Que tema tan bonito nos trae 
Yo, que no tuve el privilegio de ser madre, he mirado con admiraci贸n a aquellas mujeres que, como la m铆a, han sido pa帽o tibio y alimento en la vida de sus hijos. Su entrega es un faro que ilumina el camino de quienes aprendemos de su fortaleza.
Conoc铆 a mi madre antes de estar en su vientre. Otras almas me hab铆an mostrado otras mujeres, cada una con sus circunstancias, pero fue con ella con quien eleg铆 venir al mundo. Su historia, tejida con resiliencia y amor, fue el terreno f茅rtil donde decid铆 echar ra铆ces.
Mi madre fue la 煤ltima de nueve hermanos, hija de una mujer sumamente humilde con cierta tendencia n贸mada. Mi abuela, a quien tambi茅n honro por su entereza, enfrent贸 las adversidades de una 茅poca en la que la asistencia m茅dica era un lujo y los derechos de la mujer, una quimera. En aquellos tiempos, el destino de muchas se escrib铆a entre brebajes y supervivencia.
Desde ni帽a, mi madre acompa帽贸 a mi abuela en su trabajo como dom茅stica. Lactaba y dorm铆a a su lado mientras esta deshojaba las grandes mazorcas de ma铆z. Luego, juntas recog铆an los granos sueltos para convertirlos en alimento. A los ocho a帽os, mi madre comenz贸 a trabajar en una casa ajena, donde, aunque la trataron con bondad, el pago era m铆sero: tres pesos mensuales para mi abuela y alguna prenda de ropa que rara vez le quedaba bien.
Su jornada no terminaba ah铆. Despu茅s de los quehaceres en una casa, pasaba a la siguiente, y luego a otra m谩s, movi茅ndose de sol a sol entre tareas dom茅sticas, sin tiempo para aprender a leer o escribir. Al caer la noche, regresaba a un hogar donde a veces no estaba mi abuela, sino sus hermanos mayores, quienes, seg煤n cuenta, la cuidaban con esmero.
Fue as铆 como la conoci贸 mi padre: una joven de car谩cter firme, enamorada de otro joven al que no pudo amar libremente. Mi padre, veinte a帽os mayor que ella, le propuso matrimonio, y mi abuela acept贸. En aquel entonces, casar a una hija pobre con un hombre de buena posici贸n era un ideal. 脡l, due帽o de tierras y bodegas, le ofreci贸 estabilidad, y as铆 comenz贸 la familia de aquella joven que apenas sab铆a lo que significaba so帽ar.
La eleg铆 como madre cuando ella ten铆a veinticuatro a帽os: una mujer hermosa, de carnes firmes, diligente y de sonrisa escasa. Ya ten铆a cuatro hijos y una casa llena de hombres a los que alimentar. Los hermanos de mi padre, ya fueran socios de la bodega, peones o vagabundos, encontraban en ella a la mujer que manten铆a el fog贸n encendido, el caf茅 humeante y la comida lista a toda hora.
Pero sus hijos ten铆an algo m谩s: una madre que los acunaba, que caminaba kil贸metros carg谩ndolos para aliviar sus fiebres con sobadas y santiguadas. Una mujer que, pese a sus propias batallas, abr铆a los brazos y las puertas de su hogar a quien lo necesitara. La cruz clavada en la tierra era su asidero, su fe inquebrantable.
Vine a su vientre siendo la quinta. Conmigo, enfrent贸 pruebas dif铆ciles: una ca铆da de caballo a los ocho meses de embarazo, el cuidado del m谩s peque帽o, que a煤n no caminaba y depend铆a completamente de ella. Pero nada me apart贸 de su lado. Su amor era un r铆o que nunca dejaba de fluir, incluso en los momentos m谩s 谩ridos.
Siempre la vi tras la m谩quina de coser, frente al fog贸n, sacando agua del pozo, lavando ropa o barriendo hojarasca. Nunca la vi aburrida, nunca la vi quejarse. Hasta aquel d铆a de abril de 1976, cuando empac贸 lo esencial en un malet铆n de corduroy amarillo, cosido por sus propias manos, y tomamos un camino sin retorno. En ese entonces, no lo entendimos, pero ahora s茅 que incluso en la huida, nos estaba ense帽ando a ser libres.
Mi madre ha sido una mujer discreta, de car谩cter recio y una profundidad emocional tan vasta como oscura. No he conocido a nadie con una fe tan arraigada en lo espiritual, pero libre de fanatismos. Su sabidur铆a es silenciosa, sus lecciones, sutiles.
Hace unos d铆as, el m谩s peque帽o de la familia, Jorgito, le pregunt贸: Abuela, 驴por qu茅 siempre est谩s en ese balance? Su respuesta fue ambigua: Porque estoy frente al televisor. Pero yo s茅 la verdad: a sus ochenta y un a帽os, no quiere dejarnos solos porque a煤n nos necesita, como nosotros a ella. Es b谩lsamo material y espiritual; mujer terrenal y a la vez divina.
La eleg铆 entre todas las mujeres, y s茅 que esta es su 煤ltima vuelta en esta tierra. Por eso no tiene prisa. Por eso doy gracias al universo por haberme permitido transitar media vida a su lado, compartiendo sus cargas, sus pesares, sus amores y sus secretos. Como establec铆 en aquel contrato invisible con mis ancestros, he sido testigo de su grandeza. Y aunque nunca fui madre, aprend铆 de la mejor que el amor no se mide en hijos, sino en entrega.
En ella, encontr茅 no solo a una madre, sino a un alma que me ense帽贸 que la vida, con todas sus sombras, se ilumina cuando elegimos amar con valent铆a.
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Gracias por visitar mi blog, soy Critica de arte e Investigadora Social, amante de la cocina. Te invito a conocer m谩s de mi, de mi pa铆s y de lo que escribo. Texto y fotos de mi propiedad.
A Soul's Choice: The Woman I Chose as My Mother..
What a beautiful song
I, who never had the privilege of being a mother, have looked with admiration at those women who, like mine, have been a warm cloth and nourishment in the lives of their children. Their dedication is a beacon that lights the path for those of us who learn from their strength.
I knew my mother before I was in her womb. Other souls had shown me other women, each with their own circumstances, but it was with her that I chose to come into the world. Her story, woven with resilience and love, was the fertile ground where I decided to put down roots.
My mother was the last of nine children, the daughter of an extremely humble woman with a somewhat nomadic tendency. My grandmother, whom I also honor for her fortitude, faced the adversities of an era when medical care was a luxury and women's rights were a pipe dream. In those days, the fates of many were written between concoctions and survival.
Since she was a child, my mother accompanied my grandmother in her work as a domestic. She breastfed and slept beside her while she husked the large ears of corn. Then, together, they gathered the loose kernels to turn them into food. At eight years old, my mother began working in someone else's house, where, although she was treated kindly, the pay was meager: three pesos a month for my grandmother and a few items of clothing that rarely fit her.
Her day didn't end there. After chores in one house, she would move on to the next, and then to another, moving from dawn to dusk between domestic tasks, with no time to learn to read or write. At nightfall, she would return to a home where sometimes not my grandmother was there, but her older brothers, who, she says, cared for her diligently.
That's how my father met her: a young woman of strong character, in love with another young man whom she couldn't love freely. My father, twenty years her senior, proposed marriage, and my grandmother accepted. At that time, marrying a poor daughter to a man of good standing was an ideal. He, the owner of lands and wineries, offered her stability, and thus began the family of that young woman who barely knew what it meant to dream.
I chose her as my mother when she was twenty-four: a beautiful woman, firm-bodied, diligent, and with a rare smile. She already had four children and a house full of men to feed. My father's brothers, whether they were partners in the winery, laborers, or vagrants, found in her the woman who kept the stove lit, the coffee steaming, and the food ready at all times.
But her children had something more: a mother who cradled them, who walked for miles carrying them to relieve their fevers with rubs and crossing herself. A woman who, despite her own battles, opened her arms and the doors of her home to whoever needed it. The cross planted in the ground was her anchor, her unwavering faith.
I came into her womb as the fifth child. With me, she faced difficult trials: a fall from a horse at eight months pregnant, caring for the youngest, who still couldn't walk and was completely dependent on her. But nothing took me away from her side.
Her love was a river that never stopped flowing, even in the driest moments. I always saw her behind the sewing machine, in front of the stove, drawing water from the well, washing clothes, or sweeping up dead leaves. I never saw her bored, I never saw her complain. Until that day in April 1976, when she packed the essentials in a yellow corduroy briefcase, sewn by her own hands, and we took a path of no return.
At the time, we didn't understand, but now I know that even in flight, she was teaching us to be free. My mother has been a discreet woman, with a strong character and an emotional depth as vast as it was dark. I have never met anyone with a faith so deeply rooted in the spiritual, yet free from fanaticism. Her wisdom is silent, her lessons, subtle.
A few days ago, the youngest member of the family, Jorgito, asked her: Grandma, why are you always so torn? Her response was ambiguous: Because I'm in front of the television. But I know the truth: at eighty-one, she doesn't want to leave us alone because she still needs us, as we need her.
She is a material and spiritual balm; a woman both earthly and divine. I chose her among all women, and I know this is her last time on this earth. That's why she's in no hurry. That's why I thank the universe for allowing me to spend half a lifetime at her side, sharing her burdens, her sorrows, her loves, and her secrets.
As I established in that invisible contract with my ancestors, I have witnessed her greatness. And although I was never a mother, I learned from the best that love is not measured in children, but in devotion.
In her, I found not only a mother, but a soul who taught me that life, with all its shadows, is illuminated when we choose to love bravely.
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Thank you for visiting my blog. I am an art critic and social researcher, a lover of cooking. I invite you to learn more about me, my country, and what I write. Text and photos are my property.
