26. A Vision of New Life


BLOG 26: November, 1997—It’s not a dream or my imagination. It’s a vision as far as I can tell. I see a woman in pure white, with a baby burning in her belly. I get scared. But this lady tells me not to fear, and invites me to take the baby into my arms despite the burning, dark place it is in. I reach out and hold the child, and when I do, something happens. The fire ascends, and somehow, I become the woman in white who has embraced her shadow—who is unafraid of the fire that renews—and who, like phoenix rising from the ashes, becomes anew.

It’s been over a year since I left the East Coast, eager, anxious, longing, and since then I have lived eight months in New Mexico, and currently five months in the hills of Northern California. And I, too, hold a burning sensation in my hips that won’t go away. I write my story that later becomes my novel, Child of Duende, because it’s with words that I can now express this fire, this dance, that lives inside me, eager to tell her story.

Maybe what is happening to me is an awakening, as in my vision…an awakening to duende, this spirit of the earth inside me that the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca once said, “burns the blood like powdered glass” and “rejects all the sweet geometry we understand.” As I battle my pain, and ache to find myself inside the chaos of all that I have known falling apart, maybe the beginning stages of my novel are telling the story of Lorca’s duende:

“Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child’s saliva, crushed grass, and medusa’s veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.”


4 thoughts on “26. A Vision of New Life

  1. I’ve already shared bits of my story regarding lawsuite, my beginnings of the pilgrimage multiple times in different ways, so I’ll spare you it, as it answers this question. What I do find interesting in such moments, is how so much of that firing process is either like breaking ourselves into a million basic lego pieces and picking and choosing to build ourselves anew from those pieces; or going through that birth canal yet again to be return – that birth canal squeezes away parts that no longer serve us; and then we go through that opening….

    As I read this entry, I am thinking of the burning sensations my eyes often get when looking at certain things or making deep eye contact with others; and am wondering if this is where my fire will start once I am ready to accept that burning baby and my shadow?

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks for sharing, Peter. I am amazed with your posts. What an intense journey you have been on. You’ve had a lot to live at such a young age. You’ve had to rise from the “ashes” many times it seems. What a rich soul you are to have walked through so much and to carry a spirit of joy and possibility.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. We piece ourselves together in every day, in every moment. But do we discard the pieces that no longer seem to fit, or is it more that we rearrange and reinterpret them?

    So many times in my life, I felt as though I had been broken, and that in response I rebuilt myself in some new vision of a new me. But over time, I have come to view these events as moments to receive the gift of humility. Because it was only through the gaining of humility that I have learned to let go of wanting–whether it was wanting a given thing, or wanting a given achievement, or wanting a given recognition, or wanting a given status–and embrace gratitude for the smallest of things.

    One of my older brothers passed away three days ago. It was a stroke. We had been estranged for many years. I felt myself once again wanting–wanting to him to hold on until I could talk to him one more. Wanting for myself, not for him. My heart broke for this desire. I meditated on this deeply until I felt humbled once again by my own imperfections, my own illusions of self. Humbled by the fragility of life, and the durability of love. And it was only then that I could feel gratitude for those strangers who knew him, but not me, reaching out and assuring me to be at peace, that he knew I loved him deeply and dearly.

    What breaks us more than our own desires?


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