Lo que nos llevamos / What we take

Lo que nos llevamos

English version below the Spanish

“Disfruta de las cosas pequeñas de la vida, porque un día mirarás atrás, y te darás cuenta que eran cosas grandes.” -Anónimo

El día era caliente, la brisa que de vez en cuando nos acariciaba era tibia, y ni tan siquiera la sombra de la glorieta calmaba las altas temperaturas corporales de esa tarde de domingo. Nuestra conversación se desplazó bajo la estructura de concreto, luego de alejarnos rápidamente de la candente barbacoa, y allí hablábamos de las memorias que se construyen en la vida y que uno se lleva consigo y tienen más valor que cualquier cosa material. Las que valen la pena realizar, las que se hacen por amor, por felicidad, por satisfacción, por los logros, por las metas de la pasión y del talento. Por el camino que se recorre para llegar a lo propuesto.

“La familia, los momentos pequeños de hoy se transforman en las preciadas memorias del mañana.”

Momentos en la vida que se transforman en recuerdos y nos llenan de algo positivo que nos hacen sonreír o llorar, que despiertan una explosión de sentimientos. Los que nos marcan el alma de una manera especial y transciende la vida mortal. De otra manera, ¿qué razón tendríamos para esforzarnos tanto en crearlas?

“La vida es acerca de momentos: no los esperes, créalos.” –Dopexlegit #802

Como escritores, ¿qué nos llevamos? ¿Cuáles son los momentos de deleite o lucha que se han transformado en memorias que despiertan todo tipo de sentimientos?

La travesía de la escritura la recorro sobre esa línea fina que divide el amor y el odio. Es una rocosa que me acerca, de vez en cuando, más a una que a la otra. Mas al mirar atrás, translucientes, están allí los recuerdos de esa fantástica y serpentina travesía.

¿Qué nos llevamos como escritores?

Los de la creación de una descripción de un lugar o lugares, donde los personajes se desarrollan y sus luchas se concretan. Sin ellas el personaje está desnudo, flotante en el limbo, y junto a él estará el lector que las necesita para comprender a fondo las luchas externas que influyen a las internas.

La creación de un personaje y sus conflictos externos e internos.

El látigo sobre el personaje para forzarlo a crecer.

La sonrisa al concluir una historia.

Una conversación amena sobre la importancia de una vida llena de recuerdos creados por los momentos inolvidables, me llevó a pasear por los que he creado como escritora. No es una compleja, de fama y de gloria, pero una simple con momentos especiales de crecimiento como disfruto la vida. Donde la importancia está en esos recuerdos que ensalzan al presente y transforman la visión del futuro. Los recuerdos que te impulsan a continuar la rocosa y serpentina trayectoria.

Eso, y las horas, es lo que me llevo como escritora


What we take

“Enjoy the little things in life, because one day you’ll look back, and realize they were the big things.” -Anonymous

The day was hot, the breeze that occasionally caressed us was warm, and not even the shade of the gazebo soothed our high body temperatures that Sunday afternoon. Our conversation moved under the concrete structure after we quickly moved away from the hot grill, and there we talked about the memories that are made in life, and are more valuable than any material thing. The ones worth making, those made for love, for happiness, satisfaction, achievement, for our goals and talent. For the journey we embark to reach what we proposed in life.

“Family, today’s little moments become tomorrow’s precious memories.”

There are moments in life that become memories and fill us with something positive and make us smile or mourn, that spark an explosion of feelings. Those are the ones that mark our souls and transcend mortal life. Otherwise, what reason would we have to strive to create them?

“Life is about moments: don’t wait for them, create them.” -Dopexlegit # 802

As writers, what do we take? Which are the moments of delight or struggle that have become memories that arouse all sorts of feelings?

The writing journey I walk on is that thin line between love and hate. It is a rocky one that, occasionally, takes me near one or the other. But looking back, translucent, are the memories of that fantastic and serpentine journey.

What do we take as writers?

Those of the creation of a description of a place, or places, where the characters will develop and their struggles materialize. Without them the character is naked floating in limbo, and next to him is the reader who has the need of it to thoroughly understand the struggles that influence the character externally and internally.

Character development and his external and internal conflict.

The pressure on the character to force it to grow.

The smile at the end of a story.

A pleasant conversation about the importance of life’s memories created by unforgettable moments, took me for a stroll through the ones I’ve created as a writer. Is not a complex one, surrounded by fame and glory, but simple with special moments of growth like I enjoy life. Where the importance of it, is in the memories that extol the present and transform the vision of the future. The memories that drive you to continue the rocky, serpentine path.

That, and the hours, is what I take as a writer.


For all I know, smells have been a therapy for the body, the soul and the mind.  Never have I consider them to be something to care for until I remember a certain smell that brings me peace.  There are many I remember, but that one is unique. 

Is the smell of incense, but not any incense like the one you can purchase in a store.  No, this one I only find at church when the priest burns it and fills the atmosphere with a spiritual perfume.  Who could though that spirituality could have a smell?  I pondered upon words to capture its essence in writing and it alludes me just like it does disappearing into the air as it rises. Still I have the upper hand for I could recognize it like I did at mass.  It brought a smile to my face and gave me a sense of serenity. My soul was home!

There is another smell that gives me quite the opposite feeling.  That of a perfume!  It smells like cinnamon but yet sweet.  Glamour is the word that comes to my mind.  Gorgeous is how I feel when I put it on.  Feelings of greatness, of power and seduction…  I put it on and I know people will turn to look at me, to watch me walk away.  It takes me to another world were I’m a princess of a magical place where unicorns roam the valley and fairies live in peace in an enchanted forest untouched by man.  Where I rule always perfumed in glamour…

The smell of fresh bread in the morning brings a feeling of warmth. It is in the air everywhere and everyone gets infected by that warmth and wants to give love and more kindness to one another in this land where everyday bread is baked every morning.  The day passes on, everybody is happy and patient and kind for love is in the air in the essence of baked bread.  

Her hair has a certain perfume that nobody else has.  It is hers and will stay with her for the rest of her life.  The perfume of her skin is the reason for my maternity, it symbolizes the love of a mother and her daughter.    Peace is the name, maybe love, or just simplicity of a body to be recognized for its uniqueness.

This is part of the excersise (sorry they are in Spanish) of the section “El rincón de mi musa” for “Oasis” for the part “Olfato” (sense of smell). Enjoy!

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The scent of Mnemosyne

           I do not remember how many times I have been sitting in the dinning room for the same reasons, but still I wait for it like something new is going to happen and it does.  Always new feelings surround her, a look of longing in her eyes sometimes of happiness, sometimes of sadness.  It always depends on what’s on her hand.  She comes from the living room walking fast with a black gift box on her hand.  She has always kept them there.  Nothing fancy for she is not that way.  Simplicity is the word that describes her better.  Loving is the word deserved to be said about her everytime someone speaks of her.

            In that box she keeps the memories of the family alive.  The treasure of many decades kept in a fragile box that means so much to us as a family.  She sat in the chair in front of me and removed the top box to reveal a world of photos, old and new, which have made their way to that enchanted place of memories.  It looks like a sea of memories, of past events frozen in a moment cherish by those who lay they’re eyes on them.  I have discovered for the first time drops from the stream of Mnemosyne.

            Mnemosyne was a goddess from the Greek era and she is the guardian of memories.  Some remember her strolling along her stream waiting for the immortals to come to her for she was the wisest of them all.  She has now disappeared into the invisible land of shadows and from there she guards her stream and watches over her new recruits.

            This time there was something different with the woman sitting in front of me.  I love this woman dearly; she is the matriarch of the family, my grandmother.  Her skin is the color of sweet delicious chocolate and her heart is fool of feelings that are beyond words.  She is not the same today and is not because of her age or her many illnesses, but because of her sent.  It is Mnemosyne’s sent, a sweet sent of water and lilies.  She is within her today letting me know that my grandmother is one of her chosen ones.  No wonder my grandma’s name is Pastora witch means The Shepherdess.  She is the one to guard us, the one that protect us like she has always done.  She might look fragile, but she is not.  Her name tells her strength and courage; her box of pictures tells her story, our story, my story, the story of my children.

            Pastora took one of the pictures in her aged hands and smiled, it was one of her youth.  It was black and white and she was sitting in the ledge of a window wearing a long white skirt and a black blouse; long black wavy hair tossed on her left shoulder.  She looked just like a model does when posing for the camera!  If you look at her you can still see in her eyes that moment for she has, still, the same look in her deep black eyes.

            Another picture she took after handing me hers.  It was of my grandfather squatting with his back on a wall.  My mother was at his right and my uncle on his left, both little children looking straight at the camera.  My grandfather was looking else where like his gaze was gazing beyond that moment.  In those days they lived in Old San Juan a beautiful small city filled with history, with cobblestones on the streets and barricaded by a wall build by the Spaniards.  The same place my mother wishes to spend her last days remembering her childhood like the one in the picture.     

            There are so many memories of lost souls that have gone to their Creator and are mourned, of living souls that still struggle with everyday life, of souls that are happy and those souls that are lost in the meaning of life. It is so overwhelming to plunge oneself in a stream like this one full of so many feelings.  I do not have the knowledge to swim, but I feel like I was always thought how to flow in this stream since I was a child for I’ve been in it since I can remember.  Mnemosyne has thought me how to swim, how to survive in the sea of memories from which I have taken part and made my own.  Yes, for if you visit my closet you will see a small brown shoe box.  In it there is part of that sea, because I have been chosen to be the new Shepherdess.  My name is Alexandra it means the Leader of Men, I am in training to become one of the keepers of memory in my family and I have started with a simple box and a digital CD prepared, for people like me, by the magical land called Digital Photography. 

            The world of memories is fool of grace and feelings.  It is a magical place that resides in the simple things guarded by a mortal and escaping from the wrath of time.

I wrote this many years ago, by that time she, Pastora, was still alive. Don’t despare I have taken all of her well guarded memories and kept them safe in an album and scaned them so they can out run the wit of time.

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