Not Easy to Say Good-Bye
In July of last year, my mother asked me to burn various CD's of music she wanted to listen to. She gave me a list that had music from when she was a young woman, till current times; from jazz to boleros, musicals, and films. The sad thing is, that right after she received the CDs, she suffered a heart attack. Thou she survived it, but left her with a heart at 20%, her mind and being did not. She succumbed into a deep depression. She decided not to listen to music, read, (nor even a magazine), or do the exercises that the Doctors asked her to do. Music was her life. And this has been really hard for me, because, in a way I was experiencing her death of her human part. That part that I loved so much about her. How her face would light up when she was asked to sing. That part of her that fed my creative soul.
Each child has a particular relationship with their parents. Mine was made with colors, flavors, and letters. I loved to cook for my mother. She loved my cuisine. It was so funny that a parent is looking forward to eat something her child has cooked. But I loved it. It is that internal something to please our parents. And I always wanted to shine in my mother's eyes. Of course I was not able to do all the things she told me to do. Some mothers want to see their children always perfect and happy. Mine is like that. But I can't be perfect. I do not care for perfection but for freedom. I like to breath in and out easily. Like for example, my mother took extremely cold showers to keep her skin tight. She asked me to do it. And I was like " no way mom". She was thinking of me when I would get to a certain age. And we all do, but a cold bath I will only do in a lake up in the mountains, and I will do it only to merge within the womb of our planet.
My pretty mother, quiet, still, compose, strict. Always in perfect order. Even now, her nails are perfect and mine a mess. She loves my artwork. She loves to know she is my muse. She forced me to put color in my wardrobe. I love dark colors. I would said to my mom "colors are in my work and in my soul". But yes, of course, I finished with a complete palette of colors in my closet. If I do not wear them all, I do when I want to play a role. My mother did just that. Sometimes, when back from school she would be dressed as a clown. Complete euphoria! Loved it. She told me, one time, at school, she took black shoe polish, and covered her whole body with it, then started to sing and dance like in the Hollywood films. Another time she braided her hair like a Egyptian Goddess. Those were the moments I loved the most. I took them all, sad, hard, happy, careless, and I embraced each of them deep into my soul.
My mother fragile as her collection of butterflies. She would catch all kinds in our trips in the Colombian forest. Then she would pin them and get them framed. I wonder if she felt that way. Always caught, a slow suffocation, and then in a glass frame. Society at that time put too much pressure to women. My mom, a kind beautiful soul that taught how to read and write to the women that worked in our home, was not able to confront the world. But we loved her just like she was. Beautiful, fragile, emotional, sad and happy. It is after all my mother, and I chose her to hold my hand while in this reality. I did this because I knew her before we became to be. We all have to return. And while you are in the process to return back, I am going to miss our Saturdays of all kinds of talks, before you became ill. These months, was hard to see you this way. In matter but not with your energy, your being. I love you mom. And you know that because I have never been shy to express how I feel. But I know deep in my heart, that our meetings will not cease. I know God, the creator, nature, Angels, will play their magic, and we will have our moment. I am Ethel in some part because of you, mom.
Each child has a particular relationship with their parents. Mine was made with colors, flavors, and letters. I loved to cook for my mother. She loved my cuisine. It was so funny that a parent is looking forward to eat something her child has cooked. But I loved it. It is that internal something to please our parents. And I always wanted to shine in my mother's eyes. Of course I was not able to do all the things she told me to do. Some mothers want to see their children always perfect and happy. Mine is like that. But I can't be perfect. I do not care for perfection but for freedom. I like to breath in and out easily. Like for example, my mother took extremely cold showers to keep her skin tight. She asked me to do it. And I was like " no way mom". She was thinking of me when I would get to a certain age. And we all do, but a cold bath I will only do in a lake up in the mountains, and I will do it only to merge within the womb of our planet.
My pretty mother, quiet, still, compose, strict. Always in perfect order. Even now, her nails are perfect and mine a mess. She loves my artwork. She loves to know she is my muse. She forced me to put color in my wardrobe. I love dark colors. I would said to my mom "colors are in my work and in my soul". But yes, of course, I finished with a complete palette of colors in my closet. If I do not wear them all, I do when I want to play a role. My mother did just that. Sometimes, when back from school she would be dressed as a clown. Complete euphoria! Loved it. She told me, one time, at school, she took black shoe polish, and covered her whole body with it, then started to sing and dance like in the Hollywood films. Another time she braided her hair like a Egyptian Goddess. Those were the moments I loved the most. I took them all, sad, hard, happy, careless, and I embraced each of them deep into my soul.
My mother fragile as her collection of butterflies. She would catch all kinds in our trips in the Colombian forest. Then she would pin them and get them framed. I wonder if she felt that way. Always caught, a slow suffocation, and then in a glass frame. Society at that time put too much pressure to women. My mom, a kind beautiful soul that taught how to read and write to the women that worked in our home, was not able to confront the world. But we loved her just like she was. Beautiful, fragile, emotional, sad and happy. It is after all my mother, and I chose her to hold my hand while in this reality. I did this because I knew her before we became to be. We all have to return. And while you are in the process to return back, I am going to miss our Saturdays of all kinds of talks, before you became ill. These months, was hard to see you this way. In matter but not with your energy, your being. I love you mom. And you know that because I have never been shy to express how I feel. But I know deep in my heart, that our meetings will not cease. I know God, the creator, nature, Angels, will play their magic, and we will have our moment. I am Ethel in some part because of you, mom.
Faith to me is the love and respect I feel for everyone's beliefs, and their way of living their personal experience.
Thou it is hard to know that my mom is not present as we get to know life, at the same time, in moments where I start to cry, all of the sudden I feel her presence. It is almost as if she is telling me, get to know me in my new form. This is going to help me to be more in the now. My mom is part of something we can't really comprehend. Faith and science, along with writers, artists, dreamers, etc... help me to know that everything is just existence in various forms.
When I was a kid until I was a teenager, I used to have a dream over and over, (maybe I already wrote about this dream) I was in a room filled with water, and I could see a fainted red light that pulsated. I would tell my dream to my mom ( and I continued to tell all my crazy dreams to my mom till about three weeks ago), and one day she suggested I would tell my dream to a psychologist. Well, I did as my mom suggested, and the psychologist told me, I remembered being in my mom's womb. And at that point my dream stopped. But I was so happy to know I remembered that special moment of being in her with her. And this is how I feel now. I feel like I am back inside her. I feel like her presence embarks all my awareness that is part of my space and time. This feeling is beautiful! I am not sure if it is crazy me, and all what I have learned to understand all of this, but yeah since my faith is in everything, and Einstein said everything already exists, well, hello mom! You are still with me!
Thou it is hard to know that my mom is not present as we get to know life, at the same time, in moments where I start to cry, all of the sudden I feel her presence. It is almost as if she is telling me, get to know me in my new form. This is going to help me to be more in the now. My mom is part of something we can't really comprehend. Faith and science, along with writers, artists, dreamers, etc... help me to know that everything is just existence in various forms.
When I was a kid until I was a teenager, I used to have a dream over and over, (maybe I already wrote about this dream) I was in a room filled with water, and I could see a fainted red light that pulsated. I would tell my dream to my mom ( and I continued to tell all my crazy dreams to my mom till about three weeks ago), and one day she suggested I would tell my dream to a psychologist. Well, I did as my mom suggested, and the psychologist told me, I remembered being in my mom's womb. And at that point my dream stopped. But I was so happy to know I remembered that special moment of being in her with her. And this is how I feel now. I feel like I am back inside her. I feel like her presence embarks all my awareness that is part of my space and time. This feeling is beautiful! I am not sure if it is crazy me, and all what I have learned to understand all of this, but yeah since my faith is in everything, and Einstein said everything already exists, well, hello mom! You are still with me!