My Early Years

I am 32 years old, and I have already lived such a full life. One that I realize hasn't just been full, but has been intricate and heavy to carry. For many years, it has felt like such a burden, yet one that I had no choice but to bear. I know it sounds dramatic and melancholic; perhaps it is to a certain extent due to an accumulation of all the many lives I have already lived. Perhaps it is merely a reality of all the challenges I have encountered in this lifetime. I am an old soul and anyone who has met me can relate to that.

As I dive into all these moments that together have made up my life, I realize each and every situation had a lesson to teach me and something to inspire me to see beyond.

I was born in Colombia and moved to America when I was 13. I had a fairly normal childhood until I was 9, when my dad was killed in Medellin, Colombia due to a drug-related event. After all, it was the 80's in Colombia. A time of drug-related conflict and violence no one could escape. I didn't find out about this part of his death until very recently. I always suspected it, but it was sort of a taboo to be kept and not openly shared.

When I did finally learn the truth, for truth always finds its way to the surface, many pieces of the puzzle of my life came into place. It is as if magic surrounded me when the weight of the secrets of that time was lifted and released. Finding out about this truth, led me to understand a little more about the duality within all of us. The light and the darkness that live inside of each one of us.

It also helped me release a lot of judgement I had carried towards my mother for a long time. It allowed me to see her as a real human being, to understand the weight of her experiences which she has been carrying herself all these years and most importantly, it allowed me to detach my story and who I am now, from who my parents were and who I perceived them to be. Ultimately, learning about my dads death, opened me up to a lot of forgiveness and compassion for both of my parents as well as for myself.

I will never forget the vision I had when the phone first rang to inform my family of his passing. Before hearing anything, I saw the images of his funeral and his casket in my mind. It was such a bizarre feeling and the images so vivid and clear. They weren't quick either. The images lasted in my mind a while, sort of like a movie's trailer.

Our lives were never the same after that as my mother who was only 27 at the time endured one of her greatest challenges. To be a young widow, and the mother of three children, 9 and under. I was the oldest.

For years I watched my mom battle depression, financial difficulties and such an unhappy attitude towards life. We lived with my mom's parents for a few years, moving back and forth as my mom tried to claim her independence. In retrospect and after much healing and letting go of grudges, I recognize she always strived and yearned to be more, and to do more, and was truly dealing with her life in the best and only way she knew at the time.

My mom is now a true testament that love prevails and overcomes anything. While she has endured many more challenges since then, some equally or more difficult, she still has never given up and continues to grow and evolve in her own healing process.

My maternal grandparents were always supportive in the ways they felt they needed to be. I am so grateful for them for doing their best by taking care of us and providing a safe home. I am especially thankful to my grandfather, for he really played such an important role in my life, something I realized not too long ago.

Through his example and very few words, he planted in me seeds of joy and of choosing my thoughts and actions wisely. He is the adult from whom I recall having received the most love and whose presence I felt most strongly during my childhood. His ability to be fully present in the moment was tangible. He would spend endless hours, and sometimes days, working on art projects with me. Drawing perfect shapes of animals, cutting out cardboard, and painting it, seeking supplies ... Ah ... the memories of looking for sticks and fabric and metal in his old, beautifully organized garage are some of my best!

My grandmother was the boss of the family. She managed the household with order and grace and spent her days cooking, crafting and keeping their accounting. Her joy for handmade home décor surrounded my childhood, and our home was filled with her paintings, pottery, and quilts, among many other of her creative projects. Her joy for art was tangible and she had such a bright light whenever she was in that creative zone. I can still remember her smile and the spark in her eyes during those moments.

I didn't have a lot of contact with my paternal grandparents. I have some memories of our times at their farm, and these few memories are all joyful and full of nature and laughter with cousins, aunts and uncles. It wasn't until I got married that I developed a true curiosity towards the paternal side of my family. It was then when I chose to become more involved and make an effort to get to know them and spend time together. I am grateful for having reconnected with them and learned about their own stories of resilience and of overcoming extremely difficult challenges in their lives.

I am grateful to be able to still have my four grandparents alive and continue to learn from them as I get opportunities to hear more about their journeys.

As my mother battled her depression and worked long hours, never giving up on her obligations and responsibility to provide a good life for her children, I found shelter in books. Especially crafting books and an old English encyclopedia with workbooks and cassettes. I used to play them in a very old cassette player my grandfather lent me. As I now see it, those workbooks became my first altar.

I submerged myself in the world of crafting, making anything, from cutout animals and origami shapes, to painting furniture. I will never forget the first piece of furniture I painted. My own small armoire painted in turquoise with bright pink and blue butterflies and apple green leaves. To this day, these are still my favorite colors. For several years, I spent my mornings getting dressed in clothes stored in my sweet turquoise butterfly armoire, while listening to Bob Marley's music, which happened to be the first cassette I had with English songs; songs that I would hear on the radio stations and record on my cassette player. There might have been a few Air Supply songs in there as well - a legacy from my mom and dad, who loved Air Supply.

My afternoons would be spent pausing and playing those cassettes as I attempted to write the English lyrics in an effort to learn the songs. After all, there is nothing like being able to sing a song you love! This is where my love for the written word began. There was a certain magic that clicked inside of me when I saw the lyrics of a song. I still feel the same strong connection to the words of any of my favorite songs when I see them and can read them.

Once my hand-crafted art pieces or songs were finished, I would either give them as gifts to friends, or a few beloved teachers, or I would spend another set of endless hours figuring out where to showcase them within the half of the room that I shared with my younger sister. This was a work of art on its own ... trying to rearrange my armoire and all these works of art, was not easy with such as small space. This is where my craft project became decorating shoe boxes in which to fit all these treasures. I spent many hours searching for boxes, painting and decorating them - another craft I never even realized I still love - It has always been innate in me to create beauty around me.

As I got a bit older, my crafting decreased and more time was spent with friends. I would try as hard as I could to have sleepovers at other friend's homes. Everywhere else seemed more fun than my own home. The shadows of my dad's death were really beginning to haunt me. There was always so much tension and mystery around adults when the topic of his death was discussed. Not much was said about his death to me, and most of my relatives seemed to focus on how hard the loss was for my mother. The images I created in my mind from overhearing some of the details of his death have haunted me many nights.

I had a great group of girlfriends from school; an all girl's Catholic school. And with time, I started making some friends outside of school. Before I turned 13, and moved to America, I had already had my share of smoking, drinking, exploring several boy crushes and experimenting with pharmaceuticals. Even to the point of attempting suicide by having too many random pills at once. I also secretly "dated" a beautiful green eyed, 27 year old Peruvian tattoo artist during this time.

Having the freedom to engage in these behaviors was very easy. Most of them happened when my mom went away to the US for a few months looking for opportunities for us. She contemplated moving us to another country in search of a better future. It was not too hard to come up with stories for my grandmother to allow me to have sleepovers, and having access to taxis or buses was a piece of cake. So was having access to liquor, cigarettes and even the pharmaceuticals I mentioned earlier which were often simply ordered from the pharmacy and delivered to wherever I was.

I became very good at pretending to be older than I really was, at saying I was somewhere I wasn't and at pretending to be happy when I clearly wasn't. I was "cool" and popular and could get away with so much, making me feel so independent and so in control.

When I moved to America my world was crushed. I left all of my friends behind and had to start over. Thank goodness I had my cousins who have been like siblings to me for so long. They were my friends and my accomplices. We slowly made new friends and learned to have fun in a new way, in a new country, under very different conditions. Much more limiting conditions.

For a few months, I had the "normal" life of a middle school girl. Rode the yellow bus, figured out how to survive socially and whether to go to classes or skip them. Detention ... blah, blah, blah. It seemed bland and boring compared to the fun and vibrant life I had in Colombia, full of friends, nature, parties and freedom.

This was until my mother became ill after complications from an ectopic pregnancy from a Puerto Rican guy she had been dating. This part of the story wasn't shared with the rest of my family. I was the first one to find out she was pregnant as I was the one translating for her at the hospital. All those hours spent with my grandfather's encyclopedia learning English came in very handy in order to be able to communicate. I also owe that to my brief student exchange in Kansas City when I was 12 years old which was a good opportunity for me to learn and practice my English. My mom didn't even know of this pregnancy either. We both found out at the same time. It was such a mystery, and there seemed to be so much shame around it.

When she became sick, I took over some of her work. She used to clean houses, so I would often go with her to help. I eventually ended up taking over a few of her clients and worked nights cleaning office buildings and banks. Some of the people she worked for became our biggest angels during such a challenging time. A woman by the name of Sandra who was a hairstylist, even offered to adopt my siblings and me when we found out that Child Protective Services was opening a case on us, as they saw me visit my mom at the hospital, often with no other adult present.

Rolf and Toya, whose house we also cleaned, were our life savers! They took us under their angelic wings and filled our lives with so much generosity and friendship. They often paid for our bills and filled our refrigerator with food. They bought school supplies and clothes for us. They showed my siblings and me so much love and also showed us what having money was truly for. They often took us out to eat or came over to cook for us. They always encouraged us to keep dreaming and to stay positive. They were our angels and I will always hold them so dear to my heart!

My middle school days sucked. I hated every minute of school and cried my eyes out in every class. My only refuge was coloring, drawing and writing letters to all my friends in Colombia.

I often wished I didn't feel so alone and wish I would have been closer to my sister during this time. She was only 3 years younger than me. Instead, I was so angry and resentful of my life that I ended up lashing out at my sister and excluding her. It took me quite a few years to realize how much I hurt her with my actions and my words and I have deeply apologized to her for that.

As I have processed my story during the last few years of my life, one of the saddest reflections I have come across is to realize the lack of empathy and kindness I experienced during my short middle school years. I spent so many hours crying and sleeping in those classrooms, and most of my classmates spent time gossiping about me and speculating on what was possibly wrong with me. I overheard and saw drawings and comments of their speculations: "Is she pregnant? On drugs? Has she been raped?" Yet, not one of those pre-adolescents reached out to lend a hand or show a small act of kindness. There was only one person I remember reaching out to me with deep compassion and a caring heart. It was my social studies teacher, whose name I can't remember, but whose empathy made a difference during my difficult days. I often wish I could find him and thank him for caring, even when it was in the simple form of a kind look, or giving me some extra time to complete assignments.

This makes me sad to think about now, mainly imagining it as the mother that I am now. I would never want my daughters to experience that level of exclusion and of apathy. Middle school was the saddest time of my life until I met my first love: Luis, or Lucho, as many called him.

Because of this time of my life, I hope we are inspired....

* To validate everyone's feelings and experiences, especially Children's, without shaming them or feeling so uncomfortable within us that we want to shut them out.

* To be surrounded by supporting people who empower us and hold us during difficult times. To know when to seek for help and to be grateful for it.

* To give our youth creative outlets and practical tools to channel their feelings. Yoga, breath, music, writing and/or painting.

* To hold tight space for our teens, who easily fool us into being independent and self-sufficient, but who have tender hearts and are so vulnerable.

* To always do what we can to make our children feel safe, loved and know that they belong here with us.

* To empower our loved ones by sharing the truth as a tool to process their past, become more present in the now and feel hopeful for the future.

"You think you are alive because you breathe air? Shame on you. That you are alive in such a limited way. Don't be without love, so you won't feel dead. Die in love and stay alive forever."

Rumi

First True and Eternal Love

I was sitting on my cousin's friend's backyard, hanging out with a bunch of kids I had no interest in but who were my only chance for company. Beer, cigarettes and marijuana all around me. Only one familiar face amid these people, my cousin's -and the great comfort of familiar salsa. Orquesta Narvaez,- reminded me of my friends back at home in Colombia.

I wasn't truly comfortable in this environment, for I didn't know anyone and I could feel the heavy energy. On the outside, it seemed as if I fit in perfectly. Drinking, and smoking and flirting around. I was a mere 14 years old.

Sitting there, I suddenly saw the most beautiful pair of eyes I had ever seen. Deep blue-green, shaped like perfect almonds, above a strong big nose. His chest big and wide, his shoulders strong and young.

He was wearing a white V-neck T-shirt and a sports hat. I looked at him and my heart took a giant leap. I froze for a moment and just could not breathe. He looked at me and smiled with his eyes. His lips did not move at all. I do not know if his heart jumped as mine, but I'd like to think so.

He grabbed a beer and off he went with his friends. Not paying much attention to me. I moved on to my beer, and though I wanted to stare at him, I didn't.

Weeks after that, the same scenario, except now in the backyard of my mom's apartment. The one I shared with my mom, young sister and brother, as well as my grandparents who spent months at a time with us in the US.