Waiting for the Quiet

“One, two, three—get up.” I think as my feet hit the floor and I slowly drag myself out of bed. Dani P. called this the rocket launch technique—“You don’t give yourself time to think before leaving the bed, and before you know it, you’re already walking towards the bathroom”, he once said during lunch.

My phone says it’s 6:05 a.m. I could sleep a little longer, but I took a long nap yesterday afternoon, and I’d really like to get some painting time in before heading to school.

I make my way to the living room. Everything is quiet except for the soft padding of my feet against the cold floor. I think through my options:

• Fix the water stains on the black-and-white piece (I used Bristol instead of watercolor paper… whoops).

• Add the white lines to the new quiet painting—“Can it really be considered quiet with all that red in it? I guess we’ll see” , I muse.

• Work on the green painting, which desperately needs some life breathed into it.

Mmm… choices.

A new drawing altogether it is.

Rummaging behind the desk, I find the spot where I keep my big papers safe. Making sure to grab watercolor paper this time, I pull out a sheet, set it on the floor, and choose one of my new Chinese ink pens—the ones with that nice, flexible felt tip.

Slowly, the lines begin pouring out of me, short and closely spaced. I always marvel at how they start aligning perfectly under each other as I move. My favorite part is when my mind begins to quiet down. One would think there wouldn’t be so much noise in my head this early in the morning, but that’s just me. And that’s what my rayitas are for—to drain, to make room for more thoughts, more experiences, more feelings, more surprises.

I’m grateful for my practice, for the rayitas that help me breathe more easily, and for giving myself this extra hour to find my center.

Sighs in Spanish

“Ya te oí, ya te oí” is always my first thought in the morning. I say it to my stubborn alarm that just won’t give up. It reminds me of Cinderella struggling to wake up, with birds tugging at her as she stumbles to the window, frustrated, yelling at the clock tower and lamenting to the birds, “Él también quiere mandar.” (My very own Disney moment, if you will… I have a lot of those.)

Today is a little different. I have a doctor’s appointment—they’ll finally tell me what’s wrong with my belly (I hope), so I’ll be late for work. I get in the Uber, and the driver is playing soft meditation music. I’m grateful I’m not being pulled into yet another “Oh, you’re from Venezuela…” or “How long have you been in the country?” conversation.

I wonder what to do with myself in this newfound moment of stillness, which is about to last even longer because the bridge just went up. (I swear it has a sensor for whenever I pass by—“Yep, I see her. Ale is coming close. Time to go up and stop traffic for a while,” the evil bridge handler says.) In retrospect, I think it was the universe giving me a sign while I was still close to home.

The bridge goes down, and we continue on our way. A soft breeze slips through the window—such a good day today. We find no other obstacles, unless you count me almost dropping my matcha (which I don’t, because I caught it in time—yay me!). And then it happens.

It was too good to be true.

As we get closer to the doctor’s office (meaning we are already 30 minutes away from my apartment), a vision of me taking out my wallet last night to pay for a show application comes to mind. It highlights the part where I leave the wallet on the desk, right next to the iPad—yeah, not back in the bag currently sitting next to me.

“Coño, Alita, ¿por qué eres así?” I think, as I also remember that I lost my mailbox key last week—nowhere to be found. I’m dreading calling the landlord. I don’t know why. These things happen to people all the time, right?

Though I can hear Dito in my head: “If you have a place for everything, and you put things back as soon as you’re done using them, you’ll never lose anything ever again.”

Well, the keys had their place. So did my wallet… I just forgot the putting it back part. I forget that a lot… ay ay ay Ale Gotera. You need to do better. Also, buy some AirTags.

Snail Mail would for sure be the death of me

The term “Collapse Distance” comes to my mind once again as I take my phone to the living room/home studio, and I’m faced with one of my favorite drawings, “They’re right. I’m not Alone.” Ever since I moved to the US for college almost 12 years ago, I have had to learn to live far away from the people I love. Distance has been a very annoying thing in my life.

I first heard the term while working with my fifth graders this week; they are researching the origins of technology and its social implications. As the Atelierista, I have been helping their teachers come up with multidisciplinary experiences that would help them get a broader perspective. Ms. Amy, their teacher, wrote it as part of a reflection question during one of their lessons, and it has stuck in my mind ever since. It refers to modern technology’s ability to eliminate physical distance and allow people to connect with it.

This morning, I woke up to three texts from Dito—my boyfriend who lives in Brasil and is currently vacationing on a mountain I can’t pronounce. He sent a picture of the snowboard I got him for his birthday, a simple “Psiu..” and a “Donde estas?” forgetting he was six hours ahead, and I was still happily asleep. Later, Caki, my best friend in Indiana, texted about switching her furniture and sent me her options. It was Sunday morning, and I had no intention of doing anything but reading my latest romance novel—though I knew I should’ve been finishing my laundry. A few hours later, I finally left my bed, put away my laundry, and started organizing my closet, only to get bored 30 minutes in and text my sisters instead—one in Chile and the other in Venezuela.

They were all short interactions spread throughout my day, and yet I can't help but feel highly grateful to them.

What I forget…

They are the first thing I see when I get home— lines and colors on canvases and papers, a collection of my wandering thoughts and the ones that refuse to go away. I’ve caught myself looking down as I walk through the door, as if to avoid them and give myself a few more seconds of not thinking about them. I’ve felt my work pulling me in different directions lately. Should I focus on paper? Do I want to saturate the spaces with marks and colors? Or should I step back and leave more room to breathe?

It’s a little exhausting to think about it all the time and to live with them in my home studio. But yesterday was different— I took my time to really look and wonder.

“What are you trying to be?”— I asked. My paintings are close representations of the landscapes of my mind. They’ve always been.

Landscapes anywhere in the world change constantly, whether shaped by nature or human intent. They never stay the same. My paintings do that too.The things I once thought were pulling me in different directions are, in fact, all leading to the same place— my mind at different points in time, changing, adapting, evolving as it navigates my days.

I know this. Sometimes I forget, as you can see. Yesterday, I remembered.

Back to work it is.