Patina

Browsing through Interior Design references, my eye stood still at a word.

It had always caught my attention, but this time it spoke to me because of its description.

Patina -the worn quality that reveals an object untold story.

This is why I write, driven by the certitude that although the way we feel differs from person to person, what we do with it comes close. When we write, we help, when we read or listen, we heal. This is a big part of my Patina.

And as I will soon approach a birthday milestone, my Patina is revealing. Undoubtedly, time has been my great revealer, awareness my compass.

In Interior Design, Patina brings friction but it also creates defining contrast, dimension, uniqueness, worth.

In life, experience has been the alchemy of my Patina. Its friction has sprung forth grip, wisdom, reverence, respect.

And a love of life and self that challenges the ego and transcends the mundane.

People, situations, hard earned gains or sudden losses that I thought made or broke me, were my relentless carving catalysts. Agents that mirrored my fears and taught me to honor my strength and sensibility.

Whatever the result to my endless life searches –  I jumped gracefully on most of them only to sink or pretend to swim floating along temporarily – God put a rainbow in my clouds. And this is what I focus on now, a different search, a discovery, still fast forward but intentionally inward.

Call it mileage. Driver’s seat. Master of my road.

The inner voice is the softest of whispers, until it roars so loud that it withstand the test of time.

Every step that tumbled me, loss that shamed me, feedback that crushed me, heartbreak that tore me, condition that frightened me, wait that sentenced me and the many painful pebbles that followed, chiseled my crystalized marble and revealed my Patina of golden-bronze artisanal hues and ethereal morning light.

Exquisite Vintage.

Good interior designers master the balance between Patina and Polish. So should we.

And we all know that seasons – and time – bring different forms of life into the world around us. So does burnishing.

Nourish the intellect, honor class, sparkle. Patina loves a posh polish.

Every encounter that is real, music that uplifts, textures that thread, flavors that enrich, fragrances that linger, art that transcends, words that heal, new hellos, last goodbyes, humble souls, generous mentors, love surprises, lifetime friends, forever family members, the legacy of my beloved parents.

These are the agents of my polish, amplified by the many exponential ways in which I want to give back the best of me to all of it.

Coincidentally, Patina is also a novel by Jason Reynolds. A story that delves into the life of Patina, a talented young runner.  As she navigates the ups and downs of her life, Patina learns the meaning of perseverance, friendship, and never giving up.

Patina never gives up.

It’s the worn quality that reveals your untold story – brave, unapologetic, everlasting, yours.

 

wind in our favor

Once upon a time
love chose the exceptional
to honor its day by the sea

Golden sunsets, Iberian skies
Spain, the North Star

A maiden voyage carved in sand
became seabound hoisting its sails high

Heeling became bliss, watching its mainsail fill, white caps of joy, starry nights of awe

Life’s rainstorms waved, windward, leeward, swelling currents turning mad

Tramontana winds steamed forward – Balearic freedom, Galician grit

I was the lucky one to be on board
trusted dearly as my Captains’ figurehead

God’s guidance sailed our way

Aye Aye my Captains
may the seas lie smooth before you
may a gentle breeze forever fill your sails

Fair winds and following seas
we have the wind in our favor

Ursula

I met Ursula the day of her memorial service.

The one with the imaginary name she kept for herself, the one treasured by her family knowing they would never see her again.

Wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother.

Artist, collector, patron, poet, life enthusiast, fierce female, eye extraordinaire.

You add all of it and you have a Master Gardener.

Ask her flowers, I am now one of them.

Greeting the woman while alive was knowing you were about to learn something unforgettable. Writing about the woman after her passing is knowing your connection with her is real.

A groundbreaking photographer, her eyes were keen lenses that focused on anyone or anything of genuine substance. Her pupils were lasers for the exceptional.

Every gesture counted.

A discerning art collector with a gift to curate personal spaces along with her brilliant self-made husband, Jimmy Mayer, she made sure that first and foremost, the art lived with them and not the other way around.

Every narrative counted.

The ultimate hostess, she made her space feel yours the moment she warmly welcomed you, and as in the most acclaimed of premieres about to start, her rich velvety drape fell softly next to you, cloaking you with her charm, disarming your defenses to remind you of your strengths, leading you to applaud hers.

Every person counted.

A family woman, her kindred are a testament of the callings of her heart, the curiosity of her mind, and the wilderness of her spirit. All faithful to the meaning of her birth name – Becky, “to tie firmly.”

An extended family never looked so genuine.  Alchemy of diamonds.

Every kinship counted.

Including the relationships forged and polished to perfection by the test of time.

Count me among the lucky ones to know the love of a family tree that never stops giving.

The speech of a stepson on her memorial service confirmed how a woman can earn the reverence reserved for mothers. While drawing distance from his father during a temporary rift, she reminded him that disagreements dissolve, but a relationship with a father should never.

Pastel colors were not her thing, grace definitely made up for it.

Her passion for speed on motorcycles gives meaning to the saying “two wheels move the soul.” She proved it every time she joined a wild group of Harley riders – fast, fierce, determined, joyful –  as if celebrating the ride of her lifetime.

Home was the world, particularly if it was as colorful as the Caribbean, and as tasteful as the morning coffee that only took Malibu Rum.

An admirer of Palladian architecture, she appreciated the timeless quality of dimensions, scale, and proportions.  Her thinking was a fitting analogy.

Reading one of her poetry books prior to her passing, Reflections on the Tao Te Ching, her guidance led me to a verse I treasure.

“Be as balanced as blinded justice, as profound as the endless deep, as magnanimous as the simple truth, as honest as a reflecting mirror, as orderly as a perfect spiral, as flowing as a bountiful river. Go forth on the Journey.”

Ursula didn’t wait, she would cheer.

I am in for the Journey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love Seals

We’ve all experienced varying degrees of the phrase Time Heals while recovering from surgery, grieving the loss of relationships or the passing of loved ones. In my experience, if time is the wise agent in the healing process, love is the medicine that seals our wounds thereafter.

How can it not?

Go back to the last time you were sick or recently operated, alone or in company. Hopefully, time and medication made you feel better as the days passed by. Now think of how you felt when you heard from those who cared for you. The company they dedicated to you changing their life just to be next to you; the daily texts and calls to check on you; the get well cards in the mail; the acts of generosity; the consideration of your work mentors; the Instagram messages to a story that suggested recovery; the words of encouragement to remind you who you are.

This is even more evident if you are an independent woman head of your own household.  In medical recoveries, after all is said and done, and as you pass your worst days of pain and fear, your space now frames the acts of caring that keep you floating in grace, lifted by the presence of those who took time to let you know you are loved.

Count me among the blessed ones who experienced the healing effects of this love medicine.

Now go back to the first or last time your heart broke to pieces.  The formula applies.

If you are a committed to doing the work  – self growth via emotional mastery – no matter how trying or how painful the road or the experience was, your recovery can lead you to an unexpected form of love.

The kind that will transform you, leading you to compassion, forgiveness, appreciation, and more love for all they did, including what they could not do any better.

The kind that will find you wiser, lighter, happier.

I call it a filter of intentions, and not every person or love interest will pass it or come close.

But you know who met your heart, with all their failings, adding yours.

And as in medical interventions, when you look back at the experience, you should not look back at what healed you physically or made you evolve emotionally with disdain or regret.  Try a wall mirror, face whatever needs to be faced, and get ready to welcome more love. Self love.

My favorite quote from Mother Theresa comes close to this reflection  – “I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”

It’s this kind love that makes us grow into someone who honors everyone involved in the most important decisions in our lives.

And the day your loved ones cross the bridge, it’s this kind of love that will seal their bridge to you forever.

This awakening is so prevalent, that the popular serie And Just Like That lands its on a podium for all us to honor: “My sadness never shrank but I grew, and grew until I was so large, the grief just felt smaller.  You don’t move on because you’re ready to. You move on because you’ve outgrown who you used to be.”

If who you used to be is one who lives in regret ignoring unhealed or unforgiving wounds of all kinds, take a look within.

And let love in.

 

 

 

2020 is Hindsight

Everything seems different.

Apocalyptic, catastrophic, alarmingly surreal.

These are the days of the unprecedented. Unrivaled as an infectious collective memory, boundless as a global war zone, the kind that takes us to ground zero.

Days of sorrow, distance, dizzying haze, solitary confinement.  Mental analysis paralysis.

This is the curse of The Corona Virus, the pandemic calamity we are told is sweeping lives by the thousands, dragging the world’s economy by trillions, tearing all plans, all while flaunting a crown as if wanting us to bow and curtsy. 

Isolation seems our only armor, eyes wide open, doors closed shut, the only contact is thyself. 

Add resistance to fear. There’s no way out, dare to dive in, see what you see, but stay solo.

Every day seems like the next – worrying loops of watching and waiting. Let me dream that curve go flat.

Will this fear go away? Will we see the light of day? Remember last month? Don’t you miss us? Do you need to hug me or pray together, particularly if you never have?  I do.

I also want to be better before we meet again. I want to be a better me so that we can be a better we.
I want to honor the dead with my legacy for life. I want us to turn the ugly shadow of disease into a sea of  better times to come.  

There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men, Hemingway wrote.  

Ask anyone who loved ones this year, either from Covid or its related and growingly strange complications which seem to be all. 

Ask every  exhausted healthcare worker if they know the nationality or the political affiliations of humanity when there are minutes left to save lives.  They don’t. They rise above.

This is the grandiosity of the human spirit – God-given, unbiased, unprejudiced, universal, never fragile but faithful till the end.

Can we meet there?

Don’t think twice. 2020 is hindsight.

Friendly Reminder

Messages come to us in many ways. This one came through the coffee window of my Latin Cafe.

In April 2019, I started a corporate opportunity that everyone thought had potential, even if it was below my professional experience and I was overqualified.  Surprisingly, it ended abruptly right in the most questioning of circumstances.

The day after this demoralizing experience, and regardless of how broken I felt, I headed to my holy grail of morning glory, the Latin Cafe in my neighborhood where I order my daily dose of Cuban coffee.

I placed my order as usual, and the woman manning the window asked me how was work. My reply was as brief: “Over.”

She told me to sit in one of the tables across the window, and that she would be happy to serve me.  I insisted that there was no need for her to to go out of her way, but she was resolute.

Minutes later, she approached my table, placed my cup of caffeine octane on its center, and told me to be positive, not elaborating much in case I did not want to engage. I thanked her and thought that would be the end of it. Not a chance. I was out of work, but my new friend had just found one – Me.

“I don’t know if you know about me,” she said. Time stood still as she focused her eyes on mine.

“See those buildings behind you” she said, pointing to the high-rise Brickell skyscrapers in construction right behind my back.  “I used to work there,” she said. “I managed construction projects, I had a secretary, and a big stack of papers on my desk. I worked so hard managing offices but things also ended for me.”  Nobody cared about me there, she continued, until one day I said enough of this.

My eyes were watery. My heart in my throat. Her story resonated.

Does it ring a bell? A fire alarm?

Read on, don’t run for cover.

“You see me doing coffee here?” she pressed on.  “I don’t care what people think of me because I come here every morning happy.  I like working with my people, and my customers are very generous with me. I work half-day, then I go swimming, and at home I do my own thing!  It may be a bit less money, but I am free.”

In my case, years of successful corporate experience with outstanding reviews seemed like an illusory past after my dismissal. I recall the moment as an emotional tsunami at the core of my “not good enough” fault zone. This fear is among the most dreaded and irrational by the majority of the population, “The Impostor Syndrome” – to be found out, to be good at nothing, the labeling of one’s strengths as non-existent.  I felt my body sank, drowning into the depths of insanity, all of it questioning if I had gone mad, if I had made my years of professional seniority, sacrifice, and glory all up.

I did not. My corporate history and my stellar recommendations available on Linkedin speak for me. My formative years with brilliant mentors reached its summit bringing me to a hostile arena — a much needed ego crush, a life-kicking fracture, yet a jump-start to my intentions which had been on life support in a financial toxic culture, trapped in a cubicle, accepting the unacceptable, smelling the backstab.

Little did I know that the dismissal that felt shocking, embarrassing, humiliating, and shameful, came to land me at my purpose.

“Look at you Mami!,” my waitress smiled as if questioning my wistful look. “You are a beautiful elegant woman, do something creative — go for art — you are probably very good at it, write a book girl!”

All of it prophetic, particularly knowing that what I love to do is precisely what she mentioned – what you see in this website, in the words of those who know me and motivate me – an eye that beautifies. I am a visual poet, a story teller. I am an artist.

I am no longer the woman settling for the cubicle.

And just like that, I remembered a favorite teaching from Gary Zukav’s The Seat of the Soul :
“When the personality comes fully to serve the energy of its soul, that is authentic empowerment.”

Shouldn’t we all? Isn’t this one of life’s best friendly reminders?

Perhaps

Perhaps is a favorite word. Its meaning, phonetics, and the wisdom behind those who prefer it for the same reasons that I do. For all one knows – it could be, it may be, it may surprise you.

Perhaps surprised me this week, proving itself timely, patient, wise, forever healing.

And perhaps had it, that a loved one out of desperation to win an argument during a dinner discussion by the beach, mentioned a name that does not belong near the ocean. The name of a sick mind that I am proud to have survived.

I knew it had to do with perhaps.

Grabbing the unnamed memory by its horns, I seized the moment and paved the way for my next morning, the day to have my conversation, the minute to find the truth behind a lifelong doubt.

My morning showed up. Salty breeze on my back, sun on my shoulders, sandy moss under my feet, ocean waves crashing in and out of me. I walked towards the question. Fear holding on to yesterday, my spirit honoring today.

The doubt dies today. I had to ask the question, I had to bear the answer.

I had to perhaps. And I did.

I asked and the doubt died washing me clean, safe, free.

The fear, the past, the scars, all healed by the sea.

An open sky now lives in me. And in us.

Perhaps threw me a winning dice.

The timing of closure.

Race the Fear

Breast Cancer Awareness Month, the campaign held every October globally to increase breast cancer awareness and raise funds for its cure, just ended. For most women, the fight to fight the disease never ends. Fear fuels it.

To this date, I have been fortunate not to have breast cancer. And I have been blessed to know women who have faced the disease with the guts it takes to hear the news firsthand while empty-handed.

I don’t have a family history of breast cancer, but I grew up with a fear history of breast cancer.

This is why I am here, to share my race away from breast cancer fear.

I met breast cancer in my childhood.

Growing up in Caracas, Venezuela, I eavesdropped on conversations between my mother and our family’s best friend, our beloved Antonia Cotelo, nicknamed by all as Totó. In her 50s, she was diagnosed with a brain cancer that quickly metastasized into breast cancer. And during her arduous fight, I overheard the daily telephone calls my mom had every afternoon that included hopes, fears, and tears. They did not know, but I heard it all.  And I feared it all.

My parents welcomed Totó into our home every weekend. From those memories, her musical voice asking for “las niñas” (the girls) still echoes in my heart, particularly because there was not a single moment where she let her sorrow show when my sister or I were around. She was the epitome of love in joy. Until the day she parted, she held her breast cancer sentence with the grace of a white swan. Her dignity and emotional intelligence in the midst of her devastating disease are to be honored and revered.

My last memory of Totó is the face of an angel lost in time as if searching her way of out hell. An impeccably ivory complexion framing eyes no longer symmetrical and frozen, a wandering expression as if hoping to find focus in the fog of fear. All of it, below a head stylishly wrapped in a colorful scarf, honoring what was still a beautiful mind hoping to get her life back. That’s what breast cancer looked like to the girl in me.

Totó left us one rainy Sunday. Years passed by, my life went on, and my womanhood showed up. All of it with full-grown fears of breast cancer well into my 40s, intensified and out of proportion every time I had any hormonal breast pain, mammograms, thermography, sonograms, biopsies, the many roads to breast health. I knew how to know but I did not want to know. Sounds familiar?

Then I took charge.

Sick of worrying sick, I saw a renowned specialist in Cognitive Therapy who nailed the source of my breast cancer fears and healed it with a resounding closing argument: “That’s not your story. That’s not how you will go.”  So what was I to do? Pass the page? Not a chance.

An empowered girl becomes a brave woman who helps those who have the story, anyone living in fear, the ones who are afraid to check, the ones who wished they had checked, everyone and everybody so that no woman ever goes that way again.

I propelled myself into the subject fearlessly forward.

I now go to my yearly mammograms knowing that whatever technology and medicine find, we will do our best to cure, because this is now and that was then.  Medical treatments and protocols have come a long way, and so has every woman I’ve known who has fought the disease and won. All of them.

We take preventive charge. And we run for more.

Last October 14, 2017, I ran the 5K Susan G Komen’s Race for the Cure.

I raced against fear, convinced that what men, women, and girls don’t know can kill us.

I sprinted for the women who have faced the news and the disease like champions of life. Kelly Jenkins tops my list.  I ran the race as if guided by an angel – Totó flew next to me.

We took off and became mean- freaking- cancer-curing-healing machines. And we won the race.

Ladies and gentlemen,  the race to win starts with the F word to face – Fear.

And this is what we can make most breast cancers look like: Fearless. Alive. Gone.

The Booty Tribe

Every Time, all caps, no mercy, no maybe – it’s Saturday morning and badass rules here.

Head to Brickell Equinox and watch us endure Tarra Martinez’ Booty Blast class, designed to define the kind that defy definition. You’ve been warned.

The club describes the class as “dedicated to the bottom half – glutes, hips, thighs and abs.” I dedicate it to the bottomless.

This is so very beyond a class. A cult comes close. Ask Elderbrook, we dig him.

Tarra starts serving Cola, and yeah, that’s what we are coming for, and yeah, we can tell the difference. She extends a courtesy to the early adopters defining the work as a set of balancing moves meant to “strengthen everything that matters.” A force of gracious will, she steps in her zone – now ours- with an invitingly unabashed “What do you say?”

No ordinary methods to round, lift, tight, harden, reduce, increase, and everything else gluteus medium and minimums I have ever tried apply here. Just as I suspect no ordinary methods have ever applied to anything this tribe of fit women have faced. Or at least yours truly.

This is so very beyond the butt. A balancing act, the gravity of willpower.

Grab the toys – the weights, the bands, the ball, the gliders, the block. Yes, that zen-looking yoga block we used to love, until now. Here, the block is the obstacle we step one foot on, all strength on heel, while we bend the upper torso and lower body like an accordion, all on one compact move, plunging slowly to grab -or strangle- the lazy ball of shame laying on the ground waiting for our trembling everything to bring it up, only to bring it back down again.

Hello distant floor, can we talk?

Losing your balance has never been so redeeming. We kick ass when we start anew. Laura Walsh’s Cold Front “I don’t want to leave you know” is so à propos on the forgiving background.

“Keep your own pace”, “You are fighting nature!” Tarra howls and echoes, as we endure a dozen of hell-bents and squats, perched on faith, to the count of eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, and that famous Tarra branded “And Now Recoooooover!”  Hell, we do. Only to revisit tough love strapping the mother-torturer black loop bands on our thighs to squat the self, jump, and squat back again to the count of eternity.

“And now pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse.” No baby is coming out, but a resourceful woman who works on her strength.

And to think that I enlisted here in search of soothing leg isolations. My ass. My burning all. Sciatica, you better get it. Why on earth do I self-impose this ritual every Saturday morning? Because I choose what I  master. Up the ante. Every time.

Magalenha plays on. So do we.

No wonder this is one of Equinox busiest classes while one of its hardest – what we say we do, where we step we own, what we saddle, we lead. Girlie grit.

Filled to capacity, floored to endurance, enter at your own glorious risk. And if you do, don’t let the booty name fool you into expecting the conventional class and gals. We certainly look it, but tight ass doesn’t make it here, kick-ass is a pass.

What do you say?

Irma’s Sleepstream

What a difference a week makes. Especially if you counted on a category five hurricane to swipe your hometown and self in pieces.

Last September 10, Hurricane Irma churned the state of Florida making its catastrophic land in the Keys and spreading calamity on through Florida’s southwestern coast, mercifully brushing Miami as a category three hurricane due to land interaction.

Irma was the first major hurricane to make landfall in Florida since Wilma in 2005, the strongest Atlantic hurricane to strike the United States since Katrina in 2005, and the most threatening in size and strength observed in the Atlantic since Dean in 2007.

Everything about Irma had intensity about it – first, historic, unprecedented, and catastrophic. Ask the damage done to parts of the northeastern Caribbean and Florida during a week of relentless activity.

A day before its expected landfall in Miami, I took cover in the hotel right across my high-rise building in Brickell Avenue for fear of being slammed by a flying crane crashing thru my balcony on a 34th floor. Seeking shelter across my street seemed stupid for some, but being displaced from my original evacuation plan right before a mandatory evacuation, alarming warnings, no gas on tank or open station on sight, and the city airport closed explains my across-the-street diaspora.

What propelled me to make a hotel reservation next door? I did not want to die alone and have my family and friends suffer from my lack of preparation.

As Irma breached our coast unflinchingly, I bunkered at my hotel ballroom located in its fifth floor with no windows around us. Here, the husband of a dear friend, my dog and I bonded with 350 guests during eight hours of uninterrupted angst, electricity, and Wi-Fi, allowing most of us to call, text, and go online to watch images of rising floodwaters rushing thru businesses and residences downstairs; read about cranes crashing down; and hear about window panes turning into projectile glass blades one block from our hotel flying straight into my building.

Irma left Miami mid-afternoon, leaving thousands without power and covering Brickell in one murky and turbid body of restless water. After all the devastation she left in the Caribbean and the Keys, Irma baptized our financial district with a forgiving bath.

Grateful does not even begin to describe it.

A week later, I am lucky to be home with minor damage to my building, power and water restored, a full fridge, and a not-so-distant past stuck in my memory like a wet trunk. Many in my community are still without power, others in Florida and the Caribbean have lost it all, included loved ones. My hope is that with time, life and faith blossoms in all of them with blessings in disguise.

Fallen trees, shattered glass, twisted metals, and huge muddy ponds.

I walked counting blessings – my rock-solid family and lifetime friends who called relentlessly to ensure resources were available and my safety was not compromised. And then, kind souls who I mistakenly referred to as acquaintances kept me in their prayers like close friends do – the very strong connections made during a power-outage.

Hot, humid, and stormy Irma slipstreams gifted me with trails of truth.