The Taming of the Beast

If I think of myself as a small girl I would never describe her as adventurous. I was often called shy and cautious. Perhaps I was perceived that way because I hid behind my mom’s skirt and my sister’s wit. 

Tucked away from view became my comfort zone, where I felt at ease, safe from the outer layers of a world unknown to me—a barren terrain I roamed in my imagination with frightening outcomes. If I dared venture outside I was sure a beast patiently awaited me. I knew of this beast because I saw him once. He was peeking outside my room at night, looking at me sleep. The low lights of the corridor shaped his silhouette standing on the corner of the door frame, perhaps crafting my nightmares while watching me dream. This same beast followed me as often as my shadow.

As I grew older and life pushed me outside the comforts of home and family, I happened to see him again. He would catch me off guard with his monstrous arms. I could hear the piercing sound his nails made when they clicked with each other. Was he savoring his victory as he hunted me? He robbed me of the freedom to be myself, leaving me depleted.

Healing from his wounds was never easy, the bleeding would stop but his sharp claws left scars that I can still see on my skin.

Yet to my surprise I kept exploring my world. To accomplish that, I had to shield myself, blending with what he did not understand, and therefore could not see. It took a long time to gather patches of courage here and there. Like walking through nature and gathering pine cones out of season, grabbing what was left by chance. Little by little I created an armor, and I was able to trick him.

With time, that survival mechanism fooled me into believing in my own strength, meaning I could build my own protection—an aura stronger than any trick. This made him move farther from me. I could still see him though, I was often scared he would run towards me unexpectedly. But he never has, yet he comes close when he smells the fear escaping my pores. But even then he doesn't seem as daring as he once did. Now, he seems farther away. I have to be honest: I wish I didn’t see him anymore, but he still lurks around. And sometimes I even think he is now the one afraid of me.

The Five Hundred Dollar Outfit

A $500 outfit, it’s still a sum today, but $500 in the early nineties, when I was only 19 years old, mwas a lot more money. Especially because I made a bit more than that in a month. But the occasion was important. It was an outfit for my first in-person audition, so it merited it. I used to attend John Casablanca’s Modeling School. I was so embarrassed to tell people about it then; I still am. They taught me and other unassuming girls how to walk on a catwalk, how to apply expensive makeup, that I bought with my savings, and some acting classes; the latter changed a part of my life in a good way, but that is a story for another day.

John Casablanca’s Modeling School would finance loans to girls for expensive modeling classes, knowing well they had no chance of making it in the modeling business. But this is not a rant; I don’t regret it. Yes, it was expensive, money I didn’t have, but I had fun. I learned how to apply makeup professionally, I found my love for fashion that led me to study fashion merchandising down the line, and most importantly, I got rid of my unibrow.

And so the day came for my first in-person audition on Miami Beach. I heard of this call on the radio, or did I read it in the newspaper? Upon arrival, I understood why they call this type of audition “cow calls.” There were hundreds of girls. These were the times when South Beach was the Mecca for models. You would see them walking on Ocean Drive like sightings of mermaids in the middle of the ocean.

And there I was, my 5’3” frame full of 6’ girly dreams. Little me in the middle of this cow call. I was not the only daring petite; there were all kinds and types of girls there, and each of us held a number we got at the entrance. I was wearing that $500 outfit I mentioned: a brown fitted suede vest with a silver thick zipper on the front and a pocket on the back, and fitted dress pants that opened up in a small bell bottom. My first designer purchase. Walking into Burdines, I never thought I would end up spending that kind of money. I probably paid with a check; I doubt I had a credit card then. I got caught up in a moment, one I concocted in my mind. And if you make up something in your mind, it merits a killer outfit a-par with the occasion.

That day I also paid my first valet parking fee in my short driving history. I didn’t want to get blisters walking blocks toward the hotel in killer heels. Did I mention they were platforms? Cow calls were usually held in conference rooms of hotels; this room was wide, with many tall white columns with an attempt at rococo on top that could have fooled a 19-year-old, less-traveled girl like me, if it wasn’t for the cheap carpet. I might have been young, but I had an eye for style.

If I went on my tippy toes and could manage to sway left and right between the sea of girls, at the very end of the room I could spot a long table with a few men and women with critical eyebrows. If by now the sea of cow-call girls was threatening to drown me, those critical eyebrows would certainly swallow me. Once each girl before me got seen by the table of discerning men and women, it finally was my turn. They spent about 5 seconds with me and maybe saw me for 2 of those, immediately writing quick notes on their pads. Yes, this is the ’90s, they were using real pads of paper and pens. One more second, and I got dismissed.

After that stressful experience, I got directed to another wide room where I and many others waited. By now, it had to be at least 2 hours that I had donated to this experience. In this room, we would wait even longer. I could see girls making friends with one another; some perhaps came together. I was not great at making friends that easily. I didn’t bring a book, and this time predated smartphones to use as a distraction. So I waited and observed, a common pastime of mine.

After what seemed like hours, a man entered the room swiftly. He seemed hot and bothered as he held a pad in his hand. He proceeded to explain, while he yelled at us, that the names of the girls he would read could go. And so he began with the letter A. My last name starts with B, so I knew if I got called, at least I wouldn’t have to wait until the end.

And the letter B started. My heart pounded so loud I thought everyone could hear it galloping. Then he said, “Ugh, what is this name?!” proceeding to butcher my last name, not uncommon, since my last name is unique. They all laughed, him and the sea of cow-call girls. I wanted to disappear. I watched and heard as girls cackled in what felt like slow motion. I pretended to look around to see who the girl with the hilarious last name was, just like they did, hoping to blend into the crowd. When he finally decided it was time to stop trying different ways to keep on butchering my last name, he wiped his tears of laughter and continued reading names on his list. Only then did I feel safe to slip away.

I wasn’t embarrassed at the mistake of my last name, my expensive outfit, the loan, the makeup, the valet fee, should I continue? I was mostly embarrassed at myself, embarrassed at my core, for daring to dream that big. As I got home, I entered the room I shared with my kid nephew; I lived with my brother and family. I put that outfit away and forgot about it, only to remember it every 1st of the month when I made the payment on my John Casablanca’s Modeling School loan. I’ll say it again: I don’t regret it. It taught me so much about myself, getting into debt, high-rate loans, designer clothes I couldn’t afford, and dreams. I should have worn that outfit hundreds of times to squeeze every penny out of it, but I put it away. I didn’t wear it again, ever.

Today, I realize that moment defined how I handle goals or dreams nowadays. As a creator, I see now that when I bring my creations out into the world, that moment haunts me. I feel I’m making a fool of myself for daring to have dreams and be seen. I’m in my fifties, and I still hear the laughter. I still pretend it’s not me they are laughing about; I pretend I’m laughing with them. Perhaps if I pretend, they won’t notice how much it hurts. But as much as that feeling tries to catch me each time, I still put myself out there, maybe even more because of it. I don’t let it get me for one reason only: if I do, it wins.

(Photograph free stock Pexels)

This One Is for You, Mom

As I was meditating, my mom came to mind. I saw her face. It took a minute, though; at first I felt her, but her human presence took longer to appear. A blur turned into her warm smile in front of my eyes, and I felt a long breath leave my body. The thought crossed my mind: What if I could not remember her face? Thank God for pictures and videos, I thought. I’ve heard people say that after years of their loved ones passing, details of their faces begin fading away.

And then, during meditation, she came in—not my mom, but a girl showed up. Her life appeared as if I was playing a movie, or watching life in front of me right before death.

This girl was young, very poor, and she did not live in the present time. There were no smartphones, Wi-Fi, not even cameras invented yet. She made little money working day and night as a maid, but that secured her a roof over her head and three meals a day. On Sundays, her only day off, she would go to church and pray. She thanked the Lord she was kept by the family her mom worked for. They were kind to her, and her family had worked in their home for generations. The daily routine was demanding, and all days seemed the same—up at dawn and to bed after the family had settled in at night. There was no time to grieve her mother’s passing. There were some nights when she cried all night, curled in a wool blanket her mother knit for her. She couldn’t afford to think of her and how much she missed her. Life moved fast for her; it was really moving past her.

One Sunday at church, she felt her mother’s hand caressing hers, as she often did when they sat next to one another on those big, cold wooden benches. Her mom often touched her slowly when her eyes drifted to the tall church ceilings. She did this when the sermons felt longer than usual. Her mom’s warm touch would bring her back to reality.

And now, on this particular Sunday, her mind drifted away to the top of the ceiling, right where the chandeliers met the bolts holding their weight. She thought that if it wasn’t for that bolt, it would all come crumbling down. She wondered if the sermon talked about the strength of that small bolt holding it all together from crashing down, she would be far more interested. And it is no coincidence that she felt her mother’s touch then. This time it was different; when the memory came to her, she couldn’t see her face. She couldn’t remember her eyes, her mouth, her hair. How could she forget her smile?

Years passed by, and she made her own family. The struggles she lived as a child and youth subsided. She was lucky to find a good man who provided for her and their daughters so they didn’t have to live the sacrifices their grandmother and she did. And as she grew older, she lost her husband, and her daughters took care of her. One of them took her into her home. She served her day and night, as she once did for the family she worked for. One morning, she felt a cold breeze sneak through the wooden windows, and her daughter noticed when she heard the cracking of the old frames. She came to warm her up with that wool blanket, the one her mother made for her; it was the only one that kept her warm on days like this. As she came close to lay it on top, she saw her—not her daughter. She saw her mother: her smile, her eyes, her hair so soft, her cheeks so bright. Her mom looked at her and grabbed her hand like when they sat at the cold church. Her mother wanted to call her attention, I guess, but she was in awe of her face. I see you, Mom, she said. I see you again.

The Invisibility Cloak

At the beginning of the year, I attended a spiritual workshop. During the retreat, the moderator spoke about the different types of mirrors in life. Among many things, she explained how sometimes, when we meet someone who becomes close to us, what attracts us at first may be something we believe we’ve lost within ourselves—or something we think we don’t have at all. Discovering it in another is a way of reclaiming it.

My eyes were closed as I absorbed this idea when she instructed us to think of a characteristic that came to mind when we thought of a close person in our lives. If the connection was romantic, she asked us to put aside looks and attraction and focus on more practical qualities. I immediately thought of my husband and the many things I was drawn to when we first met, but one stood above the rest: his discipline.

My husband’s discipline is worthy of admiration. If discipline were a person, his would be carried on shoulders after scoring a goal in a stadium; mine, on the other hand, would be met with a chorus of boos. This isn’t self-deprecation, nor am I fishing for encouragement. It’s simply a fact—at least so far in my life. Discipline and I don’t have a lovely relationship. It’s mostly love and hate. When I’m disciplined, I love myself, and when I’m not… well.

He has it—discipline in his art, his work, and his spiritual practice. I thought about how incredible it feels to meditate, to write, to connect with myself, and how little I actually practice those things. And how he, rain or shine, sick or sad, gets out of bed at 6 a.m. every single day for his yoga practice. Meanwhile, I can think of many—trust me, many—reasons not to do what I know makes me feel whole.

So I said to myself, I like this mirror, and I’m claiming it. I will practice yoga with him, rain or shine. Let me clarify: in Miami, “shine” can mean 98-degree weather that feels like 104 with humidity. Just saying.

Proudly, I decided to join him every morning, waking up at dawn when my entire body feels made of lead—bricks tied to my ankles, like I’m about to be dropped into the ocean by a mafioso with a heavy Jersey accent. Moving feels nearly impossible, but I rally.

On weekdays, his yoga practice is at home. I place my mat behind him and shadow his movements as best I can, struggling to keep my balance. On Sundays, he attends an outdoor class on Miami Beach, and I’ve been tagging along, always making sure we don’t set our mats up front. He’s an expert; I need to be right in the middle so I can watch the person in front of me and follow whatever they’re doing.

Being in a group class isn’t my comfort zone, so when the instructor asked us to find a partner we didn’t know, my husband and I exchanged a smile. A little white lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, I thought, and it felt cute to pretend we were strangers. As we did the exercise, I looked around and noticed how shy people seemed, especially since it required sustained eye contact.

When the exercise ended, the instructor asked us to wave at the people across the space. It took me straight back to childhood, to the many Sundays spent at church with my family. During the sign of peace, I dreaded turning around and finding people who somehow managed to look everywhere except at me. It happened so often that I began to believe I must be invisible.

That feeling of invisibility followed me through life and slowly became my comfort zone. Eventually, I even started to think of it as a superpower.

So there I was, in a yoga class, now in my fifties, looking at a group of people and feeling relieved that they were at a safe distance. I connected with one person, then another. And suddenly, she appeared—my inner child. She grabbed my arm and started waving at everyone. She took over my face, too, stretching it into an excited smile. What did I have to lose, after all? I still had my superpower—my invisibility cloak.

Except everyone was waving back. Not only waving back, but doing so with genuine excitement. They didn’t see the guarded adult I thought I was hiding. They saw the child who had taken over.

That’s when another mirror revealed itself: my inner child had awakened theirs.

But how could they see me? The invisibility cloak must have fallen. A split second of panic stung me, followed by something entirely unexpected—relief. It felt refreshing and new. Who would have thought that searching for discipline would lead me here? To a moment of deep awareness. It all lasted only seconds—five at most—but even one second of being seen that day felt like being discovered by the universe itself.

And We Danced

I dread that time of the year when I have to go to get my multiple mammograms. They were recommended to me earlier than most women, because my mom and aunt got breast cancer. And after, it became mandatory when I got diagnosed in my late 40s. So now a days it’s a ritual that comes around every six months.

The first kind I get is the common mammogram most women get. Then I get the sonogram kind and lastly I get the “no nonsense one”, the worst of them all, the MRI mammogram. I have to remind myself these machines are my allies, after all they saved my life once upon a time.

I will tell you a secret, last time I went for a check up I danced with the mammogram machine, the tall one that squeezes your breasts. We held in intimate ways. So intimate he knows things about me that no one else knows. Please don’t judge me, it wasn’t my fault. While adjusting my breasts the technician kept on instructing me to hold the machine very close and tight. Hold your arm high this way, now on the other side, place your hand here, tilt your head that way, hold your breath, don’t move, now breathe.

Soon, I was dancing with the tower monster, an intimate dance choreographed by the technician, and when she would step out to take pictures of us, he whispered in my ear. No, not the technician, the machine, and he told me about a cemetery of mammogram machines. Where they all go after they are replaced, where they collect dust, rust a little and tell the stories of women that came to them, reluctant, like me. Some had their lives spared and some others, like my aunt and mom, weren’t so lucky. They remember their stories, all of them. mothers, daughters, aunts, wives, grandmothers. I hope he remembers me and our intimate dance. 

I hope he gets to tell others my story, how I once got to escape, survived unharmed and always shines clear, always shines free.

My Old House

I keep on having a recurring dream of my previous house in The Roads neighborhood. "As The Roads turn" we used to say when we lived there. When I say "we lived there" that is many people, my ex-husband and I, my mother lived with us periodically, my daughter was born while we lived there, my sister lived with us and my brother as well at one point. So many memories of guests staying, parties, family reunions, birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries.

These recurring dreams started one day when I couldn't find an item I recalled having once. It happens often, I find myself looking for a piece of clothing, decorative object, or kitchen item. In my mind I can vividly remember where it was in my old home, I remember where I stored it so clearly, I can almost touch it. I gave away so many items when I moved. I sold my house and Mathew and I decided to finally get married, yes, he proposed. But that is a story for another day to tell. Back to my old house.

These dreams were conceived prompted by the frustration of not finding these multiple items and shaking my new little house upside down to no avail. These occurrences crawled to my subconscious and creeped into my inner world. Every time I couldn't find an item, I would have the same dream. I walked into my old home, fully knowing it was not mine anymore, therefore very stressed that the new owners will find me there. What would I tell them? I was trespassing and sure enough they would call the police. I would become a headline, "Florida Woman Breaks into Her Old Home. Police said she was looking for a vase she left behind". That vase, and so many things I know I didn't leave behind, but I gave away, my mind knows I packed them in boxes for Goodwill, but my heart has no recollection of it, and it turns out the heart sometimes rules the streaming channel of dreams more often than the mind.

The last dream of the kind was also of me entering my old home, I walked into the back room, the bedroom that became my mom's permanent room after I got divorced and she came to live with my daughter and I for long periods of time. She was our savior, filling all the left-out space with love, like she knew best. I don't know what I would have done in that big house without her. 

In this last dream, finally all my items were visible in her room. Things I had not seen in so long, and there she was sitting in her favorite chair, watching her favorite show, Jeopardy. Little did I know these lost items were leading me to her all along. I spent time with her and at one point I knew I was dreaming and remembered she is no longer with us. I knew I had the gift of that moment, and I took it with all my soul. I didn't bother explaining this to my heart. I now understand that as much as I have found true happiness in my new home, (the kind I always dreamed of), still the memories in that house, with my mom, my daughter, even with my now husband are still so alive within me. It is that place in my heart where I can always walk to meet her again, hold her tight and love her. I know she is with me always, but when I dream of her in that house I can feel her, touch her warmth, and hear her laughter. It is the special place where we can always find each other, that lives within me for life.

 

The Mind and the Heart

My mind understands. It understands what everyone says to console me. “She led a wonderful life.” “She is resting now.” “She is in a better place.” She now looks over you.” And I know it all to be true and understand it in the creases of my mind.

My heart, not so much. He just doesn’t want to reason and feels a void that punches him at his core daily. The mind is looking for him to present a timeline of events of a disease progression that always ends up like this or an explanation of the afterlife based on spirituality and religion. My mind wants to simply throw some common sense at my heart. But my heart just won’t even see him, he refuses. Might be because it’s too soon, or he might never want to have that appointment with him. I fear he might even make it but won’t show up to it. I don’t know, I’ve never been here before so this is all very new.

I’ve seen my heart broken an unwilling to reason but a part of him always listened to the wise advice of the old mind even in its most painful state.

Not this time. We all know love rules the corridors of the heart and we know there is no age for a heart to accept the loss of a mother. The one who always holds your heart unconditionally, without any judgment. My heart doesn’t want to accept it, if it does then he might lose the place he goes daily and meets the memory of my mom's laughter, her smile, her warmth. So far he has been polite with the mind, now a days he is just hiding from him. Because a heart that hides from the mind feels free to remember, to mourn, to get lost in thoughts and that is exactly what he needs, without any explanations. I suspect in time the mind will get to him and put his pieces back together. But the cracks in between always leave gaps and I know those could never be filled completely again, even the mind knows that.

It’s ok, that’s the definition of a broken heart, the gaps are like hallways left there on purpose. A space where there will always be a void for my heart to meet the memory of my mom, just like he wants.

That void echoing tears will some day turn to smiles with memories of her laughter, sense of humor and kindness. The good old mind can relax because he knows a mom’s joy already lives inside the heart of her children, because a mom and her kids will always share the same heartbeat.