Requiem for a friend...a Magpie Tale

Sad notes floating around, dark elegant tones

Long chords…vibrating and profound.

Steps sounding firmly yet fading, walking away

Along with the wet shadow of our tears,

A bitter feeling of emptiness only filled by

The intensity of your memory left behind.

You decided when…you determined how

Your spirit was grand, hence your departure

honoring your character and equally grand

No pity...no suffering…no need for goodbyes.

Crossing other fields now you are

With that legendary attitude

The head up, your sway and style.

Marking other yards…touching other hearts.

Don’t be afraid, never look back…do not hesitate

Little by little we are going to be fine.

This is the end of your time with us

But certainly not your end…just a new start.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 48 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie Tales



For my one and only Verdell, our beloved friend for almost 12 years. May 10, 1999 - January 13, 2011



A motherly state of mind...a Magpie Tale

What is the secret behind a maternal embrace…do you have to be a mother to know?

The warmness of this place, the feeling of safeness, it marks us forever.
A mother love is unconditional, is eternal and is grand…but do you have to be a mother to love like that? Does it come instinctively as an on/off switch you activate the moment of giving birth?

I see images of daily news with so called “mothers” neglecting their children, hurting them… using them…destroying them.

Looking back to my younger years, I was hugged, was loved…but also see me being alone…alone but safe. What a thin line there is between protecting with love and overprotecting with fear.

In my dreams I am a mom… in those dreams my children are perfect, smart, happy, healthy. Four girls and a boy – future leaders, ballerinas, baseball player. I feel them, smell them and something inside me grows like a hurricane so powerful that nothing could stop me. But they are not real; they are just in my head.

Do you have to be a mother to feel like one? Are there different levels of motherhood? Life has some mysterious ways of showing your path, of letting you know what your objective is.

Having a child must not be an obsession. It is not an obligation. We have the choice…do we? Do we really decide when and where? What drives our state of mind to make us find the right moment? Parenthood is a huge commitment, not a trophy, not a must do. Am I going to be a mother one day? The concept comes and goes. It gets clear then it vanishes again. Is not a matter of wanting or choosing… for me is a matter of believing and trusting.

In my heart I am a mother… I am already one. I have five Goddaughters and one Godson…they are all perfect, smart, beautiful…future leaders? Baseball player? Ballerinas? It is all up to them. I know they are not mine… I know they can love me or not. I want to believe they feel the same way I do, that there is a bond somehow greater than simple blood; and who knows, maybe one day they will be sharing with their little brother and sisters, my future children, the same kind of love.

To my children...present and future.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 45 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie Tales

For the first time...a Magpie Tale

It was a Christmas Season, a week ahead planned
A family getaway, a log cabin in Pine Top.

The place was quaint and cozy, pine trees and a frozen lake
And then one day after arrival, snow was falling
…for the first time.

A white morning awaited, the kids excited rushed out to play
It was fantastic to watch all the cousins
…including the one and only Verdell.

Verdell geared up with purple jacket and snow boots
… all four of them
Like a precious ballerina, skipping his way towards the lake.

Inside the cabin a non-stop fire, embracing us all
Don Luis telling his stories, Christmas related…scary as well
Wearing brown sleepers and drinking good coffee
…freshly brewed, no sugar, just plain.

It was a holiday to remember... a Christmas away;
The family together, with no rush or other commitment
Than enjoying the moment
…for the first time.

Don Luis is the glue that sticks us together
Our cornerstone, our guide, our center.
Year after year preparing his Cod fish and special tamales
Year after year sharing his peace and love
Teaching us lessons with a single saying

This year will be different
This year he is no longer here
A December that is starting to feel strange.
A Christmas without his physical presence
Without his hugs and “God Bless you”
…for the first time.

“Aquí vino...

y se fue

Vino, nos marco nuestra tarea

y se fue.

…Aquí vino

y se fue

Vino, lleno nuestra caja de caudales

con millones de siglos y de siglos.

nos dejó unas herramientas...

y se fue.” Leon Felipe

For you my love, for us. It hurts, it hurts a lot.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 43 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

The other side of winning...a Magpie tale

How many times we obsess with the idea of being the best, of getting somewhere before anybody, to be first place of anything. Some humans are competitive by nature; other, feel the need to be recognized.


First Place. Gold Medal. Employee of the Year. World Champion. Titles and places rewarded by the ultimate glory, a prize, recognition and honor. Have we ever considered that in order to win somebody has to lose?

Before the miracle of 2004, when the RedSox came back from hell after being down 3 games to 0 against the Yankees, not just to catch up but to win the playoffs and then been the MLB World Champions, 86 years had passed. It was in 1918 when Boston was the crowned world champ for the last time. Between 1918 and 2004 great players joined in, some of them recognized as amazing sports legends, who started and ended their professional career believing in the RedSox, been a diehard BoSox. Ted Williams played 19 seasons, twice interrupted to be on duty as a pilot for the Marines, all 19 with the RedSox; Carl Yastrzemski lived his 23 years as a professional baseball player with the Sox. Jim Rice, another big one, dedicated his life from 1974 to 1989 to the same team. All of them have things in common: not just they were baseball phenomenon and hall of famers, but they are the perfect image of what it takes to belong to a team in heart and soul. They also share the fact of NEVER have won a World Series, holding the trophy, getting a ring. That’s what I call to have guts…to remain standing and supporting the same team, season after season, with the head up and the hope that next year would be the year. It never happened for them. From 2004 history changed for the RedSox; the team harvested triumphs over the foundation created by the tears and sweat of the loyal and consistent predecessors that never gave up despite the non-winning fact. That is baseball… that is the spirit of believing, that is the magic that keeps us fighting.

Every day we wake up knowing that every year, from April to October, there will be another season full of hope, with the possibility of reaching the goal; but, what is the real goal anyway? Winning? A ring? That is the ultimate prize, a free pass to be labeled as big ones; but at the end of the day, the greatest accomplishment was to feel, to live passionately what we enjoy the most. To suck in the energetic reminder that the end has not been written, we can change it, we can believe that it will happen and that during the process of discovering the future, we can totally live by the edge of our sits knowing that IT CAN BE DONE.

It is important to keep focused on the objective, of course. But if while working on it we don’t enjoy the ups and downs by living each step towards it with full intensity, if we allow one single thought of mediocrity while trying, if we don’t recognize our vulnerability at the end to enjoy the glory or to cry for our failures, then the magic is gone. Is living by some book; living considering that we may not make it. Is living just to live; and in life, like in baseball, the game is not over until is over…and sometimes we win when we lose.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 42 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

Time after time...a Magpie tale

 I couldn't help to think about time when looking at this image: a roman numeral, an aged bottle of wine, the clear marks of time on the walls, the blury edges of time... such an abstract, complex, intense, yet ephemeral and fragile concept...

time invested

time wasted

time expected

time needed for perfection

time stopping during moments of affliction

time flying when enjoying good times...

time magically expanding when we think there is no time!

This has been an incredible busy and intense week for me in many levels...so I decided to use a post written early this year, that I particulary love and that captures the essence of what this image represents for me.

_______~~ _______

Vancouver, B.C. Canada, February 6th 2010
Vancouver has always been a city with a lot of meaning for me. It was my first international travel destination, it is the city my best friend calls home and when she moved here, I came visit, sometimes just for a weekend, to be part of her setting up process; it was my honeymoon destination and a place where I feel welcome and safe.
This time I’m here on a business trip in a Vancouver almost ready to host the 2010 Winter Olympics. I’m staying with my friend as usual and going for work with her for ten days, weekend included. Ten days already planned based on a daily routine with a constant layout that can be summarized like this:

06:45 – wake up, brush teeth, wash face, take shower and get dressed
07:30 – finish hair and makeup – no time for mascara, take it with you
07:35 – making bed, drink my glass of water and grab cell phone and purse
07:40 – rush out to catch the bus; don’t forget the take out cup of coffee!
07:46 – taking bus to sky train station
08:05 – sky train to Burrard station; get the Metro or 24 daily papers
08:30 – get off the train, walk to the office; too crowded! Take the emergency stairs
09:00 – more coffee and oatmeal; back to desk
11:55 - lunch brake
13:05 – back from lunch
16:55 – taking off to catch sky train back
17:37 – get off on 22nd street station to catch the 410 bus
18:00 – home for dinner; eat, clean and get ready for the after work activity of the day.

And so it went, day after day; a detailed schedule, minute by minute. It was stressful for me, it was like having to make it happen or else… or so it felt. Until I realized the issue was not the plan or the activities or even commuting to work; it was the fact that I was aware of each single moment and how long every single activity took (or should I say how much time was assigned to perform each task). It was the same old things I usually do, only thoroughly documented.

I now know how long it takes to lather and repeat, or to floss and rinse, or the difference in time between a pony tale and hair half way up. I even confirmed that coffee gets cold in 37 minutes, that time goes by quickly if you are looking for 6 down based on the first letter of 6 across. That I can eat dinner in 23 minutes; that 15 minutes of reading mean 10 pages for an adult and 3 pages for a six year old; that a bridal shower can last less than an hour, cheese tray and wine drinking included.

I learned that life is full of wasted minutes we don’t really know where they were used or what for; that we are capable of managing even the smallest things if we really need or want to. It’s all about control and awareness, plans and timelines, with no room for the unplanned. It is a matter of perspective and choices. I realized that my lifestyle is different only because is mine, my own rules my own plan. The layout might not be the same but the content is.

Sometimes, I don’t want to know where time went; I like being open for the unexpected, but love the idea of making every moment count, without having to count every moment.

After having the chance of being part of the life of a Vancouverite, one thing is for sure: I admire and love my best friend even more.
 
This is a Magpie tale - Mag 41 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

The rebel yell..a magpie tale

“Close the doors, sirs! Ladies and gentleman, take your sits, place your bets… the fight is about to start”


Behind the scenes at the Palenque* house they could hear the show was about to start. The rooster’s handlers were all wearing their usual gear: cowboy boots, rough Lee jeans, thick leather belts with oversized silver and gold buckles usually engraved with their proud initials or horse motifs. Resistol hats in beige or elegant black, plaid shirts with pearly buttons and of course, knives in their strap-on cases hanging threatening from their belts.

The beer was flowing while the gamecocks were getting prepared. Tejano music with their typical accordion notes and a pitchy high male voice was flooding the scene. Sharp gaffs were taped to the fighter’s feet, feathers greased and tempers teased to enhance the chance for a good spectacle. These roosters are breed and trained as athletes – cruel caging techniques to build stronger necks and thighs, special diets to develop muscle and the angriest personalities. A life destined to entertain and die in the line of somebody else’s duty.

The first two contestants hit the pit, each one held by their masters… they are presented, provoked by their own mentors by pushing them against each other, tossing aggressive head moves while the feathers of their necks expand in a clear sign of readiness. “Cut them loose!!!” the announcer said and then the fight begins… and continues…and keeps going… bloody fight as if they know there’s money involved. Puncture wounds, bites, scratches, but mostly cuts…until one hits the deadly strike, usually slashing the neck. The fight ends; the winner takes it all… the defeated is dead. The aroused crowd screams bloody murder, the music gets louder and the enthusiastic announcer congratulates the champ.

The final match is ready. The ritual is the same, but one of the fighters is not. Perfect body, shiny black feathers, proud pose, evil eyes… he has a plan. Two contestants are approaching the ring, held as usual by the cocky rooster handlers. It is late, the environment is clouded by cigarette smoke, mumbling gamblers and money…lots of it. Nobody saw it coming. Right before Don Luis had the chance to release it, Evil eyes started the fight: fiery slashing against the handler’s face, ripping and cutting flesh, striking violently to the chest, neck, arms…it was some blood bath, but not the one expected. After finishing with the man, the decided fighter finished its job with the other gamecock, killing it instantly. Standing on top of its dead master, black feathers erected its neck, flapped its wings once more before emitting a loud chant of victory… “He had it coming”, somebody say; now you can open the doors.

*Palenque:   cockfighting ring or cockpit; also used as concert halls, usually held late at night after the fights.

Totally against animal cruelty; based on a popular mexican song:

"Y enmudeció el palenque cuando

un girazo en el redondel

Volando al ras del suelo sin darle tiempo

a don luís soltar

Se le estrello en el pecho

Se le estrello en la cara

Y de fieras cuchilladas la vida le arrebato

Y enmudeció el palenque

cuando el giro enloquecido

Remataba a macarena...

Poniéndose alegre a cantar"

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 39 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

Broken links.. a magpie tale

“Some things are meant to stay together because once broken, they cannot bond back again”. I remember this phrase like it was said yesterday. You told me that when we first met as part of a casual conversation that was flowing from baseball to music. It didn’t have much sense then but somehow it gave me the chills.

What happened next is now history: many days of love, joy, laughter, plans…tears, suffering, pain and more. You told me we were going to be together forever…you promised me that. And here I am now, burning inside, so mad, no, not mad… so furious with you and your broken promises; the first out of many other broken things you left me with.

Trust and loyalty … I trusted you, you asked me to! And I wanted to believe. What do I do with your word now that my words won’t reach you? Even if I yell, if I cry out loud, you can’t hear me. Broken trust my dear, is even worse than a broken heart. A heart that no longer beats but only shivers in a desperate attempt to feel alive, to feel something else besides the piercing pain of betrayal.

A pact…yes we had a pact: we would die together…now what? Here I am mourning you with nothing but the frustration and incapacity of not being able to fix the fact that we are no longer together. No matter how hard I try, you are not with me, not even to start a fight, one of those colossal fights driven by our passionate souls that always ended up with such a feeling of inner peace - the sweet sensation of surrendering to our demons and returning from the darkest place holding hands... carrying our hearts.

Time stopped long time ago; I can’t think of anything but many different ways to make you suffer at least one tiny bit of what I’m feeling. If I could only reach you… if you could only hear me… if I could only trade places with you…if you could only see me once again…if life could be in our hands once again.

But death parted us. Loneliness is my companion, eternity my only plan and this cold grave the place you insist to call my new home. This is me, venting out in a futile attempt to ignore the fact that it was ME who left you alone, that I broke our pact… that I let you down.

And yet here you are, like every November, standing by this old tombstone, tidying things up with your sweet and sour new look, wearing all black. Your eye lines are thicker; your tears carved their way. I am so sorry to see you like this. Please dear, don’t comeback. Don’t join the crowd with their music and tacky flowers. Don’t waste your precious energy in fighting for a parking spot or the last buckets of dirty water for the plants. This tradition is way too painful for you and totally pointless for me… I am not here, this is not who I was. Whatever lies underneath this broken stone, is just a sad reminder that at the end we are nothing but dust and worms. What matters honey, what really matters, stayed inside you when I left – in your memories, in your heart, in the familiar smells that rush back our moments, our days, our time. Try to forgive me for breaking apart… for not proving your words… because we are still together, I am always by your side.

To our beloved ones who left us...because this is how I want to remember and would like to be remembered. November 2 - Dia de Muertos (day of the dead)

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 38 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

Reality bites… a magpie tale.

Why are you doing this to me? Who are you? Stop! I remember myself crying out loud while thinking this must be a dream. I don’t even know where I am or if I am really here. All I know is that I can’t see a thing, I feel numbed, yet forced to breathe.

I can half-see a big bed, feel the 300-thread Egyptian sheets, comforter, downer and pillows… lots of pillows. It seems like a 5-star hotel, one of those with an “at your service” button always available. I open my eyes and the room is dark, yet a tiny ray of light shows thru the heavy blackout drapes. Ok, I get it – I am in a hotel room, but where? What am I doing here?

My legs are heavy; the alarm clock is blinking with that green flashy light that makes my eyes feel tired. Why can’t I move? Is it night or day? I kept wondering while the remote control of a fancy flat screen TV rolls down my thigh. Then I dozed in again…but I can hear a constant bip… bip bip bip…. bip bip bip…. It has a pattern, I think to myself; but what is that? Water dripping then a loud noise, not far yet not close enough to identify the source. My ears are swollen, I can feel it; this noise must be unreal.

The more I fight it the less I can stand it. I am half sleep half awake yet so aware. No familiar voices, no familiar smells. I manage to turn around and my hair got over my face, but my hands are useless, I can’t brush it away. Then I see a red light blinking and I closed my eyes… fell asleep, but was I really awake?

First I’m cold, then hot… then shivering again. It is the constant changes what makes me wonder if it is true or fake, if I am here or there… but really, where am I?

Finally that sound, coming from my cell –the first sign that indeed, this is happening, that it is real. Is the alarm set to wake me up at 6 AM. I open my eyes, the sun is bright and shining; looked around, recognizing the field: room service menu tossed by the bed, fluffy sleepers, magazines…a glass desk and my laptop on it. My suitcase open, half empty half full with dirty clothes. A bathroom door, a safe box, two sad looking apples on a wooden plate; the voice mail red light blinking on the phone. Sitting on the bed, making sense of the whole scene; looking around, rubbing my eyes and stretching. On my way to taking my shower I stopped by the door, looked to my right and a fancy antique mirror greets me: it reflects the room, big bed with white sheets; it has a golden frame, clean surface, crystal clear... and then the bip…bip bip bip…. bip bip……bip distracts me again; is the ice making machine! I giggle a little – silly me. It was all a dream, a bad one, but nonetheless a dream. I turned around, grabbed a towel and closed the door. Hot water running, steam filling the room. I am happy and calmed that it is all under control. I’m singing in the shower, getting ready for work.

Outside the bathroom door, my singing starts to fade. It gets hot, then cold, and then hot again…it is dark, time stops. Then it kicks me: if there was a mirror, why wasn’t my reflection there? Because there is no mirror on the wall… It has never been there.

Last thing I remember, I was

Running for the door

I had to find the passage back

To the place I was before

’relax,’ said the night man,

We are programmed to receive.

You can checkout any time you like,

But you can never leave…

Hotel California, Eagles.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 37 - for other Magpie tales click  Magpie tales

A window of opportunity...a magpie tale

A window of opportunity, that’s all I want, that’s all I need
I am dedicated, I am inspired, but I am hidden in the dark
I don’t have influences, I don’t have power
I just have me, my will… my so-called talent.

Standing here, watching my dreams, sometimes so real
But nothing happens; I’m still invisible, still so deep
Climbing from there, then going back in…waiting so patiently
Day after day, try after try… still no light.

If I could only have one chance, one single day
To show who I am… to let myself shine
Yet I don’t give up; stubborn? Oh yes… that is who I am
As long as I’m alive, hope is by my side.

And then that long awaited day finally arrived
It is open for me; it is finally my time
The window is here… this might be my only chance
To wear my heart on my sleeve, to be myself, to be real.

Because it is honesty what makes me bright
And if I make it, must feel very proud
Because I did it, despite the fact
That my dark side was always there

Playing my conscience, sabotaging my trust
Clouding my judgment, making me feel bad
Wanting to take me back to the bottom
Where there is no escape, no reason to fly.

Until next day, where there is always a chance
To see things differently ...to make it right.

To our own worst enemy…because we all have a dark side.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 36 - for other Magpie tales click Magpie Tales

Autumn and its colors... a magpie tale

Autumn and its colors

October and its teams

Just a few stay put at the ball park

The rest will be gone for the year.

A challenge that starts every April
In July an all- star fight for the lead
September and the last winds of summer
Bringing up hopes...closing the deal.

Three out of five then four out of seven
National and its pitching… American and its power
It is October’s classic, the hunt for pride and honor
Even though is just America, represented by them both
World Series it is called: one pennant, rings and joy.

But each team’s heart and soul it is nothing but a mix
Of a multicultural selection, the best of the best, the elite:
Dominican, Puerto Rican, American and beyond
Venezuelan, Japanese, Mexican, Cuban and more
All together as a whole… sharing a passion, living a dream
One of hard work, injuries and tears… and above all
For the love and loyalty to the great game of Baseball.



To my beloved RedSox, who didn't make it to the post season this year.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 35 - for other Magpie tales click:  Magpie Tales 

It happened one night... a Magpie Tale

It happened one night, long time ago. I was young, vibrant. Italy and its magic romanticism. It was more than 21 years ago and I can still feel the crisp breeze of Venice with the small intricate alleys and the multitude walking, dancing, singing, living a carnival night. Masks were mandatory; Bellini the drink of choice. St.Mark’s square was never more crowded yet intimate, sublime. And there I was, believing in destiny and totally willing to make it the night of my life.


Today is my daughter’s wedding, my little girl. I am in my room, in front of my dresser, looking at myself in the mirror, brushing my hair, getting ready for the big event. I open one drawer and there it is: the little mahogany box engraved to perfection… a box that has been with me for more than 21 years…all the memories flashed right back: my long deep blue satin dress, purple and golden mask decorated with peacock feathers, our walk in the middle of the night. He was the mysterious dandy in a perfect black Italian suit, sober gray mask with just an elegant discrete glitter that with the moonlight seemed sometimes silver and others light purple, but all times sexy. His voice was deep, like a caress… his seductive moves gave me no room for second thoughts. He kissed me under Casanova’s balcony… we’ve got lost in an endless embrace, our hands belonged together, we were part of the crowd yet were alone in Venice, living the greatest love affair, my dream.

My daughter comes in to my room looking for her grandma’s broach; she is stunning, a mix of childish innocence and yet such a confident woman. I see her getting in and saw the same 4 year old that used to rush in to play dress up with my shoes, necklaces, makeup; I guess that’s how mothers see their daughters no matter how old they get. The moment she gets in I instinctively hide the box from her; is not the time, nor the place. Today is her day. She takes the broach, gives me a quick butterfly kiss and storms out when her friends, the bride’s maids, are calling her back to her room to continue with the ritual. Then I went back to my box, my memory box...the next morning we were still together, went to a cozy café and ordered two ristrettos with pastries; we talked, we laughed, we looked at the people walking by. He excused himself for a minute, and the nice waitress approached me and asked - “how do you do it?” I didn’t understand her question, so I replied with an apologetic - “excuse me?” and she confirmed back - “yes, I want to know how do you do it, what is the magic, for him to look at you like that, is like nobody exists by you…” I was floating, my heart was pounding, my brain was totally lost in the moment and then he came back, with a box wrapped in quaint paper, almost like the kind used in hardware stores, brown with gondola motif. “This box is for you, for you to remember me by and it is for me, to always remember where I met my angel…and it is for us, and only for us, to never forget that we belong together, just you and me, even if we have other people in our lives, people that may be more important or that may take more time from both, this is a homage to the greatest love affair of all times” - I was speechless …we kissed, he touched my nose, we giggled and hugged once again.

I put on my mother of the bride dress, wear the special pearls and color my lips with a pinkish gloss. I take a last look at myself in the mirror, to see me again, more than 21 one years after …my hair is now shorter, grayer, my face showing some lines… I close my eyes to take a deep breath, my hand softly touching the box, my box… our box… and then I feel his arms around my waist, the same voice that melted my heart  years ago - ” Are you ready, my angel? Our girl is waiting for us… I think you are, you look beautiful” - I open my eyes and look at him in my mirror, his eyes still giving me the same look that took my breath away in Venice - ”Almost my dear, just the final touch”- I opened the box and took the bottle of perfume, Italian cologne to be precise, the same one that sealed our pact after that magic night and that I only wear when I am with him, with the love of my life, my one and only, the only one.

For my husband, my best friend...my everything.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 33 - for other Magpie tales click Magpie Tales