existen árboles victimas de su condición terrícola? Cayeron en manos de los humanos y crecieron torcidos hacia el cielo, se quejaran los árboles. Se manifiesta la victimización en sus ramas, vibra a través de sus frutos? ¿Se pasaran culpando al vecino árbol de su condición?

La victima es solitaria, no se rie y no le gustan los grupos de gente, es algo que le asusta porque no tiene su centro, arma sus propios escenarios mentales. Escucha cosas al pasar cerca de la gente. Arma sus propios ataques. Es solitaria, no puede exponerse por que en la luz queda al descubierto.

Su sobrecama es la queja, es un llanto casi creíble y sus pequeños primos los adictos llegan casi siempre a acompañarl@.



Within the same Word, even if spelled out in different languages, Victimization is the same. One of the many characters of the Ego. The victim presents itself in its stillness or its own thunderstorm of character wiping out everything upon its path. Either within its stillness o with its great rage towards the world. It is always the same dialogue: Why me? Doesn’t anybody know how long I{ve sustained the pain? No one really understands me?

The character takes advantage of its loneliness, tiredness and hunger.



Are there any victim trees wondering in their earthling condition? Have they fallen upon human hands and grown crooked towards the sky? Do they complain? Does the victimization manifest through their branches, their fruits? Do they spend their time blaming their neighbor tree of their current condition?


The victim is a lonely being, does not laugh and dislikes groups of people, gatherings is something that frightens it because it does not have a center then; it arms itself with mental scenes of the future and the guilt of the past. It hears things as it picks up phrases or whispers from the crowds. It prepares itself with imaginary attacks. It is lonely and can not expose itself because in groups or in the light it is exposed.

Its comforter is Complain, an almost credible cry among the woods and its small cousins are the addicts that come uninvited, sneaking in through the window faking to accompany her or him.

A Coral Heart

A coral heart. It was perhaps 1989, we had decided to reunite, my exhusband and I and our child Jean Philippe. We chose an island, in Rangiroa, Tahiti. It was a lustrous pinnacle of a get away. An island beyond the main island in Tahiti.
Our child would wonder naked around the island, free and marveled by the clarity of this unbounded water. We would feed the fish as we approach and gave little pieces of bread. It was a hot summer but the juices and fruits and food was abundant, the Earth is always generous.
We wondered like flickering stars around the island. Living to the fullest in those days as we touched our love from inside, our smiles were dancing everywhere, learning about a new culture, happy to be together once again, after some years of separation.
We made love like never before calling for another child. It didn't take place then, the calling was for each one to grow further before bringing another child. But we called anyways, we called because the island welcomed the passion, the love, the full body of this romance.
Jean-Philippe wore a straw hat, perhaps too big but the sun was not forgiving and this protected him while he strolled naked along the beach.
We walked together one morning, leaving the small cabin and heading towards the water. The road was full of coral, shells and small pebbles...
I looked at Jean-Francois, he reached for me and gave me something he had found, I look what he had placed in my hand, it was small coral shaped as a heart. It was an expression of our love.
Twenty something years later, today I carry that heart everywhere I go. I hold it close to my heart and know that even though we are not together anymore, physically, energetically we have loved, yes there has been an incredible and through which a child was born.
Gratitude it is.

Walks with my brother Carlos

He is my younger brother, Carlos, nine years younger to be more specific, so even knowing this piece of information, another piece of the puzzle of lost memories.
So you remember us as little children? I ask him
No, I don't remember. He answers.
Those words resonate like magnified in a solar system within, louder than other vibrations.
I have simply stopped repeating “I don’t remember” since I began the breathwork Pranayama and leave the door open to what it is that we can recall.
I propose walking rapidly, since we have so much to do and we left a pot of garbanzo beans simmering in low heat at the house, we agree that it will be a 20 minute walk. The day is hot, tropical hot, just early enough not to boil, just hot enough to stimulate you.
Carlos, I say, you know how great movement is, just half an hour of walking does the body wonders! He agrees, with a smile on his face. Thirty years without knowing each other, without walking together.... I am beginning to feel his innocence and separate the dark sexual energy that makes me cringe when we get too close. I let go of fear when I hug him now and trust.
Yes, he says, I can feel the sweat as we walk up the hill and the sun is sharp today.

I have a memory while I was in bed, the knowing that it was going to be a very hot day even before I opened my eyes.

We go walk around the missionary school of priests nearby, it is sort of calm and I spot a series of papaya trees, mango trees and plantains along the way. Thinking to myself, details, these are the details that enrich our walk: the sun, the wind, the fruit trees along the way and our longing to share stories.
Just before the end of our walk, he says, I remember being in grandmother’s house, alone with Katty our sister and the lights had gone out, we had to light a candle and placed it on top of grandfather old radio, do you remember that radio?
Of course I tell him, that big old monument in the kitchen, that was one of our landmarks in that house, it was an extension of my grandfather, two great knobs on each side and a beautiful light brown covering over the main face of the speaker. We didn’t have a TV for many years, so the radio was our link to the outside world and to many dances of my grandmother.
Then, Carlos says, the candle fell and it started burning part of the radio until we quickly turned it off. We were so young, you know, and left alone. All we feared at that moment was Adela, their aunt, my mother. We stared through the door and since I must of been so little that the only thing I could see was the hairdo of Adela, bouncing up and down as she approached down the block, among the houses stuck side by side together. I call her : el gorro del verdugo (the executioner's hood)
and what happened afterwards, I asked, although I could imagine knowing her outbursts of rage what had happened but I waited for his answer.

He says, I don’t remember after that, but I know that we had covered the radio with a laced cloth for the time being to spare us from the fright of what might happen

It feels like all these years we have been covering life with a pretty laced cloth and now its time to take it off without fear.