Je ne me suis jamais sentie spirituelle dans les bancs d’église, seulement perplexe et confuse. Je ne crois pas en un Dieu qui hait, critique, filtre ou rabroue. J’adore l’Amour et la Paix qui apaisent les douleurs de la vie… Mes prières sont entendues au plus profond de la Terre, cette connaissance – Mon sacrement depuis la naissance. La lumière à travers les arbres, bourdonnant en vibration, comme des essaims d’abeilles… Je termine mon retrait de l’église des hommes, dans ma cathédrale de séquoias… ❤ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Amour & Pax

Let me hold up the mirror to my darkest moments, unafraid to meet the reflections of my struggles and scars. In this unflinching gaze, I uncover seeds of transformation. Let my soul’s whispers—its confessions and longings—echo not just through the chambers of my heart, but into the depths of my being. Teach me to listen, not with ears alone, but with an open spirit, attuned to the symphony of my life—the discord and harmony, the crescendos and stillness. Teach me to embrace myself wholly, not just in the warmth of sunlight but amidst the tempest within. In the stillness between … Continue reading Father,

There are some people I believe are just inherently good people who deserve the best in life, and to see them feeling good makes me happier than anything I can think of. A lot of the time it’s easier to be jealous of someone when they’re happier than you. But there are a select few people in this world (who I could count on both of my hands) who can make me so happy, not with what they say to me or give to me, but with the simple act of smiling or displaying their own delight…❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Good people

Do not speak to her in sentences. Speak to her in the smell of onions—that raw, stinging sweetness browning in the pan, a kitchen fog that is not food, but a memory of hunger. Tell her that when I comb my hair, I am actually feeling her fingers, those long, folded birds that nested over my hands. She was feeding me then. Not bread, but the soft, pale meat of the soul. I must tell her: the things I love in myself are not mine. I am a theft of her. I am wearing her softness like a second skin … Continue reading To My Mother (2012)

Às vezes, o mistério de ser mulher não é um enigma a ser resolvido, mas uma dor que se instala na carne como uma geografia própria. É uma ferida que não se fecha, e o mais estranho: é uma dor que não se aprende. Como aprender o que já se é? Quando uma mulher nasce, ela comete o erro, ou a glória, de nascer para sempre. É uma continuidade insuportável, um estado de ser que não admite pausas. O homem, pobre criança armada, nasce em fragmentos. Ele nasce apenas para ferir, como se o golpe fosse sua única forma de … Continue reading O Mistério e o Barro

Listen. Or do not listen, for the silence is already screaming. I have stayed in this room until I became the room. The night sky is not “above”, it is a liquid stain the exact color of my internal organs. It is a terrifying reminder that I am still functioning, a clock of flesh. Tomorrow is already a pale insect crawling toward me, carrying its burden of hope, that bitter, metallic taste that coats the back of the throat. I have discovered the voids. Between my fingers, there are gasps of nothingness. I save them for the him who does … Continue reading The Impossibility of the Rose

“What inspires you?”Quite simply, love.Having it in my life, or not.Being in it, or not.Being showered in it…or not.To be caressed by yourloving wordsEmbraced by your poems.Or to sit quietlywithout…Without a love letter in handor poemor a sweet melody sung especially for me or with me in mind.As I write the words that illustrate either the absence or presence of love..An Invisible and magical web is woven.Oh to be the subject in youreyes, heart and soul.Like the song says,“let me be the one”I very much want to be the one.and with those deep rooted desiresInspiration is born.Can you relate? Can … Continue reading March 20, 2012

It is in the hollowed-out cavern of my silence that I finally begin to exist. I do not use ink; I write with the sharp, jagged letters of my own noise, that internal clatter that no one hears but which vibrates against my ribs like a trapped bird. I have learned to forget my mistakes, not out of strength, but because I am beautifully, utterly poor of pride. To have pride is to have a ceiling, and I prefer the sky. I strip myself of the “important me” until I am thin enough to slip through the cracks of other … Continue reading The Geography of Silence

Je suis dans cette chambre impersonnelle,Je suis seule et pourtant, étrange, éternelle,Femme, déesse infinie, j’ai mille ans,Tant de choses vécues, au fil des ans.Une à une j’ai mis à bas les barrières,Je n’ai plus peur, je suis mère, guerrière,Des difficultés lourdes, je ne sens plus le joug,La violence ne m’effleure plus, je tends la joue.Les couleurs s’éveillent, comme un matin du monde,J’ose vivre et aimer, m’aimer, entrer dans la ronde,Je suis en paix, belle et pleine de sentiments joyeux,En accord avec la vie, j’avance, instants heureux.Enfin une étincelle est née , a jaillit,Enfin le cœur a gagné cette partie,Pour le … Continue reading Éternelle

Crer é, antes de tudo, uma arquitetura de urgência. Erguemos paredes para não desabar diante do infinito. A crença é essa casa, de teto baixo e janelas exatas, onde nos instalamos com o conforto cego de quem se acomoda no próprio tamanho. Mas o ser, esse bicho inquieto e mudo, teima em crescer no escuro. De repente, a sala aperta. Os ombros roçam nos batentes e a alma descobre, num susto de clareza, que já não cabe nos antigos altares. É preciso o êxodo. A maturidade não é o destino, é o corredor escuro entre uma morada e outra; é … Continue reading O Despejo de Si Mesma