Women's Ancient Healing Power

Separated by decades, space, and death her words reverberated from the past. Echoing into my future they found me

Waiting…

Listening…

Although I will never be able to immerse myself in the knowledge of her being,

Nor will I be able to tell her just how much her words changed me,

I carry them along in a little leather pouch, called hope.

This letter is for her. A woman I affectionately call Gloria.

Dear Gloria,

We are cut from the same tree. Although your flower budded, bloomed, and wilted far before my time, our ancient, twisting, enduring roots are the same. We are the mestiza, descended from the Aztecs. While our worlds, lives, and hearts do not resemble that of our ancestors, la sangre es la misma. Our blood is the same.

I first met you in a hot windowless classroom. The high-pitched whine of the florescent lights begged all to run from the room and leave the door swinging behind us. Although the concrete walls were cool, they too longed to absorb the sunshine and fresh abundant air that lay beyond the threshold. It was in this room that you told me a story.

According to Aztec legend there was a goddess named Coyolxauhqui, who sought to overthrow the kingdom. However, her attempts were thwarted by her brother, who flung her body down the “sacred mountain” where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Coyolxauhqui lay broken and scattered, but not subdued. She collected her lost pieces of self and unified them. Knowing the damage was done, Coyolxauhqui decided to evolve into something new, luminescent, and complete in her own right. She became the moon.

You pulled this particular story from our past, our people. You revealed it for the powerful source of healing that it was. It is “[the] struggle to reconstruct oneself and heal… [It] is the act of calling back those pieces of the self/soul that have been dispersed or lost…” (Anzaldúa, 2015.) I encountered many stories while in college, but this ideology in particular awakened a hushed, belittled and subdued part of myself. It told her you were never meant to be this way.

During our lives we will encounter obstacles, people, and events that break us. They will irrevocably change our being and our lives. It is easy to be consumed by this pain. It is simple spending day after day trying to undo the past. But this is not the way forward. This is how lifetimes are wasted. It takes a heroic amount of acceptance to realize there is no going back. The break happened, and it changed us. The light we may find in this darkness is that this indelible mark in no way means defeat. It is the opposite. We find ourselves at a starting point. We are now tasked with the beautiful journey of finding our scattered pieces and putting them together anew. Although we cannot become who we were before the breaking, we can always grow into something just as worthy, beautiful and at last, whole.

This story reminded me of who I truly was. I was not the pain I had endured, nor the empty vessel waiting to become. With a changed heart, I stripped away the layers of false identity I had shrugged on in order to become what society valued. It changed the course of my life and showed me my inner strength. More than that it showed me that our lineage as women, and especially as women of color is one of courage and resiliency. We are not weak for having been broken. Nor are we less than for feeling pain. We are powerful and enduring because we care enough to feel and because we embrace life for what it is. A journey. A journey to be lived with a racing heart, open arms, and a steady soul that knows we can always be put back together. Perhaps the pieces won’t fit as they once did and we will never be as we once were. But where would the fun in that be? If we are lucky, we will live our lives as mosaics, exuding vitality as a kaleidoscope of experiences and growth.

On those cool dark nights, when I feel uncertain of my strength, I look to her, Coyolxauhqui . I see her brilliance cast shadows on the earth beneath me. I see her smiling, lovely and wicked with the self-assurance of a woman who has found her power. She is my reminder that we are more. More than our wounds, our scars, and our aching pulsating hearts. More than our past. And certainly, more than the world has made us out to be.

You lived your life aspiring to this dream of wholeness and you shared this neglected truth with a listless world that ached to be seen.

To most, you were Gloria Anzaldúa revolutionary “working class, lesbian, Chicana, feminist writer”. (Anzaldúa, 2015.) But to me, you are simply Gloria. The woman with a story teller heart and a cobble stone throat that allowed our history to finally run free. It is down this path that I walk, following your lead and the lead of all those who came before. I thank you for your sacrifice, your strength, and for the guiding words whispered along the way.

We are our own source of healing and that makes us free. The strength we possess comes from our shared ancient, twisting, enduring roots. It springs forth giving us the everlasting chance to begin again.

This is what you taught me. And this is what I carry in my little leather pouch called hope.

With eternal gratitude and love,

Gabrielle