Color 7: yellow, the color of friendship

A few days ago a friend said to me, "I know you, you love the world and everyone in it." Boy is that the truth. I have this endless supply of love for people. I freely and willingly offer my love to whoever will take it -- with few exceptions. I am not sure why I am this way. I tend to analyze the reason for everything but I have yet to find a specific reason why I am like this. I guess I could attribute it to the hundreds of stories about love I heard while I was growing up, about Jesus and his message of love and sacrifice. Maybe it's the fact that I moved a lot and needed to connect very quickly with people as soon as I met them. No idea and ultimately who cares.

I have a lot of friends. Several care for me the way I care for them, while some may not but that does not affect my feelings all the time. I have friends that listen, I have friends that speak, I have friends that give me things and friends that take. I have friends that love me in ways I don't reciprocate and some I that I love more than they love me. Many of them mistake my feelings and misinterpret my personality. Some get jealous and don't want to share my attention. Others never really understand me and shy away from getting too close, they feel it's fake. I guess it's odd these days to find a person that is willing to open their heart with no restrictions. That's me, that's how I feel. I get hurt, I get betrayed and many times mistreated but I refuse to let that change the way I am. They all come together to create a beautiful collage of personalities that fulfill me.

To the friends that love me, to the ones that don't and to the ones that will, I have a message for you. No matter how you feel about me, no matter how you have treated me in the past, or how many times you will hurt me in the future, just know you are forever in my heart. Once it's open for you I will love you beyond most circumstances. I don't believe in conditional love. I believe that love is a gift we should all share endlessly. I think few people deserve to be pushed away. I think most people hurt you because they are afraid and insecure. Love is the opposite of fear, I think-- a wise passage says so too. So here I am, your friend. You know who you are! Here I am in this public forum letting you know that I love you. I want to thank you for helping me become the person I am today. Some of you are my family by blood and some are family by choice. I need each of you to feel complete. You each play a role in making the jovial girl I am today. I cry at times and get disappointed but I quickly recover when I remember I have you. I've been mocked for the many best friends I have. It may be odd to some that I have more than a few. Each one has played a special role at a specific moment in my life and for that, in that moment, they were the best.

We only have one life, one chance, no time for regrets or fears. I am open and ready to meet all the wonderful people who will now shape my future in another continent or in this one. I am intrigued to look out into this vast garden of yellow roses, each one holding the possibility of a wonderful new friend. Some speak Spanish, most speak English and there's a sprinkling of French, Italian and German natives. I'm excited! With each new person I meet I see God's magnificence materialize before me. As the years pass and I remain connected to the people that shaped my past I see his benevolence and charity envelop me. There's no greater gift than the gift of friendship. Every day, I am immensely grateful for the blessings I have, each with a face, a name and something in common -- my friendship, my heart.

Color 6: the color of balance, and it's not gray

At the root of the purpose of this blog is the desire to pursue a different thought process. I was conditioned and trained to react a certain way to every possible scenario in life. I mean, that's what religion is all about, is it not? It seeks to provide answers to all of our pressing questions. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What does the future hold? How do we live our lives? Beyond those, I immersed myself so much into it all I found answers to questions like: Does punk rock please God? Why is it OK to pierce my ears but not my naval? I found the answers. They have answers for everything from homosexuality to the source of the universe. That's what it's all about, knowing, having faith. If you don't have faith, you're not a Christian -- bottom line.

As a Libra (BTW, astrology is wrong according to the aforementioned dogmas) I am supposed to be balanced. I am not too sweet, not too harsh, not too centered but not too polarized. I am balanced. I laugh as easily as I weep, I get angry as easily as I forgive. This sounds more like psychotic behavior but I swear I am quite normal. In the midst of all this I found a way to be extremely polarized when it came to religion and morality. I was convinced that all the answers I was given were correct and rarely questioned them. I am not going to lie, I read the Communist Manifesto in secret and I was always intensely intrigued by the reality of the occult. At the end of the day I lived my life purely. Entirely pure, untouched and unscathed. I made vows that I kept. I rarely lied. I loved my neighbor. I attended church regularly, way too regularly. I dated within the church. I dated the right boys at the right times. I asked for permission for everything, even cutting school. I rarely disobeyed my parents. I played the game by the book. I knew nothing better or worse. It always worked out for me, so why chance it?

One day these answers seized to be enough. I fell into a deep, dark depression that threatened my life. The 18 years of guilt that were laid upon my young shoulders began to weigh heavily on my resolve and conviction. I began to question the veracity of these answers. I began to inspect the lives of those who so eloquently guaranteed my safety and prosperity if I followed all the rules. Nothing made sense anymore. I was a step away from committing suicide. I genuinely wanted to die. I felt like the system had failed me. A million little details in my life made me feel like this polarity never made sense to this Libra-wired girl. I needed some balance.

Today, 11 years later I know only one thing, I know nothing. It was incredibly scary to realize that I don't have any answers. One more thing I do know is that I do feel God and I know that everything will be alright. I can feel the signs pointing me to direction I need to go. Most of the time they make no sense to most people but they feel incredibly right to me. Life has many paths to take, many answers to the same question and nothing works the same for ALL people. I am unique, nothing else like me on this earth. So how can I expect to live my life based on bucketed answers to the deepest questions in life? How can people just like me tell me what to do with my life when they themselves are still figuring it out? How can I learn how to walk this path on my own two feet if I continue to use crutches to help me along the way? Black and white worked for a little, gray was scary as hell but once I got past all that the palette that lay before my eyes liberated me. It opened my eyes to the beauty that is life. I have a reason to live now. I want to taste, breathe, touch, hear, see and live every color of the spectrum. I want to leave no colored stone unturned. World, are you ready? HERE I COME!

Color 5: silver, the color of dreams

If I were to decide what color I dream in, that would be silver. Since I can remember, my biggest, strongest dream was to sing. My earliest memories start in the living room of my mother's vocal coach.  She would take me along to her voice lessons where I learned bizarre chants like van gan gan, ven gen gen, von gon gon, voon goon goon. I am not kidding, she would sit there and chant that over and over in every note she could reach. Keep in mind, she's a soprano so this would take a while. As I stared at her mouth-- who had to be perfectly shaped like an uppercase 'O' -- I remember falling in love with this art form; profoundly, ceaselessly and madly in love with it. Singing, I thought, had to be the coolest thing in the entire world. Then I began to wonder if I could do it and as I am about to open my mouth to follow along I hear an annoyingly nasal voice coming out of this cage right above the piano... I could not believe my little girl eyes, a multicolored bird with a beak like a can opener was singing along! I thought to myself, well if this darn lora can do it, so can I! I felt empowered. I was a 4-years old and felt this desire to sing growing and growing by the second. What's funny about it all is that this came second to my performance bug. 

Long before (and by long before I mean a year or so before, keep in mind I am only about 4 years old here) this singing bug bit me, I wanted to be seen, to stand in front of others, get their attention and do something to keep that attention. I am told my father paraded me around our small town having me recite all kinds of modern pop-culture references I had absorbed from TV. I knew everything from the presidents of most countries to the walk of the Pink Panther. I recited commercials and repeated words with silly little-girl pronunciation. He would even take me to the local pub and had me stand on the tables while I did my little act. But anyway, back to the singing... Combine this love of performance with a talent for singing plus the bonus of having a mom with the same passion and there it was, I could not run from my 'destiny.' I was to become a pop star! 

When I was eight I had to sing Silent Night in front of the entire church in this new-found language, English. I practiced for weeks, read the lyrics over and over and then the time came. I stood on the stage mic in hand, I looked at the pianist who was sporting the ugliest '80s perm I had ever seen, and then I began. I looked out in to the audience at my mom, sister, brother and new-born little brother and thought 'I got this'! Then, the worst happened -- something I have never mentioned to anyone before this -- I realized there was someone missing in the audience, my father. We had moved away 4 years earlier leaving him behind with his new conquest and had set course for the country of promise. As a kid with complete innocence up until that moment those four years had been great. I had moved to a new country, learned a new language, gone to Disney World and experienced a million new things. My father's absence was the last thing on my mind, until that moment. I began singing the fourth verse before I ever started the third! The story line of the song made no sense whatsoever at this point. The light was shining on the babe's face and he was not born yet! I was petrified standing there in my cute, ruffled, white dress. Everything was so perfect until that moment. Why did I think of my dad? To this day I can't even remember why, but it totally threw me off. I looked at the pianist searching for help. I took a moment to be totally mesmerized by the horrific, excessively bleached and teased poof in the front of her head and looked below it to find she did not mind I had made a mistake. I read her hot pink lips that said, "no one will notice, keep going." So I proceeded with a little less confidence than before. At this point I just wanted to finish it. Once it ended I curtsied and walked off the stage and realized my dad had missed the most important day of my entire life. My heart sank as I walked down the aisle to find my family. 

I don't remember anything else about that day but the way it felt to sing that day never went away. Somehow that experience made me insecure about my talent. I stored the thought of singing for several years. I opted for dance instead. But then I dated an amazingly talented singer and the bug bit me once more. I was about 16 at the time. I had an opportunity to sing in church. I paid all my spiritual dues, did the mandated devotionals, broke up with my boyfriend -- because the church said so-- and a million other little things like giving up secular music and dance. I did it all just because I wanted to sing. I had talent and passion. Every free moment was dedicated to singing, writing and practicing. I felt at home once more. 

I pursued my passion for a couple more years. I moved back to the States with hopes of making it big. My mother convinced me I could be like Thalia (who is now married to Tommy Motola) who was the top-reigning pop star/actress/goddess of the time in my mother's eyes. I tried pageants, modeling, auditions, singing competitions and local TV shows just to gain exposure. However, the reality of it all was the fact that I was no Thalia and I was not cut out for such a superficial business. I was a regular girl, size ten with no desire to color my hair blond. Furthermore, I was never really able to shake off the nerves of singing solo. Many attempts and a resurfaced insecurity led me to give it up. I decided I was done. I met the man who's now my wonderful husband and the decision was easy. I had no business staying in studios/bathrooms at three in the morning recording meaningless reggae. I was just grasping at straws. I knew I needed to think of my future, the stability. I couldn't bear more disappointments. I had to play it safe. 

I played it safe for ten years. I ignored my talent and never even sang in the shower. It was too painful to think about. I am not complaining, in those ten years I raised my son, I got a degree, worked for some amazing companies, met some great people and traveled the world. No need to feel bad, but I did let my biggest passion sit in shadows. Many people I met did not even know I had a talent for singing. Now at the age of 29 things make much more sense. I did not need to be Thalia or any other pop singer. I did not need to pray or attend church, give up on my boyfriend or major in music. I could have let my passion be my barometer not other people's ideals. 

When I close my eyes and remember how it felt to sing before all the flood of insecurities and external influences  I see silver. Silver is a shiny color, a color that blends well in many situations but it never loses it's shine. My dream of singing is just like that. It shines through no matter how many layers of insecurities I laid upon it. It blended into the very fiber of every decision I made. Even my deliberate avoidance of it sent me on the path I am now. I am glad I see past black and white these days. Singing was never to be put into these definite buckets. I was all or nothing. Today, I pursue my passion once more. Even if it means just singing in my cube as I write creative briefs for marketing pieces. If my passion was born in front of piano, singing along with a parrot what's wrong with having a cubicle for a stage? We limit ourselves unnecessarily. We give up silver for brass. I plan on being a singer wether on stage or shower. My love of music will shine on above all my insecurities. Fear is dull, I want some shine! 

Color 4: baby blue

Two-and-half-weeks hiatus explained: not that I have many followers, it's hard enough to get my family to read my blog but in case anyone happens to miss me, here's why I was missing. A lot has happened in my life in the past two weeks. I became a grandmother at 29, I decided to refuse friendship to someone for the first time in my life, I reconnected with my old depressive self, I went one whole week without polish on my toes, I did not follow advice and went on a camping trip to the keys in the middle of the summer and I let my niece and nephews borrow my new puppy. WHEW! That's quite a lot.

I’ll elaborate on some of these things later but today I want to focus on the most important. This blog is not just an account of what's going on in my life. It's my way of sharing the spectrum of moral colors in my life. So let this one be about baby blue. Allow me to tell you a bitter-sweet story about the birth of my grandson Xavier Jayden. (What a cool name, right? It was supposed to be Ivan, as in the terrible, but I lobbied heavily for that not come about.) He was 6.1 pounds and 18 inches, long and lean just like his parents. So, how did I come to be a grandma at 29? Well I married a strapping man who is ten years older than me and he had a son who I took as my own. He lived with us most of middle school and all of high school. I did PTA, tutoring, cooking, booger cleanings, fever coolings, grooming and all the other motherly duties and I was only eight years older than him. I, of course, had no idea what the hell I was doing. I just felt this overwhelming feeling that I had to give him what he needed and not what he wanted, not what was easiest but what was most challenging. I had to impart discipline and structure. Every piece I read about children with learning disabilities emphasized the need to give these children security and structure, that is what I sought out to do. I relentlessly enforced the rules and ensured he followed a strict schedule. In the end, against all odds and beyond the capacity of the American school system, Bobby graduated from High School with a regular diploma. Not an attendance certificate which is what they wanted to give him. I fought claw and tooth to ensure he was not cheated out of his future.

Here we are now; he’s 21 years old, lives with his girlfriend and has a son. Regardless of the fact that people were upset at his decision to have a kid so young, I was thrilled to see this baby. However, I found it very difficult to bond with my son’s girlfriend. The only way to do that was to listen to her complain about my son and his wrongdoings. That’s not my style. I love my son and I will be damned if I sit there and gossip about him. However, other people do love to talk crap and those people got preferential treatment during the birth. I was asked to stand behind the curtain with the other step parent who just showed up on the scene a year ago. All of a sudden, ten years of dedication and love meant nothing and I was placed in a category with someone who takes a shot at my son whenever an opportunity arises. I had not been this heartbroken in a very long time. I can’t remember the last time I sobbed that way. I was gasping for air, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. My son’s exact words were “I just want to be fair.” FAIR TO WHOM? Not me, not my husband who was left waiting until I told him that the baby was born. I realize how incredibly awkward it must have been for my son to have us all there. And although we are all friendly he was faced with an incredibly challenging choice. He handled the situation as best he could but it hurt. So where’s the moral lesson for me? I realized something; I actually wanted something in return! Being a mother should be all about being selfless. Not that my mother was this way but that’s more of a reason for me to strive to be like that. I don’t ever want to tell my son what I have done. I did it for him not for retribution. I must say I was surprised to be so saddened by this. The situation threw me into a deep state of depression. I have cried more in the past few weeks than the entire year prior. Everything became a trigger for the waterworks. I sobbed and wept like a baby, go figure. Every visit to see the baby was melancholic and I had to choke down the tears. I had to sit there and see everyone’s happiness while feeling incredibly lonely. It sparked all my old insecurities. But what kind of mother does that make me? An incredibly selfish one… How can I ask my son not to seek the attention and love of the mother that left him? I am sure all he wants is her acceptance. How can I blame him for wanting the love of a mother who always chose everyone else over him? I feel the same about my father and even my mother. I remember being 11 and seeking the attention of my mother who was deeply in love with a guy at the time. I begged her to spend time with me, she refused. Her boyfriend said to me, “Your time with her is up; you had your opportunity and threw it away. Now it’s my time.” I turned to my mother hoping she would correct him and put him in his place. All I got was a nod. She stood up and walked into her bedroom with him. No one likes to feel second especially in situations where you think you are supposed to be first.

Children always have to come first. Bringing children into this world is a completely selfish decision. We do it to follow some society rule that says it’s the next logical step. Some do it to follow the mandate to be fruitful and multiply -- whatever. Most of us can’t keep it in the pants and bring kids into the world without really choosing it. Then, there are people like me. I feel like all these reasons suck and unless I make one of those mistakes my choice is to take care of the kids already here who were brought against their will and left to fend for themselves in this cruel world. With my son the choice was easy because he’s biologically my husband’s but it was still a choice. I decided to take on that role, to give him what he needed. I did it all expecting nothing in return. Therefore, I feel ashamed to say that I let the circumstances of the birth affect the joy of welcoming my grandson into the world. Although my son does not call me mom (except when mentioning me to others) and although my grandson may never call me grandma, they are both a piece of me. Like I tell my son all the time, I don’t love him because I had to; I love him because I want to. He’s not my son from my womb but he’s my son from my heart. No amount of rejection will ever change that. I unconditionally and eternally love my son. That bond is even greater than the bond of wife. If my relationship with my husband were ever to fall apart-- God forbid -- my son will remain my son.

Today, I feel better, I feel stronger. I draw strength from knowing I did the best I could. I remind myself daily I did it all because I love my son and not to earn his love. I also draw strength from the joys of life like holding that innocent baby boy who has yet to experience heart ache. I pray he finds strength and joy in every day that passes. I pray he has resilience to handle rejection in this world filled with selfishness. I pray he realizes how much I love him from the very moment I knew of his existence. I pray he never forgets how important he is to me. Ah, boys and their mothers.

Xavier, the day you were born I was the proudest grandma on earth. Seeing you was witnessing an amazing miracle and I feel blessed to be a part of your life. I have never felt so much love for someone I just met. – Tu abuelita.

Color 3: gold

Memories that occurred before I can remember are interesting to hear. One that comes up often is the one about the swollen lip. I basically sucked face with my sister. No, no it's not what you think... I was a newborn and my sister -- who is ten years older than me -- loved the thought of being a mom. So as her new 'toy' she decided to sneak me out of my crib in the middle of the night. She snuggled me to sleep. She wakes up the next morning to find me still in bed with her, silently sleeping but she also notices that her lower lip is unusually swollen. I had sucked her bottom lip all night and that's why no one heard a peep from me! I think that's one of the few stories you can tell about me being silent. Alright, so the main plot of the story is not silence. The point is being quiet is not a trait I posses.

It has been said that silence is golden. There are tons of sayings and wise adages that promote silence. I guess the common point of view is that being silent makes you better or wiser. If you do a quick search on bible.com for verses with the word silence you come up with 34 entries. That does not even include implied silence like the ones about refraining the tongue and speaking out of turn. We are presented with a million rules in our lifetimes about when and how to speak, what language is appropriate and politically correct. I am surprised my first word was not "shhhh" or "no." When it comes to talking there are rules about voice volume, tone, implied language, sensitivity, gender influence and its double standards and projection. To top it all off what you say is defined greatly by your body language. I am surprised there aren't more people that have taken a vow of silence. There's just too much pressure!

But where would we be without people that spoke up? The most remarkable people I know are those who have not been afraid of words and the truth they carry. No one said it was easy to live out loud. Could you imagine the world without the words of Mandela, Kennedy, Plato and Descartes? Ok, so most people are not going to come up with a remarkable, groundbreaking concept, but I don't think we realize how many vital things go unsaid and the impact our silence can have on those around us.

I have seen another side to silence. It could be used as the most powerful weapon to hurt, deceive, manipulate and demean a person. A symbol of apathy and disdain. Silence can hurt in ways that a millions words cant. I also see the side of silence that prevents us from living life to the fullest. Think of the many people that wait until their death bed to say what they feel, to tell someone they love them. Some people regret never saying goodbye or I'm sorry.

I refuse to be one of those people.

I have gotten into tons of trouble in my life for saying what I think, speaking out of turn, speaking inappropriately and telling every detail of my life to anyone who is willing to hear. Here's how I see words. They are wonderfully liberating. Their scary and challenging to manage but a jolt for the soul. It's hard as hell to try to put them together perfectly, but who cares?! The words we share bind us in a way that nothing else can. If we speak out of candor and honesty refraining from using them as weapons, the world will open up its doors in ways we can never imagine. Fear of words has chained us to a repressed existence.

I am challenged by what I say every day. The more I open my mouth to speak, the better I feel I need to be in order to utter them. It's as if I see inside myself as I speak. I learn from the conversations I have with others. I learn about me and the world around me. I realize new and exciting things because of what I read and hear. Nothing comes close to the feeling I get from connecting with someone when I talk to them. I can die today and know that I said my piece. I can die happy knowing my family and friends know I love them. I can also die happy knowing I stood for my right to say the truth no matter how hard it was to hear.

In my book, gold is the color of words not of silence. The beauty of words is how precious they are in defining every color in our lives. Silence may make you appear mysterious, intelligent, wise and smarter than others -- and maybe you are-- but in a lot of cases I think it's a cop out. People who rarely speak are probably just afraid of something. In recent times I have taken a vow to stop living my life in the monochromatic palette of fear and guilt. Words are one of the avenues I will use to explore and enjoy the many other colors life has to offer. Black and white are there to fall back on and shades of gray are for mild adventuring. The million other colors available are the ones I want to bathe in. Talk to me and let me see, what color are you today?

Color 2: untainted clarity

I remember listening about Jesus when I was a little girl. Whether you believe everything they wrote about him or not, you must admit he was quite the character. As far as role models go, he's hard to top. My religious inclinations these days have very little to do with my admiration for him. I love his story past the dogmas, ideologies and denominations. 

To illustrate my view imagine him in the modern era. I imagine he would be a world traveler who carries all of his belongings in his backpack. His hair in dreads with the ends burned from the sun. He would sleep in bus stations and hostels. He would probably have tons of followers on Twitter and hundreds of friends on Facebook. He would be Obama-like in his gift of speech and have the benevolence of Bono. His message of hope and grace would give hope to the oppressed and to those who suffer. He would probably hang out with gays, swingers, lawyers, accountants, politicians and beggars without a need to differentiate himself or identify with any of them. He would not be a private man. He would live his life in the open, unafraid of the tabloids or reality TV. The patriot act and such fear-influenced laws and rules would never sway him from sharing his radical opinions or beliefs. He would stand up for what's right and just, not what fits into a political agenda. His life would inspire many to look beyond consumerism and materialism. He would challenge us to construct a Utopian society. He would challenge the oppression of religion and he would be allergic to the status quo. 

I listened to his story. At twelve he challenged the church elders. He destroyed the store fronts of merchants who set up shop in front of his synagogue. Quite the character, certainly not the type of guy that blends in with the rest. As I heard these stories, I realized something. If it was ok for him to be different, it was ok for me too. He was my definition of cool. A character trait that really spoke to me was his ability to open his heart, mind and spirit to all who approached him. He lived fearless of rejection and pain. His end on this earth was quite tragic as we all know. But what a way to live, how exhilarating! 

The source of my desire to let it all out is not fully evident to me. I consider the lines of communication permanently open. I am an open book. Transparency without fear is quite liberating, I saw that in him. The world is so accustomed to fear and insecurity that it's hard for us to all be truly connected. I want to see the world and let the world see me clearly untainted by fear. It has been said that fear and love are opposites. If the message we were to learn from this interesting person was love, then there's no room for fear. Open your heart and mind to others, you will be surprised how the treasures far surpass the disappointments. 

Color 1: leopard print

What business do fundamentalist Christians have to put a 1-year old in a leopard-print bikini? Although I do look freaking adorable in that picture, I can't answer that question myself. This is a perfect example of the mixed messages I received as a child. This is why I have an uncanny ability to adapt to the oddest and most unexpected environments with ease. I have no one definition for myself or my tastes.

The Colombian culture is and has always been obsessed with external beauty. For this reason, growing up in a matriarchal family like mine was challenging. I was surrounded by women (on my mom's side) who spent hours working on looking great. Weekly mani-pedis, biweekly hair trims and uniform fashion sense was the norm. They had techniques to shave split ends and make hair shiny with crude oil. Yes, CRUDE OIL! They spent every gathering criticizing and competing with each other. Not one party lacked the weight conversation. "Your too fat!" "You're too bony, have some beans." No one ever really won the secret beauty pageant. It was awkward and mean-spirited. My mom told me a story about these women crowning her the queen of garbage when she was little. Who does that?! In a country obsessed with beauty queens, that was the lowest insult anyone could give a kid. The pressure to be pretty was immense. But the prettier you were the worst it was for you. You would then be targeted by all the other insecure not-so-cute ones in the family ready to pounce on any mistake you made. They were like hyenas waiting for their share of the zebra, salivating for their turn to tear your fashion mistake to pieces.

On the other hand, we attended a church were some women only wore ankle-sweeping skirts and rarely shaved or cut their hair. These women had fussy mustaches, arm-pit bushes, butt-cheek-kissing hair and the sense of style of potatoes. I watched them in awe as they convulsed on the filthy concrete floor with complete abandon. I would stare at their lipstick-less lips utter gibberish and their shadow-less lids flutter over their whitened eyes. Women who act like this probably have no idea who Coco Chanel is and why she liked the number 5 (that's not a pun on their ability to skip the deodorant step of grooming). My church was so strict and my family was so into it, I heard stories about my grandma tying my older siblings to the bed when they misbehaved during Sunday service. These being my first memories of church had a long-lasting impression. As I grew older we moved to different churches who had different doctrines and focused on different laws in the Bible. Although some considered themselves charismatic, they were still fixated on a specific set of rules and social norms as much as the fundamentalist Pentecostals that attended the church I was born in. They may have allowed women to wear pants but they made it their full time job to meddle in people's personal lives to tell them how to live it!

Defying logic, two opposite poles lived happily in one being. I lived by the rules of beauty and bible. I have always been able to follow advice. I never looked to rebel to one or the other. My mother spoke, I listened. My sister scolded me, I straightened up. I walked the arduous path of a martyr while following the latest trend in fashion. I obsessed about my daily devotional and fitting in with the cool crowd. I'm a Libra, that's the only way this makes sense (as you can see, fashion is not my only vice, I also like astrology). I was able to balance it all with a smile on my face. Now it all makes sense, a golden base with brown spots all over. I was born to be a sunny girl with spots of darkness. Said spots are not flaws or blemishes. They blend in on a sea of yellow contentment providing some depth and interest to an otherwise basic color.

I say, allow yourself a leopard print once in a while. Allow yourself to be free to have two distinctively different personalities. Never allow anyone to tell you it's a flaw or that it does not make any sense. What would a leopard be without its spots? And what would we be if everything about ourselves made perfect sense? If spots make sense on a yellow cat to create a magnificent leopard, a hard-core Christian can be allowed to healthily obsess about fashion and beauty. If there's a balance in it all and it all comes together to create some happiness? Let it flow and prance freely across the open spaces.

Why all other colors.

A little about me... OK maybe a lot about me. The first thing you should know about me is that I do not know how to shut up. I talk a whole lot. I always have something to say and I have an opinion about almost everything. It all started at birth, I think, or a little there after.

I was born when my mom and dad were hard-core evangelical Christians. They were church leaders of sorts. I have never met my Godparents, they were missionaries visiting Colombia. That's how hard core they were, they gave me transient Godparents because they were the most perceived holy people they knew! Anyway, that is where my journey began. In a church, an evangelical one, pentecostal in fact.

I was born in 1979 right before the cartel madness in Medellin, Colombia. The city was and remains, in my opinion, the most beautiful in Colombia. Perhaps the most beautiful I have visited in this hemisphere. The people are warm and inviting. They love to open their hearts and homes to family and neighbors. That has had a huge impact in who I am today. My earliest memories are with family. I remember my school uniform, the beans I ate for lunch with my uncle Alberto and sleeping on my dad's tummy. I remember my aunt Gladys and her amazing cooking, the smell of her backyard and the feeling I got from hearing her laugh. I was a happy kid. My family tells me I roamed the town with my dad singing and talking up a storm. He would even take me to the local tavern so I can share the newest word I learned with his friends. I would sing on the tables, recite the latest coffee creamer commercial and imitate the pink panther.

That is just the beginning of my story, a teaser of sorts. Why grey and all other colors? Well because as you read this, my crazy story, you will see how easily one's world view can change in a second. How black and white just does not cut it. Shades of gray was just the beginning. Now I am past technicolor! I am sure my story may cause confusion to some and maybe even help some. My journey has been a roller coaster ride of emotions and experiences. My hope is that my story may help someone. Let someone know they are not alone. Bring a little something to someone who sits in the place where I was. Hopefully by writing this I may also step into my next great adventure with some added introspective wisdom.