Honoring the Ancestor, the mentor of not knowing
A gift to my Ancestor with no name.
One day, she let me know her. Her power overflowed in me. She had always been with me, immersing me in ancient wisdom. She made herself known through the stones, the moon, the dandelions, and the ravens. She is made of cycles. Her stories are in me, and I honor her deeply. She still lives within the land, whispering to me, nurturing what I do not know, allowing me to change, to see in the dark. Her knowing thrives in the shadows of remembrance, in the deep web of co-created reciprocity.
She awakens me to the things that have no definite form, the ever-changing cosmic-consciousness. The Ancient One connected me to the metamorphic web in flux and the more than urgent human questions.
With old affection and tenderness, she welcomes me into the unknown, intimately cradling my bones and swaddling my heart. Softly but fiercely bringing me to my responsibilities, birthing the guardianship for life, and guiding my intent to new languages, formulations, and dreams. One day, she let me know her. It was the first day of my life when everything came to life again.
Her old shawl covers the living ruins of memories, while her ferocious, wrinkled, and warm hands move with care and love. Old feet that long to walk experience the earth at every touch, knowing its vibrations. She continues to open new territories for me. Places that have always been here, those I have always carried in my heart but did not see or recognize, were beyond what I could sense.
She nourishes me with impulses to follow my instinct, determined to activate the core of life. She teaches me the materiality of entanglement and reciprocity, through space and time, pulsing with a deep relationship. We embrace each other through the ages. This legacy and connection have awakened the ancestral thread of commonality. The vital, visceral nucleus, that raw power of guardianship, is connected again.
One day, she let me know her, and her power overflowed in me. I praise your legacy!
Do you hear the Serpent-Women?
Do you hear the serpent-women? In the corners of time, of the spontaneity of the day, on the thresholds of the stones, of the mineral memories, from the depths of the waters, in the abyssal flow of wisdom. In the sap of the trees and the colors of the flowers.
I grew up without stories.
I grew up in an urban settlement; my mother was a biologist, and my father was an engineer. Following science as the only God, the stories around were about technology, hard data, or science. I grew up with no stories, for everything was reduced to facts or formulas.
A tribute to grandmothers
To all the strength To the hunger and starvation To every single one of the dreams To all the screams, wails, and tears To every harshness To each invisible story To all the weight carried To each sadness, sorrow, and grief To all the force and will To the sum of the imprisonments, confinements, and captivities To every single one of the achievements To…
The Red Serpent
When my head hurts, I play the drum. Its rhythm disperses the pain and brings me back. It makes me whole. It happens that my head often hurts; since I was little, I have had migraine attacks that force me to retreat into the dark. The drum, with its vibration, helps.
The River of Wisdom
Record of a dream I had more than a year ago. I met her at the top of the hill. After years of wading and swimming in small tributary streams, through crystal clear waters not too deep, springing from the heart of the earth, I arrived at the cliff. These abundant freshwater brooks run free down the slopes, nourishing the banks and …