YOSOY
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YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

YOSOY, read by Sergio C. Moreno-Denton

YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

YOSOY, read by Sergio C. Moreno-Denton

YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

Enjoying Ofrenda?

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

YOSOY

WHEN I FIRST found my Maestra, I was looking to heal from a sense of Coyolxauhqui-ness, a dismembered feeling in which all my parts were disjointed and at odds. Through consultation and practice, I spent several months beginning to heal, reconnecting with my ancestors (known and unknown), and finding my way back to the source, Tonantzin, the Mother. Under my Maestra’s direction, I created a ceremony, which I called “Toci Tonantzin: Healing Through the Mother,” to remember and to bring back into the circle everything I have been, everything I am, and everything I’m yet to be.

At the core of my healing ceremony lies the “I am” poem my Maestra instructed me to write. This poem became the circle to hold and remember all of my disparate parts: my mexicanidad, my americanidad, my ni-de-aquí-ni-de-allá, the cristiandad I left behind, the Buddhism that brought me back to the ancestral wisdom of Madre. This poem is loosely patterned after a chiastic form prominent in the Psalms of the Hebrew Scriptures. The first and last lines correspond, the second and second-to-last, and so on. And at the heart of the poem is my nepantla.

When saltwater and freshwater meet, they make something new. This in-between water is both ocean and freshwater and also neither at once. I first experienced this type of water when I was floating weightlessly between a lagoon and the ocean in Akumal, Mexico. I swayed back and forth, in awe of this convergence where the two waters met and a new, brackish water was made; it seemed impossible, and yet there it was. That is how I best understand my nepantla, the in-between space I inhabit, the blurry waters that have always been my home, where all my queernesses and transgressions, my seemingly disparate parts converge and cohabit, creating something new and whole.

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.

This poem is my heartfelt ofrenda to any fellow swimmers. It can be read as it’s written and then again in reverse, where the last line becomes the first and the first becomes the last, like a wave swaying back and forth. May all mother sentient beings benefit.

YOSOY

For all those who have mothered and guided my heart,

  For the teachings bestowed for the love they impart.

    For the spiritual friends who have walked by my side,

      For those gone long before, for my lineage, my pride.

        For the time that I’m grounded on this precious earth

          I hold space, I make silence, I honor my worth.

            This is all that I am.

            I am all this and more.

          In the vast, fertile silence, I rise and I grow,

        With the heaven above, with the earth down below,

      I’m becoming an elder for those yet to be.

    As my people surround me, I know that I’m free.

  With the lessons I’ve learned and the teachings I heed,

May I be as the Mother, who guides, nurtures, feeds.

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