I Walk in your Name

Five generations of women bonded by 5 letters. I walk in a name which has been honored as the family tradition of reincarnation. The life path advancement by one Elena into the quest of another Elena in my family dates all the way back to the 18^th Century.

Elena Valdes Chavarría, me, my mother Elena Chavarría Correa and my grandmother Elena Correa Capetillo are women who dwell deeply in me, but also Mama Grande, my great grandmother, named Elena Capetillo Piña and my great great grandmother Elena Piña Aguayo keep manifesting them in my life.

Little do I know off their personal lives, but my mother surprises me often when she highlights gestures being faithful replicas of these women I did not know at all. Not to emphasize the repeated times when I catch myself speaking or thinking exactly like my mother. Surprisingly these personal features in me recapitulate, according to my mother the most evident feature which connects us all through time.

I like to think that the capital letter with which our name begins E, stands for Emotive and I know deep in my heart that we all were distinguished from other women and female figures in the family by our emotional existence. Either poignant, disturbing or exciting the name of Elena stands along a quest of endurance shared by 5 generations of women’s minds, hearths and spirits.

I advance my great great grandmother’s path of spirituality. Elena Piña Aguayo was a devote women of the Holly Spirit. Not through monetary support of the Jesuits, as she did, but in her name as a woman, I walk Elena’s path of faith, a deep believe of everything being animated and spiritual on our planet. It is this Elena, the one who sustains my faith; I reach to her strength through wind, through some dreams. Answers spark afterwards these intersections of routes and visions which keep us together regardless the 150 years apart of our existence.

I follow the idealism of my great grandmother. Elena Capetillo Piña became a famous painter, a disciple of German Gedovious. Her perception of time was guided by her careful selection of angles of observation and the strategic focus of light. As an artist she excelled in portraying always the best side of an object. As a woman she surpassed others with her ability to animate her still life creations.  I have her genes.

Influenced also by famous painter Caravaggio, Elena Capetillo Piña works of art trace the Teneverism techniques which fitted also her reality. Elena Capetillo Piña. Around my great grandmother, everything was dark; for her, the early 19^th century in Mexico City was not a colorful pallet for an aristocratic life. Regardless of the wealth surrounding her, Elena Correa Capetillo had to cope with an image, servants, prestige, seven children of her own and absolute obedience and submission to my great grandfather. For me, a woman of the 21^st century civilization everything look opaque again. Our planet’s living wealth has vanished we are all slaves or slavers; there are no children laughter in our society anymore.

I amble within my grand mother’s devotion for family. I did not have a chance to meet this Elena, but I can see that her facial expressions part of my own face. She had magic, and so do I, especially when it comes to celebrate us, day to day, in every Christmas, every birthday or blessed meal. Neither she nor I take anything for granted.

I meander within my mother’s horizons; they are so broad that it is hard to visualize limits. She confessed she almost broke the rule and named me differently, it was then than my father urged her to reconsider. I do walk on my father’s name as well, and this is but a first step into the quest of ecstasies, for if it wasn’t for him I would’t be writing about my...

Rivers and Tides

The rhythmic flow increases. With each heart beat, Lunas’ precious scarlet blood stream runs all through her body. If we could look at her fingertips, we could see the miraculously minuscule vassals of her fingertips, we could witness the course of blood at this microscopic scale enabling her sense of touch to be fine-tuned. Meandrous of other fluid, a clear liquid refreshes a sturdy cavity where millions of sparking neurons grow and develop safely inside this baby girl’s brain, touching each other with their delicate ramifications. Luna can hear her mother; the impulses jumping from one cell to the other take place at an unprecedented speed compared to the growth of other organs in her perfect brain. Her brain has a pulse, pumped by her own new heart, the river of life rushes as rapids nourishing the millions of cells of her unburned body. Two rivers, two harts, mother expecting Baby Luna to be born in the high tides of the early summer.

The moon eclipsed few nights ago. A New Moon, invisible to us by its position with regard to the sun and still made it evident by it. Tides subsided to this powerful juxtaposition and in the oceanic universe of her mother’s womb, Luna rocks in her cradle of dreams. A warm crib holds Luna’s nakedness, yet the womb is becoming small for her playful conscience. The vital fluid supporting this unborn baby’s body swirls with the effects of these tides, of this moon, of the eclipse. All of it remains in mystery. Crescent Luna will be full in three more moon cycles, ready to leave the intimate comfort of her mother’s body. The tide will play forces again upon both females, upon earth and in the breach canal opening to enable Luna’s birth.

The dance among rivers and tides obeys its own rhythm, beats, meanders, roars, dripping, whimpers, torrents. Blood, water, breast milk will flow when the moment arrives in perfect time, setting equilibrium. A baby girl will be born.

Sound Walk.

Regarding silence, a quote fascinates me, “all that we see is made from what we do not see” A. Einstein. Indeed, there are mo many associations and existences that are carried out in silence, mysteriously, with pride. Seeing can become an impediment to listen. The more we watch the loader our minds turn, making it impossible to turn down the seeped of ideas. We lack silence in our spirit these days. Our brain and heart have become polluted with screaming materialism; endless gadgets and fetishes exposed themselves with glamorous sparks seducing our senses in order to acquire them in return for false satisfaction.

I wake up, I serve cereal from a false card box, the branded jar from which I pour milk is equally untruthful. Alone at the table, I am forced to break the 8 hours of fastening for the night, not only of nourishment but of noise from the exterior world. My night of quietness is abruptly shaken by the speeches if unanimated objects on the breakfast table. Regarding price, value, gain, power and the selfishness of decisions marketed through them. How can I dare to open the door and be swifter away by more noises?

It seams that quietness is found only when our sprit dwells no more in our body. The sculpted obituaries of those who have left our side forever seal their minds and mouths. Mortal echoes in a cemetery have become the shade over their tombs, the sculptures of holly images, the soil in their surroundings, the breath of their spirits, the scents of ever after heavens and freshness of their memories... I hear these transformations in a pentagram of silence.

For past away DAD, this hush came as redeem; his mute clamors are comforted by the soft touch of a young girl. I can also hear her cry. Her hand is made of the same elements which lay inert in her deceased father. In silence we look for each other, in silence we are taken apart from each other as well. But this is an illusion, because in silence we are all the same

Mapping Senses.

I should complain.


The limitations in the list of senses reported on our physiological profile and taught to kids in school books is false. Yet they grow with this believe and corresponding handicap.


Why do we conform to a mediocre appreciation about or sensibility that leaves aside the best part of our human condition: The possibility to be in touch with our soul, the conviction of belonging together with the rest of the creation.


We are much more than sight, taste, touch, hearing and smell.


These are but secondary senses which connect us to the outside world but what about our inner existence, our thoughts, feelings dreams.


Become acquainted ! Celebrate

What about my sense of belonging?


Your sense of balance….!


Our common sense.


I dream of lavender


Ends of my fingertips turning into beginnings of each delicate flower, for every atom belonging to my hand, as good belongs to her steams.


Equal perfection


The narrowest hinge in my hand defeating any electronic chip.


My sense of wonder about the lavender pollen surpassing any obstacle to enter the stigma. My dream about this encounter is miracle.

I am not trapped in the perception of the outside world but I am engaged within my surroundings. The neighborhood, our house all these immediate realities are deeply rooted in my conscious.


I belong with the bare landscape before me.


I am cradled by the yard’s fence, secure, still dreaming of lavender.


The chimes clinging from the branch awake me. Once awake I change my mind. I will not complain. The scent of desert rain brings me into ecstasies.

“Chronicles of Walking”

We all walk but in circles. We are born, we have a life and we die, most of the times leaving predecessors to enact this chronicle through their own means but with the same end. Million of years before the first manifestation of life appeared on Earth, and circles nothing but cyclic existence through all sorts of adaptations. Some cycles persist for a million years, other perish, but in turn we all come back to the origin.

I look around, the desert intimidates me to elaborate upon my testimonies. Eagerly to collaborate my pets approach me, mewing and drooling in symbol of their wander about my wonders. Our pets, the closer wild beings in our domestic lives are four legged creatures who balance their existence with their long tails. Vivaz, our cat has a territory which seams to be pretty extensive. In his portrait, he shares chronicles related with roaming around the house to protect possessions. His routes have all angles on inclination, vertical ascension and fall seam to be his favorite movements while climbing trees.

Vivaz departs every morning from the same spot and arrives home when the day is done. He will spend the intense heat hours under a shade, eventually he hunts for pleasure, bring along offers to his masters, including life lizards and mice. A cat’s walk is aided by his whiskers orienting devises and his glands of scented hormones for territorial marking.

Newton’s chronicles will be as different from the cat’s as day and night. His spirit of exploration ended with puppy hood. Newton’s daily motives to roam around are few, but his route obeys the same pattern: a circle.

It is amazing to see the trace he has created with his walking behavior. The yard’s soil is a testimony of Newton’s playful chasing pattern round and round the Palo Verde tree. Oh! he stops all of a sudden and posses for the caption. I have now a still picture of a playful friend.

Now it is my turn to analyze my walk and I can do it as a metaphor, but want it to begin and end in the same way I angled my pet friend’s justification and rationale. My walk in life has followed a circle pattern. I get the message from them, we will divert the purpose of our route but the destination and departure points. Either chasing, resting, protecting, leavening traces or not, the chronicles of our walk are mere sections in the marathon of evolution and survival. By acknowledging we arrive to the port of departure, there is no road the chronicles of our destiny should refer to the way we made the path for others to chose.