I, Vera. I, Veronica.
I am made of fire from the volcano and the bonfire.
From that same fire where I burned with my sisters, in the dark night of great blindness.
I am made of fire that I revere in sacred song and the warmth of the stones that heal us in the cave.
I am made of air of the divine breath.
Of air from the careful word, from the breath of the plants.
And of the mind, which travels and flies.
I am made of clay that I carry on my skin, the color of coastal earth.
Child of the planet and the stars.
Of earth from the riverbank, of dust and sand.
I am made of water that flows down the mountain singing and rejoicing.
Of that which travels in the songs of children who laugh and play.
I am made of water that runs in my veins.
Of that same water from wise blood, which slowly releases.
I am made of ether, of all existence.
I am nothing and everything, every eternal present moment.
I am the absent void that challenges me to choose the destiny I want. And the one I create. And the one I define.
I am my imperfect story.
The legacy of my dead and the womb that gestates the child.
I am the present world and the lived past.
And I am the future world, which I project in my waking dream.
I dream of life with joy and without sorrow, because life is the river and stones are valid.
I dream of the laughter that I laugh and the one that is missing and I demand. Because, even if it seems lost, it is inside, it has never gone away.
I dream of life, because by dreaming it, I imagine it and by naming it, I create it in colors and as a team.
And I dream the team where each one enjoys elevating themselves in themselves.
Sharing projects without pushes, without pulls, with relief.
Where we all dream, where we all continue to remember reasons for the path.
I dream the path, one full of flowers, that gives the joy of light and its blessings.
The path of the song that carries prayers elevated to the soul of all colors.
I dream of an ascended land.
The return to the origin.
The completeness of beings who, without fear or guilt, remember that they were never slaves, nor victims, nor invaders.
I dream the waking dream of the illusion of the mind.
That problem illusion of whether I can or cannot be the one who writes my little, ephemeral, impermanent and eternal life.
It is the waking dream of knowing myself powerful. Of believing in my people. Of not waiting, but being patient.
And from my waking dream, I give thanks to the sky, to the earth, to the rain, to the wind and to the fire, for giving me the joy of every breath, of every heartbeat, of every word and every goal.
I thank the guides, the allies, the ancestors.
To the witnesses and to the absent.
I accept life, the gifts, the challenges.
I bless teachers, I bless students, friends and enemies.
I bless yesterday that gave me the present form.
I bless today. I bless tomorrow, the dreamed form.
To the prayers of the beings of light incarnated in the song of free birds and in the god of all gazes.
I am Vera, Veronica.
