ODE TO NEW YORK

I lived many years in New York, learning to truly find myself in the conversations I had with the city. I learned to understand her from the inside out, from her intestines, the dark, dirty, artistic, strangely inclusive, practical and testing subway system. Over time, I understood her train tracks as the deep feminine principle that keeps this world alive, and thrives and grows under the naked eye, in her own nakedness where there are no man-made governments, no set rules, where everything goes and chaos evolves, where instinct is king and unless one quickly learns to adapt to the constant changes and unexpected events, there simply will be no possibility of reaching the destination, of growing, of moving and exploring.

There was, at the time I lived in New York, and there still is, a deeper meaning to be found underground, as the A,B,C,D,E, and the many more lines that intersect, are teaching the power of blood-lines. Those invisible tracks that suddenly connect and merge yet quickly disperse and take different directions, all, unknowingly, leading to the same destination: HOME. And today, as I was speaking with my aunt about the three main bloodlines of which humanity is made of, the famous A,B,O, and their offspring combinations, I could suddenly feel the tree-like branches of my veins move along the territory that is my body, and I could see them in connection to the complex webs of intersections between rivers, lakes and oceans, the veins of this planet. Suddenly, I could feel my blood mark my ancestors and I could feel the constant movements for survival, for thriving, for growth, they are made of.

How could we possibly BE so much? I asked myself. So complex yet so simple, so incredibly fortunate we are to be in this journey of many colors toward one destination that is union, HOME. Then, New York came to mind, those subway mother lines where I spent hours and hours in the company of the world, of myriads of genetic combinations visible in the bodies sitting next to mine, in their eyes and their laughter, and the color of the hair, in the shades of skin that spoke louder than many words could have ever said.

The subway mother lines, providing the necessary structure, man made yet not belonging to man, showing us the constructive tolerance necessary for us to understand each other and to know profoundly, without having to think too much, that we, in seeing each other, sitting across from each other, are only remembering how important it is to go HOME. Or better yet, to BE HOME. How I miss New York sometimes and the wise ways in which she nurtured me.

When people ask me what my favorite place in New York is, I always say the subway, its many lines and stations; the placenta of a seemingly human system that maybe only mirrors what the builders’ souls needed to express urgently (at the time), a deep connection to the mother, to the feminine, to the blood lines that unite, to a way of organizing life that takes a spirit of its own; underground, away from the naked eye, but profoundly connected to life itself. Because the mother cannot possibly die, the need to go back to her cannot possibly die. She permeates even the most steel, cold, seemingly lifeless structures. Because there is no one place in the world where the mother does not live; all is born from her and all goes back to her. She dreams through us.

Now, I remember my own mother lines in this incarnation, the land that dreamt me and the other mothers that nourished me along the way. How they all intersected to create the many different directions my life has taken so far; how all have helped me understand the colors of my soul, the rainbow waiting to be expressed, the gift. Now I realize, the gift was always to BE HOME. In the temporary and the permanent. The feminine, the MOTHER of life is truly rising. We must brace ourselves for the next station because the waves of awakening will be felt deeply in our veins.