“Wilderness”

Driving through the redwoods of California I feel vibrant and wild. I take in the beauty of the trees’ majesty and the mist of the Mendocino fog. As I get closer to the ocean, the sound of running creeks pacifies the emotional twists of curvy roads. I connect with the ancient spirit of the forest and the presence of Native Americans that envelopes us, our ancestors and keepers of the land. At sweat lodges, I’ve prayed for the times to come, the sacredness of the now reaching out to our innate state of wilderness, where we are all one in the family of things. A poem by Mary Olivier comes to mind and I imagine myself caressing the soft animal of my body loving what it loves: a wild embrace with life. I take my place in the wild woman sisterhood as the daughter of the moon who belongs to no one but my own pure heart.

wild woman image and phrase

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things.

“Wild Geese,” Mary Olivier

 

“Homecoming”

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Homecoming= Advent, Arrival, Appearance, Influx, Landing, Meeting, Return, Approach, Disembarkation, Entrance, Happening, Alighting, Dismounting, Acknowledgement, Answer, Revisitation, Recovery, Reoccurrence, Restitution, Repossession, Reinstatement, Reuniting, Recoil, Retreat, Rebound, Reconciliation.

The taxi driver rushed through the outskirts of Buenos Aires in silence. White and grey buildings, decaying paint, brick and tile terraces with grills and dried flower pots. Metallic antennas, telecommunication cables, windows in divided walls, rails in a five lane highway, and another Renault car packed with suitcases heading towards the airport, in the opposite direction. A sudden exit, cobble streets in my old San Telmo neighborhood, youth hang-outs and sexual escapades with my boyfriend, Mi Luna Hotel. A Coca Cola advertisement, Deli Markets with empanadas (meat turnovers) and milanesas (breaded beef cutlets), a graffiti of Carlos Gardel singing tango and Julia Roberts’ image featuring the latest Lancome perfume. A billboard of Shakira’s promising elixir, “Dance,” and United Colors of Benetton’s reconciling cologne, “United Dreams,” depicting Black, Asian, White and Native women next to the words, “I’m White, I’m Black, I’m Yellow, I’m Red.”

Trees decorated the world’s widest avenue, La 9 de Julio, where the obelisk, a gift from the French, stood in its center. Eva Peron’s metallic contour of her head overlooked the traffic. On corporate ad billboards, colorful graffiti from youth gangs cheered up passersby. Still lit, Corrientes Avenue to my right held various signs featuring names of theatre companies, local plays, and cinema productions. Many halls though closed down, their old Neon signs replaced by Cable Television and Netflix advertisements. MacDonald’s occupied the place of the local hamburger joint, PumperNic. Cellular phone stores, Personal and Movistar popped up everywhere. Clothing store’s names showed a mixed of languages and cultures, Legacy, Icebow, Sea Tu Voluntad, Crocs, The London Shop, Rip Curl, Devre, Vilaro Ropa, Ash, Urban Cow, Rouge, Clara, Cheeky, Mc Taylor, Mamy Blue, Yagmour, Boating, OGGI, Look Famacity, Cardon—Cosa Nuestra, Antonio Belgornio, Kill Jeans, Maldito Glam. They stood next to Universo Garden Angels Oils, Freddo Ice Cream Parlor, Karpatos Luggage, Los Robles Polo, Biblos Resto and Coffee Shop, Martinez Café, Starbucks, and The Coffee House. On the edge of transnational shopping, homeless people slept on the Avenue’s parks next to stop buses for shelter. The former city governor closed down the business area to private cars. Only pedestrians, buses and taxis could transit. Children dove into overflowed blue garbage containers looking for the day’s meal. Jugglers did their best at the stop light for some change. Old movies of Soledad Sylveria, Moria Casan, Susana Jimenez, and el Gordo Porcel starred in an old city theatre.

I stared out the window. Another Friday in the Cartesian calendar. At eight in the morning the city woke up from a nightmare. Youth and night owls were gone like my Dad. The avenue’s clock reminded me of the father of rationality, Descartes’ less famous phrase: “To arrive at the truth, one must get rid of everything we know once in a lifetime and rebuild our system of knowledge.” We were always creatures of habits. Tightness in my stomach. After a fall from a horse, my mom’s leg broke. After fifty-six years of marriage, her heart was also broken. Tingling signs from my overworked, burnt out spine. Love and Trauma. Family dynamics, forerunners of negative emotions. Resentments: Unmet expectations. Blame, Anger, Grief. Unconditional love: Words or whims of fate?

The car took a turn on Marcelo T. de Alvear Street, leading to the same bedroom on 1065 Libertad Street. It hit me then I lived  on a city street called Freedom since I was a teenager. It never worked. I anticipated jasmine scent from my mom’s perfume, the smell of steak and salad, baked chicken with potatoes, meat bread with homemade ricotta ravioli, ham and cheese empanadas. Her aloe plants hung from the balcony security bars. Intimacy spaces defined the outside in a postmodern world. A fifty-year old refrigerator with magnets from around the world. The same velvet sofa from their wedding gift list. Two hundred-year-old handmade Oriental rugs. The same red kitchen clock I gave my parents for their twentieth-fifth anniversary. No image of an in-between space lacking edges or borders. How many doors did I open to take a look outside? How many doors did I close to take a look inside? Crumbling structures that no longer served me. World contact led me to renovation, invention, and new habits.  Maybe Descartes was right but no one listened and lived instead by “to think is to be.” Jorge Luis Borges’ memory of a memory. Was it as real or the same?

The taxi stopped and the driver rushed to put my luggage on the sidewalk. I tipped him a $5 dollar bill. He smiled and didn’t say a word. Pedestrians walked around them. A line of youth in school uniforms stood at the 39 bus stop on Libertad Street and Santa Fe Avenue. My finger held the buzzer. Two crystal doors, two floors, two balconies, two parallel soap-operas between my mother and myself. The lavender oils in my purse soothed my hyperactive, anxious brain. I lowered my sunglasses holding my hair straight. I shook my head and adjusted my eyes to the morning sunlight. I covered my right ear. The sound of the breaks in the orange school bus penetrated my eardrum. Kids yelling in their blue and white uniforms from public schools. It used to be one of the best, free educational systems in Latin America.

The doorman held the doors as I pushed my luggage. I welcomed his greetings and update on my mother.He had a concerned look. “She was always coming and going. She must be in a lot of pain.” I nodded. “Yes, she is pretty active.” I held my mouth tight, thinking what was ahead of me. “We’ll see how she takes it.” I took my sunglasses off and rolled my eyes. “Two months of bed rest.” He chuckled, “Good luck with that.” I closed the metallic door of a tight elevator in the back and pushed the second floor button. The front entrance was always locked.

Going up, I already missed my corner of the world: grounded, neutral territory, walking on my own two feet, unlocked doors, the quiet of the country-side, orange and mint bubble baths, C.I.A agent Carrie Mathison’s bipolar fantasies with a U.S. Marine  turned terrorist on Homeland–a popular T.V. show on Netflix, two million unaccounted presidential votes, Sheryl Crow’s song “Soak up the Sun” playing on Spotify between car commercials, the barking of dogs, the grace walk of wild cats and a neighborhood fox, the smell of horse sweat, the crunch of their teeth, the bright orange of calendulas and poppies, the fresh scent of earth, the salty ocean breeze, lavender and pink sunsets, the smell of rotten apples on the ground, the pinch of black berry thorns, poignant horse and cow manure after the morning fog, a $12 New York sirloin steak from Safeway Supermarket, the rattle of raccoons at night, the stormy, cranky wind of California winters, women’s sacred circle, the fog when it touched the warm sand from a Mediterranean-like sun, soothing tea herbs from my garden, fresh lettuce and walnut salad, steamed kale and Swiss chard, the touch of my sweet lover, sunflowers in the rain, freedom beyond a street name, my embodied heart awaken in a hybrid world– my one and only true home.

~~~

[Disclaimer: The stories and pictures in this Blog do not coincide with the women and people depicted in the photographs. Names have been changed to protect their identity. I am solely responsible for the facts gathered and on which the stories and images are based. Nonfiction narrative asserts descriptions understood to be factual and may incorporate fictional elements to clarify and enhance them.]

“Fields of Love/ Campos del amor”

 

Poetry can heal… La poesía sana…It takes us deep into our emotional self, our inner psyche. I wrote this poem in one of my many life transitions, and it helped me to cope with my direct experience of sadness and letting go. I used this image as inspiration, and after a few drafts and a little help from a poet friend, I titled the poem, “Fields of Love.” I encourage you to write a poem that originates from an emotion or image you’re drawn to. Or come back to a poem you wrote, and use one sentence as prompt. / Nos lleva profundo en nuestras emociones, en nuestra psíquis. Escribí este poema en una de mis muchas transiciones en la vida, y me ayudó a interpretar mi experiencia directa con la tristeza y el dejar ir. Usé esta imagen como inspiración, y luego de varios borradores y la ayuda de una amiga poeta, nombré este poema, “Campos del Amor.” Recomiendo que escriban un poema inspirado en una emoción o imagen que les atrae. O vuelve a leer un poema que ya has escrito y usa una oración para escribir más.

(Scroll down for Spanish version)

Flying like a bird,

I’m free to breathe like a human,

To be embraced, nurtured.

In feathers of love and rapture,

I cherish my lust and fondle my treasures.

A flock of pigeons overtakes me.

I open my wings and draw near.

A plethora of laments stream my consciousness.

My flapping is unique, slow, abounding.

Sweet like the purple blue of the horizon.

Sky reflects the green, orange, red of the Earth.

Rain nurtures the soil of the soul.

My eyes reveal the sparkling of the water.

I take in the crushing waves,

And I envelop my sensual outbreak.

A raindrop falls in my head while drifting.

I swallow my tears and go on winging,

I’m free to be seen when no one is surveying.

Spinning in the swell of passion,

I unearth my ardor with buoyancy and fervor.

The green of tall grass blinds my sight.

I drop a leaflet from a California poppy,

and I spread my sorrows in the flurry.

My empty beak cries for a refuge,

I search for a nest, to rest and nibble.

I close my eyes and the yellow pink lightens my spirit,

I taste the salt of the ocean, my sanctuary.

A wink at a time, I chirp at my flesh.

I set down the world, my mortal universe.

I am, while fields of love beckon the wings of desire.

~~~

En Español:

Volando como un pájaro,

me siento libre de respirar como humana.

De ser abrazada, alimentada,

en plumas de amor y éxtasis.

Celebro mi deseo y acaricio mis tesoros.

Un grupo de palomas me alcanza.

Abro mis alas y me acerco.

Una plétora de lamentos llena mi conciencia.

Mi volar es único, despacio, expansivo,

dulce como el azul violeta del horizonte.

La lluvia nutre la tierra del alma.

Mis ojos revelan el brillo del agua.

Escucho el romper de las olas

y me encierro en mi estallido sensual.

Una gota cae en mi cabeza mientras vuelo.

Me trago las lágrimas y sigo luchando.

Soy libre de ser vista mientras nadie esta mirando.

Doy vueltas en la ola de pasión,

destierro mi ardor con abundancia y fervor.

El verde del pasto me ciega.

Dejo caer una hoja de la amapola californiana,

y derramo mis tristezas en el viento.

Mi pico vacío llora por un refugio.

Busco un nido para descansar y picotear.

Un guiño a la vez, muerdo mi carne.

Pongo a descansar el mundo, mi universo mortal,

cierro los ojos y el amarillo rosado levanta mi espíritu.

Pruebo la sal del océano, mi santuario.

Soy, mientras los campos del amor atraen las alas del deseo.

~~~

Painting that inspired the poem by Shanti Benoit from the Artist’s Coop in Mendocino town, California. The project was part of Ekphrasis V, a collaborative project between artists from the Artist’s Coop and writers from the Writer’s Club of the Mendocino Coast.

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“The Coiled Serpent”

“When I was nine my little girl body faced the challenges of patriarchal authority. The silencing of my voice opened my eyes to class and ethnic distinctions as well as the cathartic power of the serpent as metaphor for women’s solidarity and transformation. This is my story—an excerpt from the unpublished manuscript, Uncoiling the Serpent Goddess: From Ancient Myth to Spiritual Freedom by Joy Karin Weyland.”

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been scared of serpents. When I was a child, after a daunting fight with my father, I hid inside a wood shed. Poisonous snakes were likely to nest there. I sat in the dark, wishing one would bite me and I would die. For many years, I replayed this incident in my head several times, blaming myself for my own rebellious voice.

“I hate you,” I yelled to my father as he served himself a piece of steak.

His dark long thin hair was combed back. Some grey hairs were beginning to show. His big ears stood out against his white skin and his eagle-shaped nose was always running from allergies to dust, pollen, dog hair, and mildew. He sniffed into his handkerchief.

My mother gave me one of those looks to shut up. She was always the last one to sit down at the table, arranging the food and what was needed for our meals.

Minerva Gaea, a plumed, medium sized, Indigenous woman with Spanish features, then the main caretaker, helped her with last minute details. The protocol was that once the food was served, she would go back to the outside kitchen and eat there. My two older brothers never helped, and I was too little, the baby girl. Salt, pepper, a serving spoon, a missing napkin, water, and a glass of wine. Minerva moved slowly as she emptied her tray.

“Why are we stuck here?” I kept at the conversation, “I want to be with my friends. I’m missing all the fun they are having in the city.”

“Your father already told you,” said my mother, “we’ll be here until we can straighten things out.”

“It’s been a whole month already,” I stuttered, knowing that I was pushing the boundaries.

The temperature of the room was rising. Minerva’s thick eyebrows rose as she walked towards the door. Unlike my father, her straight dark long hair was always in place. I never saw a sight of frustration or complaint in her face.

My brothers didn’t seem to care we were stranded all summer at the ranch. After all, they enjoyed riding horses and the freedom of the land. One of my brothers kicked me under the table, but it was too late. My dissatisfaction grew and I blurted out.

“I hate this place and everything about it.”

That’s when I didn’t see it coming, and my father’s hand stroke my left cheek. The only time in my life the heavy weight of a man’s open hand was on my face. His face shrunk with anger, as if he couldn’t believe what I had just said. His parental authority was undermined, out the window.

I was still a little girl, and yet my body witnessed a mixed feeling of failure and solidarity. While Minerva was in the same room, I was safe to speak up, and my father held his anger in place. As his irritation unleashed, I was nauseated with the smell of steak and my mother’s pleasing tone. I raised my hand to my mouth, as if I was going to throw up. My whole body contracted and I left the room crying. I then walked into the shed and sat in a corner. I wished for a snake to bite me.

Dying seemed like the only response to my father’s slap, to his repression of my ten-year-old rebellion, to the silencing of my voice. A baby snake slipped through one of the logs as I was standing up. She wasn’t coiled. No bite. May be yararas didn’t bite when they were little.

Yarara was the Guarani name for the regional poisonous snake that roamed the ranch, and was now part of our mestizo heritage. The yarara knew no boundaries, sharing the soil of Argentina, Paraguay, Bolivia, and Brazil. The Guarani, the Indigenous people of this regional area who appeared in the first millennium, drew her on plates, coiled with spots, moving through the jungle with ease like the jaguar, also called Yaraguarete, another mythical figure in Guarani culture.

“Go ahead and look for Karin,” my mother asked my brother Jorge.

It was a busy morning that day, and my parents were ready for their afternoon nap. I could still hear the dishes clanging in the kitchen. I hesitated between waiting for someone to find me. Instead, I stood up and I walked outside, feeling renewed, as if my old skin had been removed.

The process of shedding had turned snakes into symbols of legends and myths representing neurosis, healing, initiation, death, transformation, wisdom and rebirth. I anticipated the power of the serpent goddess and her many polymorphic and multidimensional manifestations in my life. It would be some time though before the new skin was ready for the world, shameless and free, growing instead a strong woman Self that some day would face my father’s authority, or better yet, how I saw the world through my parents’ eyes.

I met my brother playing outside, and we carried on our usual children’s games. He warned me about my father still being angry, so we went to the back of the house and ate some oranges from the trees.

I’ve held on to this traumatic experience for most of the years I lived abroad, sometimes in the foreground, sometimes buried deep down. I came to see my own affliction with patriarchal authority in the immigrant women I met years later in New York City when working in the Dominican neighborhood of Washington Heights. Here I met Paulina, Carmen, Altagracia, Maria, Mercedes and Belkis, women in their forties who had powerful stories of family, displacement and survival. I was still in my twenties then, but they left an impression on me.

It took me another twenty years however to acknowledge our struggles from a broader female lenses. We had in common the pain that was rooted in centuries of devaluation of female power and distrust of the female will, as if a snake coiled up ready to attack.

~ ~~~~

[Disclaimer: The stories and pictures in this Blog do not coincide with the women and people depicted in the photographs. Names have been changed to protect their identity. I am solely responsible for the facts gathered and on which the stories and images are based. Nonfiction narrative asserts descriptions understood to be factual and may incorporate fictional elements to clarify and enhance them.]

 

“Yoga and Healing Arts Center opens in San Juan, Puerto Rico”

by Joy Karin Weyland

 

“Stop your routine and rejuvenate yourself. StarMoonSky is opening its door for yoga, meditation, massage, theatre, doulas, and community support. Don’t miss the chance to visit and deepen your practice in kundalini, Hatha Yoga, Power Yoga, the healing arts, self-awareness of the four bodies: spiritual, mental, emotional and physical through movement, voice, botanical soaps, essential oils, divine feminine journals, therapeutic arts, goddess clothing, jewelry, and merry more.”

StarMoonSky is a non-profit organization that collaborates with other resources in Holistic Health locally and around the world, founded in 2013 by Ruth Figueroa, Jesse Rodriguez and Karin Weyland. Its mission is to bring about individual, family and social awareness and well-being.

“Book a massage, a class, or join community with us.”

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