My Mother, the Sculptor
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My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

Two poems read by Donato Martinez

My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

Two poems read by Donato Martinez

My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

My Mother, the Sculptor

Poet Donato Martinez shares two works about his mother. (Scroll down for audio.)


My Mother, the Sculptor

—a mi madre


From the crack of the door

the early morning smell

of fresh tortillas,

and the sound of music

from the slap of her hands, 

awaken my soul

and enter the palate of my mente.


Jefita's rebozo cradles her back

warms her innocent neck.

Her fingers sticky with masa,

forming, shaping, embracing it 

into small balls of dough.


Hot coffee brewing on the stove.

Likes it hot.

Adds milk and a spoon of sugar.

Dips into it with a piece of soft bolillo

before French rolls, bagels, or croissants

came to America.


Her hands are forming tiny little miracles.

Grows yerba buena,

bathes her infants in magical mirto.

Roasts red chiles on a Oaxacan comal

crushes tomatillos on sacred Molcajetes.

Dices onions,

slices tomatoes.


Michelangelo and Rodin

would have learned a thing or two 

from my Indian mother,

who loves the moods of the land,

works and toils the soft soil

with her pineapple callused hands.

Small fingers,

cut and scratched by tunas and nopales,

pricked by rose bushes.


Her mandil,

old and tattered from years of toil.

And every smear, smudge and stain tells a story

of how my mother came to be a sculptor.

decorative divider


A Little Story About My Mother

My mother dropped out of school in the second grade.

She was raised in a pueblo and had little opportunity.

Despite the few years of school, she learned how to read and write in Spanish

learned mathematic equations

and taught her brothers how to write their names.


At 13 years old she helped raise her cousin, whose mother died at childbirth.

At 16 she married my father

and the little girl became a woman.

Quickly, she became a mother and raised her children on her own 

as my father worked in the yunta.

Every day, she worried about what to feed them

and felt this pang of helplessness when they became sick.


During the summers, she went to the nearby arroyo to wash baskets of clothes.

Other days, she would haul cántaros full of water for meals and baths.

She would go to the molino for the masa on a daily basis.

Somehow she was creative in making meals with the little she had.


She immigrated with her family in 1973

and her children enrolled at the local elementary school.

She never learned English

but picked up words enough to survive 

when she helped make flour tortillas at her kids’ schools.


She never had a job

except for a few scorching summers, picking grapes en los files de Fontana and Mira Loma.

With her oldest children, she arrived before the crack of dawn.

By the mid-morning sun, her cheeks became rosy red.

Her brows were smeared with dirt and sweat.

Her hair became untied and tangled underneath her hat

and the sand underneath her feet trampled her many times.

On the way home, she urged my oldest brother to drive quicker

for fear that her frijoles, slowly warming on the stove, would burn before she arrived. 

My mother had her hustle.


When I was a little boy

late into the night, my mother would sneak into the bedrooms of her children.

She made sure everyone was covered with a blanket

and whispered a tiny prayer in front of every sleeping child.


My mother was the victim of my father’s anger.

She sustained many years of physical blows and verbal abuse.

He never flinched at hurting her 

or hurling nasty obscenities in front of us screaming children.


She asked me about love one day. I tried to explain the feeling. 

I told her I have felt it more than once. 

She asked me to describe it. So I did.

With sadness in her voice, she said, “I have never known that feeling.”


Now—I steal tiny moments as I come around the corner. 

I watch her write in her tiny book of prayers.

I hear her oraciones to the Virgen in the morning.

Late into the night, I see her struggle to watch her novelas while she battles with her insomnia.


Like when I was a child, I still smell the canela on the stove

the Ponds cream on her skin after an evening shower

the spicy chile in a molcajete or the warm mole in the kitchen.


On most days now, she raises and cares and scolds my father as if he were her child.

And oftentimes, he is.


I often wonder what my mother’s life would have been like

if she had not been poor, raised in a pueblo,

or married a man who didn’t know how to love.


With all that love, intelligence, and hustle.

This salt-of-the-earth woman, hecho de barro,

may have been a teacher. Or an artist.


However, she is the greatest storyteller.

The Practice of Intention

1

If possible, play music that inspires you to be calm. This is the time to look inward. Turn off any external distractions; silence your phone.

2

Close your eyes, taking a moment to “feel” how different and peaceful it is to have the eyes closed.

3

Take three very slow and deep breaths, trying to fill out the bottom of your lungs. Inhale and exhale slowly.

4

With either hand, take a little bit of tobacco or some dry herbs—like lavender, sage, rosemary, basil, rose petals, a combination of all of them, or imagine them, if you don’t have any. In the Curanderismo tradition, it is believed that these plants have energy that can help us communicate more deeply with the spirit realm, and focus with concentration and a sense of calm.

5

Place your hand with the herbs at the center of your chest. That is the area known as the heart chakra. Take another deep and slow breath.

6

Very slowly, start directing your attention to one or more of the emotions mentioned before: love, gratitude, happiness, and peace.

7

Then, also very slowly, start your prayer, being careful that you genuinely mean what you are saying. If you are reciting a prayer in another language, make sure you say it first in your native language and then in the other language.

8

At the end of each sentence from your prayer, add a vibration of any of the emotions. Once you feel the emotions, move them throughout your body until it is vibrating. This is a very important step because this vibration is creating electromagnetic energy that will help you manifest what you are asking for.

9

Carry on with your prayer until you are done. Remember not to rush. By the end, your body should be vibrating, and from there you are going to send gratitude to the Universe, to the spirits, to your ancestors, to everyone for hearing your prayer and making it happen.

10

If you are conducting a ceremony or ritual, empowering a place or a spiritual tool, asking for healing, or something similar, you can cup your hands and transfer all of these beautiful energies into your hands and into the mixture of herbs. Then you can offer these herbs by placing them on your altar (if you have one), placing your hands on the part of the body that you want to heal, or offering the herbs to Mother Earth.

11

Finish by staying still for a moment, just feeling this beautiful energy that you have created.

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