randomness/ consistency

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Random update. I went through the links to the right every-so-often clicking to another two from other people’s blogs that I love. It took me about 30 minutes to do this.

There’s a lot to write about. Instead I’ll share my reading patterns, next time I’ll click through every single link, it will be in a few months. At the moment, I’m reading Octavia Butler, The Practical Genius, and Myths to Live By, as in books/books.

Since I have so much to say, I’ll go to sleep and read.

Don’t mean to be mysterious for the sake of being mysterious … I am writing with movement, as in I’m alive and moving ( a mami, amiga, amante, hija, hermana, trabajadora, taking dance classes, on occasion going for the walks/hikes) (helping decorate trees for Christmas) among other lovely mundane acts and random movements and one of the stories is fermenting and I will write it. The blog, will be here.

Maybe when my professional life doesn’t take so much of my being … and “the writing voice”, is ready to be alive full force, I will make the space for it to have a slot in the busy days of full time work head of household mamahood. Always learning, and when that happens, I will try to embrace to make peace with its many layers.

On a relatively macro note (my life), these last few months, allow me to describe what I have been seeing/feeling/thinking/believing, consistency is the word. Thanking this space and time, the people in my life, and the realization that all of this is fluid, and also knowing there is consistency in breathing, faith and trusting the larger part of surviving/thriving.

Hard to peel the layers of “consistency” in words. You feel/think/and be it. When not busy trying to value this non “super exciting” “breakthrough” “new thing” “non drama” phase, I’m enjoying the space before the next novelty (rock) hits in the sendero (journey).*

*I feel like I have to say this, my logical brain speaking to the creative side, sigo siendo soñadora pero con los pies bien plantados sobre la tierra.

Everything changes and stays the same

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To quote a friend. We talk to once or twice a year, and we both share changes and extraordinary ordinary privileges, and not so privileged aspects of our particular lives.

No major changes and yet so many.

To be specific about my own, I live in the same place, my little one, plus the two pets and I are going on two years living in what was once our new apartment. It’s my sixth year living in the neighborhood, after leaving for two years. Roots, not according to those that have lived here for over 25 – 50 years. But there are many great neighbors / I can leave town, and I’m covered by these neighbors. My pets and plants. Life is good. It takes time to be trusted and trust …

The neighborhood that has many first generation immigrants of Mexican, Chinese and Vietnamese descent, and other ethinicities. A place that on most days there’s gang graffiti on every other corner street wall, and at the same time beautiful populated streets with skaters, kids on bikes and families. A place where theft is a common survival thing, from the youth of color on to the other people of color of the neighborhood.

Back in April I spoke about making stories with each step on Griffin, the street many bike on/ walk kids to and from school their dogs, … the one that I shared was populated by many young women of color that early April night, is also one that’s had a street altar/ ofrenda. One mama of this neighborhood lost her daughter to homicide, in late spring. This same beautiful street with beautiful people also filled with in your face tragedies. Hope and tragedy in our steps … our cycles.

Everything changes and stays the same.

Worker of the same place, so many changes in that place yet not nearly enough it requires. I’ve changed and yet need to change so much more. 5 and a half years there, and at 30 years old, I say “ya no” to the place on to old ways in it / in me.

Everything changes and stays the same.

Energy is sacred.

The soul suck of staying in one place (I’m speaking about one’s habits/ places of livelihood, not neighborhood) while changing and knowing it’s not enough, is hard on the spirit, I’m not trying to color it pink anymore. Maybe I can to myself intellectually but my body can’t to me. I dream about it. My neck cracks scream it … and my flow / well it is asking “more work” from me for her.

And here I am, opening myself up, little steps, releasing these old ways, inviting in risk. I’ve changed so much, with the times but I’m being asked to change even further, align with my spirit. Trying, but also trying to break away from conformity stability of the old and fear.

Slowly, everything changes and stays the same. Inspired by life, and everyone around me that is going through this/ have gone through their own / and experiencing their own mini breakthroughs. How many of those do we need in life?

One breath at a time.

I’m writing, and the words are helping clarity and other truth unveiling. With love, honesty, healing and self compassion at the center … but risk, new friend of mine, I’m inviting you in.

New Stories of Mi Mama

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Every day, but today a little more. We spent it in Palmdale with mi tia, La Huera (The light skin one). Yes skin tone you’ll see is a big deal in my family like in many families/history/society.

First memory shared: That my mama (born and raised in the farm) worked in colonial big city Guadalajara, Jalisco cleaning a family’s home when she was in her 20s. If I could visit that family, I would.

Second memory shared: When my aunt was born, who is very light skinned, one man from the farm joked that my mama must hide since her sister was born, because my mama was darker. This was sparked by my cousin’s remark how interesting that my nena, and I are darker skin complected (he said oscuros), compared to them.

Third memory: my darker skin complected grandfather and those hands working the farmland with tenderly love sometimes would hit my red headed butcher industrious grandmother, and that my mama once intervened, getting blows herself. According to my aunt, that was the beginning of my mother’s health demise. The bruise on her face that eventually according to my aunt, became exposed and Cancer making a home in my mama’s body. By the age of 30 (my age) my mama was in the US, a new mama having birthed my older brother, also had Cancer on her life buckle.

Secrets. Lies. Migration. Joy. Violence. Remembering. Healing. Death. Re-birth. Common threads in families.

My aunt can share, especially sad stories.

Last time I saw her was 13 months ago. My phone was off, because I was ON with this woman, who I see once a year.

She asked why, hija was it that I saw you over a year ago. I looked her in the eye, and said like a rebellious teenage daughter “no real good reason, tia. Time just flies.” Felt pretty superfluous.

She went on to share about the tumba abandonada, the deserted tomb where my mama’s remains are. I didn’t say “She’s in my house, with me.” She compared tombs my grandmother’s in Michoacan who for mother’s day always has a corona, can you believe that far away and well taken care of? Uy. If they knew how much my mama’s legacy is celebrated in my house. How much I talk to my little one about my mama. I said, okay. I hear this, I’m with you and your pain, Tia.

Then she spoke of the last moments with my grandfather exactly two years ago. My grandfather dying a day before this birthday, buried on his birthday.

Feeling a little guilty that I told my friend that No I didn’t need his frequent flier miles to say my goodbyes to my already deceased grandfather, I had a trip already planned to San Felipe, with my daughter, my niece and her mother … I was siding with life. I thought then, life, joy, children, beaches by the desert.

I admitted, tia, I was 28 immature, and excited to rejuvenate by the beach, I couldn’t be with my grandfather. I didn’t tell her, that I wish I would see him alive in his farm, and not saying goodbye, that was too heavy. I wanted my only living grandfather to not die before I was ready, but he died before my timeline accompanying my dead grandma and mama. It was ridiculously much.

I chose beach. Desert. Children.

Sighing I listened to my aunt and her descriptive story of their last moments, letting my eyes get wet but not tears to roll down my cheeks. Mi tia huera needed me to witness all her memories and not get distracted by tears … I didn’t leave sad from that place, connected is the word. Present and incredibly hopeful, with little Amaya and Alexa by my side.

Si, memoir. Memoir needs birthing.