Guadalupe’s love

The story of Guadalupe has drawn me in over the years. If you don’t know the whole story, it is one of magic and wonder (and I highly encourage you to check it out for yourself). My quick version is this: the mother goddess Tonantzin appeared to a native man Juan Diago in the late 1500s at Tepeyac, a hill in present-day Mexico City, and told him to tell the Bishops to build a temple in her honor. After many trials and tribulations, Juan Diago faced to convince the Bishops; she ultimately gave them a sign by appearing as an image on Juan Diago’s tilma (cloak of sorts). The image seemed to be that of the European Virgin Mary, except that she was dark-complected, and her dress and garbs were covered with the symbology of the native Mexicans, most notably a four-petaled flower over her belly, indicating she was pregnant. Nevertheless, both the Catholics and the native Mexicans saw it as a sign, allowing the bloodshed of the time to subside as native Mexicans flocked to the Catholic church believing the tilma was a sign. 

There is majesty and wander around it, and as you can imagine, over 500 years of conspiracy theories and seeking explanations. It has miraculously survived despite everything, including a bombing. Scientists and others have tried to dispel or explain it in an earthly way but have failed. The tilma sits in all its unexplained majesty, framed in gold and silver on that site in Mexico City today. 

An unexplained miracle in the form of a woman falls into an inviting place in my book, no doubt a destination worth seeking. I have visited the tilma many times. Each is more powerful than the last. Each is more meaningful as it strengthens my connection with the idea that the universe sends love beyond those ideas that we see in mainstream America and that my connection to the universe can be through feminine energy, not masculine. The concept of connecting to a solely feminine deity, an embodiment for my eyes to see of mother earth, of Pachamama, Tonantzin–whatever you want to call her, cannot be replicated. And there are very few places so profoundly spiritual that celebrate the divine feminine in mass, and indeed, none I have encountered in my vast travels. 

Some would argue Guadalupe is the last goddess of the Americas, a symbol of unconditional love—a relic that has survived, despite the patriarchy. Guadalupe, to me, has always represented an idea of great maternal love, that there is a great mother who loves us all unconditionally and is there for each of us. And it is that story's beauty and the mythology that has drawn me in over the years. 

I can tell you from visiting the tilma when you meet her in person the space is unexplainable; words simply can’t do the experience justice. The energy, the vibrancy of color, and the experience are full of hope and forgiveness, a space where the belief in miracles is alive.

Contrary to the stagnate beige that has become the United States, with its dearth of spiritual connection to anything, the tilma site is a place I sit and drink up as much as I can, knowing my visits are relatively short and my desire to take just a tiny part of this experience back to the space that I live. To allow me to soak up a deep spiritual connection, disconnected from any traditional organized religion. 

On my first visit to meet her eleven years ago, I was desperately sad. I struggled deeply with my relationship with my mother, whose physical presence on this earth was not long—a fact accepted by us all. I was considering having a child myself. In fact, I was pregnant but didn’t know it yet. Although I had a miscarriage, the question of what motherly love looked like for the first time was swirling around my being. I was angry at my mother and myself for where that anger had taken me, and material love wasn’t something I was sure I could receive or give, but it seemed I wasn’t in her presence by accident. 

Perhaps Our Lady had called me to feel that material love, no strings attached. To rewire my being to learn that it isn’t something we have to earn or that is given or received. It just simply is. Accessible to us all, the power to connect me and my mother, me and my yet-to-be-born children, me and the world in a way I could never imagine.

I think it is easy for us to forget that love is not a commodity that is earned but rather always accessible. The universe, the divine feminine, the power of Guadalupe, or Tonantzin; they are all the same, all the power of the feminine divine that I can always connect to, even when I am not sitting in Tepeyac. 

For that reason, her image is something I wear, and I adorn all things in my life with it; it is a reminder and a symbol of my devotion to that love. I am drawn to it, and that is why millions are drawn to her image over and over again. But even with the power of that love, I face doubt at moments, even for long stretches. I walk with a veil before me, disconnecting the spiritual power I have reconnected to repeatedly in her presence and otherwise. 

While I may appear externally at peace with it all, at times, I am not. My subconscious, past traumas, and daily life as a woman in American society tell me I am not good enough; I have to work harder and be everything to everyone. And even with all my personal and spiritual work, those messages get through sometimes, seeping into me like cancer, eating away at all the good. I am not good enough. I have fallen short. I am failing as a mom and a woman leader. 

And at times, even with her image present in my life in so many spaces, the veil remains in front of me. I cannot see the beauty and grace before me.

On my most recent trip to Teo, she reminded me that even when I think I don’t deserve it, she is there to remind me it is accessible to us all.  It is easy to forget, even deep in healing and growth. A reminder that her love, a deep spiritual connection, is a practice we must return to again and again. 

A year before, on the Finding Fantastic Joy Women’s Journey to Teotithcaun, a magnificent painting of Our Lady sat in the salon with us on our journey. She was part of our circle. This vibrant painting, with its purple and yellow flowers, part of a series of 44 paintings by my dear friend Emily Grieves, represented all aspects of Dia de Muertos. None were for sale in 2022; she hoped to do a show with them all. 

To my great enthusiasm, Emily did that show, and as I returned this year, the first thing I noticed was they were for sale. Forty-one of the original 44 were available. They were all hanging and displayed in Emily’s new gallery space. I looked directly at the one of Guadalupe (the same one who had sat in our journey’s circle the year before). If you have ever fallen in love with a painting, you know this experience. It was visceral. The painting became part of me; the colors ran through my veins. 

On the wall under Our Lady, I saw a sign that said, “Ask the artist for pricing,” at the same time, I saw a sign that said a price for the Dia de Muertos series. For some reason, those two signs created a separation that my mind and my body said the Guadalupe was unavailable to me. My mind then went to every other painting in the series, except the dear Guadalupe, except the one I had coveted for over a year and the one that represented everything about my growth and journey. 

I told Emily, “I am getting one of your Dia de Muertos paintings.” 

She excitedly grinned, “Oh, I bet I know which one.” But she didn’t say which one. 

This exchange ensued in a 15-minute dance where I moved back and forth between the two small gallery rooms, looking intently at all of Dia de Muertos' paintings. 

The one of the ofenda was beautiful; I wanted the butterfly to call me, and the one with the scarred heart, how can you go wrong with a scarred heart? But it seemed like I was just settling for each of those paintings. None replicated that excitement when I said I wanted one of the Dia de Muertos series. I couldn’t quite explain what was happening. I so boldly stated I wanted one of the beautiful series in the first place because of my connection, but each of the paintings I kept selecting seemed like a disappointment. Not that they weren’t each amazing in their own right, but they all felt like I was settling for a person that I didn’t love. 

As I pointed them out to Emily, she looked confused, directing me back to the gallery's main room, saying, “I thought the one you might get is in here.”

As I looked at the paintings on the wall, I was bewildered, they were all men, and while they were amazing paintings, they didn’t speak to me on the level I sought. I almost felt disappointed, like I was missing something that was right in front of me. And I kept pondering. 

Then, as if a veil lifted, I jolted into awareness; my being and cells shifted. As I leaned on the register counter, looking at the wall with the prominent Guadalupe painting and the other paintings of men surrounding her, I looked at Emily.

“Wait, Guadalupe… is… she… available…. too?” I slowly got the words out.

“Yes, she is. You know she is always accessible to you,” Emily responded lovingly with a big smile.

My eyes welled with gigantic tears. I could feel myself almost floating in tears, providing a safe bubble to transport me closer to her love. All the while, I started laughing out loud. The relief that I felt was unexplainable.

 “For some reason, I thought she wasn’t available,” I said.

The reason was me. I had put a mental block there, believing I didn’t deserve that painting. Miracles and her love were not something that I could have. That beautiful painting, whose colors filled my veins, must have been meant for someone else. Surely not me. How often do I put up blocks keeping the good in my life out because I don’t believe I deserve them? Upon assessment of this experience, often. 

What a powerful and fantastic concept. Our Lady is always accessible. Maternal love is not something to be earned or given. Not a commodity that someone has control over. It just is. It is something that, by simply being, we get. As a mother, I put endless pressure to do it right. But the truth is there is no doing it wrong or right. It is just there, the maternal love of Our Lady of Tonantzin.  I struggled with my mom for most of my life, seeking the motherly love that I desperately needed from her, but as I work through the ancestral healing of generations of women, we know together we always had it. We were told it had to be earned. But a mother’s love isn’t earned. It is just there, and through a renewed deep connection with my mother, I now know this more than ever—her love is there.

The reality is despite all my work, I still, at moments, push myself so hard to find that perfect thing, that perfect painting that fits into the narrative that the outside world wants, never seeing that the love is right in front of us all along. What we think is not accessible to us always is.  Still, the truth is her love is right there in front of us all the time whether we want to see it or not, and as mothers or women, the expectations thrown at us are not for us to have to give or receive the love. It is just there.  And the more I connect to the power of that concept, the more I connect to the power within myself.