Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A poet’s voice has a way of lasting from generation to generation and, in each era, the poet’s words ring true. Born in England on March 6, 1806, Elizabeth Barrett Browning was the author of the poem, How Do I Love Thee, which has endured the test of time and is considered one of the finest poems of the Victorian era. Most students in high school will, at one time or another, study her poem and listen to the rhythm and cadence of its words, perhaps opening their hearts to the poem’s deeper meaning, a meaning that transcends time. 

Her opening stanzas begin with a question: How do I love thee? Then she begins a series of answers to the question posed: Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, etc. She sees love as a “quiet need,” and as something freely, purely and passionately given. By the end of the poem, Elizabeth has given profound new insights to something we often take for granted. Writing the poem was also her way of expressing her love for her husband, Robert Browning, who had introduced himself to her as an avid fan of her poetry via letters. He wrote: “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett.” Unfortunately, Robert Browning was considered a lower-class gold-digger by Elizabeth’s father and, due to her marriage to him, she was disinherited from her father’s estate and lived most of her married life abroad in Europe. 

Beginning her writing career at the age of six, Elizabeth took on the social issues of the day in her poems, especially the enslavement of Africans in Jamaica where her family owned land and businesses. Her adherence to the belief that slavery was cruel and violated human rights led her to put pen to paper and write rousing poems such as The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point in which she describes the brutal beating and rape of a black woman who, even in the midst of suffering horrific cruelty, still cursed the slave-owners. 

What does an English poet writing in the 1800s mean to Latinos in Arizona today? First of all, Elizabeth used her artistic abilities to send vital messages of love and hope to heal the sufferings of those around her. In a similar fashion, hundreds of artists living in Arizona and across the Southwest have responded to the unjust treatment of our immigrant community by employing their artistic abilities to challenge the destructive waves of prejudice and racism that rise again and again to injure thousands and victimize innocents with abusive, unjust laws. 

In spite of suffering chronic illnesses, Elizabeth was able to rise above the discrimination that existed against women writers in the masculine-dominated Victorian era and continued throughout her life to look deep into her own heart for the things that truly mattered to her. In considering the women recently honored as Trailblazers in Arizona, and those who shared in creating the PBS Special, Makers: Women Who Make America, I am grateful for the women, mothers, grandmothers, tías and primas who have stood up to the cruelties they have encountered, expressing in so many ways to family, friends and community the same love Elizabeth wrote about in her poems.

The last words of Elizabeth’s poem, How Do I Love Thee?, summarize the world of love in a most profound way, and lead us to understand that love on earth is only the beginning of eternal love:

I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

When I was a child, there was a tax man who would come to our house on 7^th Avenue and Pima Street and sit with my father with a small calculator and papers that made no sense to me. My father would invariably get a refund and that made me happy; el gobierno was sending us money, so life was good. I had no idea that we were receiving a refund because my father’s income was low, below the poverty line, or close to it. 

Over the years, I have wondered about “tax time,” with a new anticipation and, certainly, with great concern. Millions share that concern as they try to figure out how much money they made, what percentage of that is taxable, and how much tax they might still owe? The numbers are often not in their favor, and they discover they must pay more tax even though their take-home pay had been habitually diminished by various tax obligations.

Several years ago as I wrote my novel, Let their Spirits Dance, I sat at a table in a small restaurant off Central Avenue in South Phoenix. As my hand rested on the table top, I felt a warm spot on the surface and thought perhaps someone had placed a warm plate or hot coffee cup on the table. However, there was no evidence that anyone had sat there before I came in. I even ran my hand under the table, thinking there might be an electrical outlet under the table that was shorting out. There was none. Understanding that, as a writer, things come to me from “left field,” I immediately took a small notebook and wrote a reflection that fit into the story of Sergeant Jesse Ramirez, the Vietnam veteran who had been killed in 1968 during the Tet Offensive. His sister, Teresa, was voicing her pain over losing her brother, and it came in the form of a debt she owed the universe.

There was a balance owing in my life that day – a debt of tears, pleas, cries, energy pushing to the surface. How can you owe a debt to the universe? But I did. And the universe wouldn’t be conned into taking anything less than the cold chill in my heart, strange payment for the warmth that was to follow.

At tax time, millions of Americans owe money. But what does a person owe when a cold, hard chill exists within? Teresa owed a debt, but it had nothing to do with money. It had to do with the bitterness and anger she felt over her brother’s death. Her debt was to be an exchange: the cold chill for the warmth. Sometimes the debts we owe have little to do with tax time, or the IRS. We owe hatred, anger, revenge, remorse; the list is endless. Until we pay the debt by giving it up to the universe, we will not receive the opposite – love, forgiveness and peace. 

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent, or Cuaresma, a word referring to the number 40, the days from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, counting only weekdays and not Sundays. Non-church-goers felt perfectly at ease going up to the altar to receive their ashes as the call was for sinners to repent, and we all fit that category. Cuaresma reminded us of Christ fasting for 40 days in the wilderness, suffering, praying and being tempted by Satan before He began his earthly ministry. 

What did you give up for Lent? This question took over our minds, as we struggled with ways to show how much we were willing to suffer. We, Latinos, take quite quickly to suffering, as we have often taken the brunt of hardships due to injustice and discrimination. There is always someone in the family labeled la sufrida, a woman who has put up with a violent husband, or swindlers for children, or a host of other sufferings, and has endured it all. “Se aguantó,” (she endured) family would say, through her faith, sheer will or not having anywhere else to go. 

Most of the kids I knew chose to give up gum or candy. It was a hard choice, but one that actually benefited us. None of us ever went to a dentist and we had no sense of dental hygiene, nor the fact that our teeth were connected to our gums and everything needed care. I would wager that we all have missing teeth as adults. Another popular thing to give up was cussing. That was hard, but it also led us to come up with very creative ways to say things when we yelled at each other in anger. No one that I knew ever gave up tortillas, or rice, beans or carne asada on a daily basis. On Fridays during Lent, we all fasted from meat, but made up for the loss on the weekends.

There was a huge plus to Cuaresma, and that was capirotada, the rich bread pudding baked in the oven or steamed in a pot. Each cook had her own mysterious way of preparing this delightful dish but, nowadays, the mystery has been unraveled via the Internet and ingredients are listed as: stale bread, raisins, nuts, apple slices, cinnamon, anise, cloves, egg yolks, milk, a pinch of salt and sprinklings of lemon and orange juice. Some cooks spread this mixture over a tortilla, others just set it in a baking dish. Capirotada made up for all the candy we had given up.

What is it about suffering that is redemptive? This I have never understood, but I do know that suffering tests us; it makes us take a look at who we are and what we are doing and, more importantly, where our hearts are. Are we all about finding easy pleasure? I’ve learned that it’s not what you suffer, but how you suffer it that makes you holy. What you give up for Lent is not as important as loving yourself and others through life’s worst sufferings, ultimately realizing that joy, your own Easter Sunday, is at the end of it all.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

A big win came to me unexpectedly this past year in the strangest way; not at all something that most people would consider a “win” – yet it was huge. It came to me on the evening of June 12, a Tuesday evening, as I left my daughter Deborah’s house. The night was quiet and all seemed tranquil. As I turned left onto 7^th Street, from a residential street just north of McDowell, I saw liquid splash all over my windshield. It startled me, and I instantly braked. Standing in my car lights was a man dressed in casual clothes with earphones attached, as if he were just walking through the neighborhood. My first thought was one of horror. I had almost hit him!

The man then began to yell at the top of his lungs and threw an object at my windshield, which sounded like metal. He came around to the driver’s window and was literally jumping up and down in rage, screaming obscenities that I had not heard since my divorce twenty years ago. He continued throwing things at me, unknown objects that made loud sounds – boom, boom, boom or whack, whack – it’s hard to tell what things sound like on a car’s surface. Later, I discovered he had cracked my windshield and bent the frame around the driver’s window.

I rolled down my window just a bit, and was actually trying to ask him if he was okay. As one of my aunts once told me, the “S” on my forehead was not for Stella, it was for “sucker.” I have been known to continue forward in the face of danger, often not counting the cost to myself. I believe that if the man had had a gun, he would have shot me and run off into the neighborhood, probably unidentified for years to come. Surprisingly, the street was quiet, very quiet for 7^th Street, and this was a blessing, as traffic did not pose a problem. 

I finally drove away, knowing that I would not be able to get a straight answer from the enraged man, perhaps one under the influence of alcohol or drugs. Then the “big win” came. As I drove away, I noticed that my hands were not ice cold, and my heart was beating at a normal rate. It seemed as if nothing had happened. I drove all the way home in this condition. I knew I was not in shock, as symptoms of shock are easy to identify. 

I arrived home and simply reported to my son, “I’ve been attacked on the street.” He looked at me and said, “Why are you so calm?” All I could say was, “I don’t know.” At any other time, I would have been shaking, my hands trembling, my teeth chattering, as I used to get in the desperate years of domestic violence in my marriage. I called my daughter and asked her to look out her door at the street corner to see if police were there. She told me all was quiet. It was then that I discovered my “big win.” The violent man had not made me flinch; he had not touched me internally. So, that is what it means to live by the spirit and not by the flesh. The sensation was wondrous.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

Don’t be surprised if you see someone carrying a large platter with fish, meat, rice, a dollar bill and other significant offerings to a nearby busy intersection. This is a New Year’s tradition observed by the Vietnamese and represents an offering to the gods to prevent any accidents from taking place there in the new year. In other countries, such as Iran, people observe purification ceremonies. The Persian New Year, or Nouruz, is a 13-day celebration that includes the tradition of jumping over fires. Bonfires are built and many Middle Eastern men and boys jump over the fires as a sign of purification for the New Year. To avoid problems with city fire codes in the U.S., bonfires are often built on beaches or open land where fire hazard is at a minimum.

I recall one child in my second-grade class years ago, who was from the island of Tonga. After a week’s lesson about the dangers of playing with matches and a presentation by Fireman Bob and his trusty Dalmatian, Spotty, he related to us that he also “jumped fires.” The news that “he jumps over fires” went through my class, and through the entire school, like wildfire and, before long, I had to prepare another lesson with Policeman Bill on what happens to people who jump through fires within the city limits. This served as an eye-opener for children already making plans to imitate this curious and fascinating New Year’s tradition. 

Sweeping the house on New Year’s Day is considered bad luck in many Asian cultures. One must not sweep away dirt on the floor as this could be interpreted as “sweeping away good luck.” Don’t take a shower on New Year’s Day either, as you may be washing away all the good luck. I suppose living for a day in a dirty room with an unwashed body won’t hurt in the long run. Indeed, the new year will become brighter as the house is swept and the body is washed. 

Red envelopes filled with money, lai see, given by the Chinese at the New Year are often decorated with gold characters expressing good wishes for the coming year. The color red signifies good luck, and the money signifies prosperity.

In one Mexican tradition, buñuelos, thin, fried tortillas topped with sweet syrup or white powered sugar, are often served on New Year’s Eve. I recall my sister making these delicious, high-calorie sweets, which are reminiscent of Indian fry bread and are quite addictive. Taking a shot of mezcal and daring one another to eat the worm at the bottom of the bottle are also amusing practices among Latinos, and, of course, eating menudo in the morning for la cruda, the tenacious hangover, is written in stone.

A custom you may want to imitate from our neighbors in the Middle East is offering your loved ones a kiss on New Year’s Day and this wish: May you live for one hundred years.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad and Android optimized versions

Juan Diego saw the lady for the first time on December 9, 1531, as he made his way through a dark, rocky hillside to Tenochtitlan to attend mass. She was dressed in the elegant garb of a princess, her robe of a scarlet color signifying wisdom, her black belt announcing her pregnancy, and her blue-green cloak of stars alluding to her heavenly power. A temple to Tonantzin, Earth Mother, had once existed in the place where she now appeared, and Talking Eagle, her faithful servant, now wondered if the ancient goddess had come back to visit earth. The wondrous woman’s skin and features were dark as were Talking Eagle’s. To his surprise, she spoke to him in his native tongue, Nahuatl, in a melodious voice like the trickling of a gentle waterfall. 

So lovingly did the lady speak to him that Talking Eagle stopped in his tracks. “Juanito, Juan Dieguito, where are you going my son whom I love like a small and tender child? Where are you going?” 

She addressed him by his new name, and immediately, Juan Diego took on a new image that would forever link Indians to Spaniards, in a dance that would captivate the heart of believers from all corners of the world. He knelt at her feet and told her he was to attend mass in the city.

Very clearly the lady spoke again, looking at him tenderly: “I want you to know who I am. I am the ever-Virgin Mary, Mother of the true God who gives life and maintains its existence. I desire a church in this place that I may always show my love and compassion for your people.” 

Her peace and love reached the man who had now become “Juan Diego,” and he listened further as she directed him to go the bishop in Tenochtitlan and tell him all he had seen and heard. Juan Diego had no success as he delivered the lady’s message to the bishop and, on his way home, he again encountered the lady who smiled tenderly and simply told him to return to the bishop the next day. 

Ridiculed and discounted as a dreamer, Juan Diego again was not able to convince the bishop, who asked for a sign from the lady. She, in turn, in a third appearance told him to “Come back tomorrow, the bishop will have his sign.” Tending his uncle, Juan Diego did not return until a day later, and on December 12, 1531, “Juan Dieguito,” as the Lady tenderly called him, carried in his tilma the roses she had asked him to gather from the top of Tepeyac Hill. She arranged the flowers in his tilma and, after presenting the roses to the bishop, he saw impressed on the rough fabric, the image of the lady he had seen on Tepeyac Hill, la Virgen de Guadalupe, she who treads on serpents. 

Juan Diego lived up to his ancient name, Talking Eagle, as his words soared through the heavens, an eagle telling of la Virgen’s abiding love.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad and Android optimized versions

“She’s wearing her Virgin of Guadalupe medal,” Mom said. “She’s taking it to her grave.” More tears. Music was playing in the background, organ music, old English hymns. Tía didn’t speak English and would have been more comfortable with mariachi music. It was all part of what we expected at the funeral home – none of the owners were Mexican.

I leaned closer to Mom, smelling the fragrance of her favorite perfume, Tweed. She took out a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her tears. I put my arm around her waist. I was a child, but Mom was crying, and she needed me. “She looks beautiful,” I said, and I knew I was lying. We moved a few steps to where la familia was sitting, Tía’s kids. By then, Tía’s husband had died years ago, and only her kids were left to scrabble and fight over who would keep the house and whatever was left in savings from Tía’s social security checks. Rumor had it that Tía had kicked them all out of her hospital room, angry because they wouldn’t take her home. 

The oldest daughter stood up to hug Mom. “Te acompaño en tu sentimiento” (I accompany you in your grief), Mom said softly. Both women were hugging and crying. I stood by silently and, when the daughter bent down to hug me, I said, “I’m sorry,” and she patted my head and smiled. 

Now we had to go through an assembly line of sorts. Mom went from one person to another – daughters, sons, and grandchildren – with the same greeting of comfort. I saw one of the girls I knew from school, one of Tía’s granddaughters, and she had her hair done up in curls. I had never seen her with her hair done, and it startled me. Instead of saying, “I’m sorry,” I shook her hand.  

In one far corner of the room was a man crying; his thin shoulders were slumped over and his face was buried in his hands. Mom walked up to him but he didn’t stand up, so Mom sat next to him and put her arm around him. I noticed no one else walked up to him. Before Mom could say the greeting, the man buried his face into her shoulder. “She forgives you, Chavo,” Mom said, “moms don’t hold revenge in heaven.” The man blubbered words I couldn’t understand and soon another man, an older cousin who looked like a gangster, went up to Chavo and said, “Let’s go outside.” 

Mom shook her head and Chavo stood up and walked out. I looked out the open door and heard the roar of a motorcycle, and Mom said, “I guess Chavo got away.” 

Later, I found out Chavo was Tía’s favorite, her baby, and he had broken his mom’s heart by getting into drugs. “Don’t ever run away from my funeral,” Mom said to me, “Remember, moms don’t hold revenge in Heaven.” 

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad and Android optimized versions

Yet Columbus’ name and his deeds have lived on for over 500 years, and, every October, we take a close look at this Italian seafarer and wonder about his origins, his thoughts, and learn of the loss of favor he suffered in his later years when the Spanish royalty turned on him, took his governorship away and stripped him of landholdings that were promised to his descendants.

Born in Genoa, Italy, sometime before October 31, 1451, Columbus earned a reputation as a maritime explorer for the Crown of Castile, after convincing King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella that he could find a short route to Asia that would eliminate rounding the southern coast of Africa. With a blessing from the royal couple and a mandate to accomplish what he had pledged to do, he set sail.

Life took an astonishing turn of events for Columbus when he anchored in what is now the Bahamas on October 12, 1492. His three ships, the Niña, the Pinta and the Santa María, arrived on the shores of an island he named San Salvador. Later he would explore Hispañola (today the Dominican Republic and Haiti) and other nearby islands in the Caribbean. He noted that the Indian tribes he encountered were “kind and gentle,” yet this did not stop him from beginning a campaign of domination and enslavement, which would be the undoing of the so-called “savages” who inhabited the regions he claimed for Spain. 

Had the native Taino Indians known that their civilization would be destroyed by the newcomers, they might have taken up arms and vanquished Columbus and his sailors before they got off their ships, but, they did not know their own dark future.

By 1836, the gloriousness of Columbus’ exploration of the New World was challenged by Oaxacan historian, Don Carlos María de Bustamante, and he declared that October 12, 1492, was the most villainous day in history, as it established slavery in America. However, in 1892, 400 years after the landing of Columbus, Mexico was still celebrating Columbus’ achievements, rejoicing in the discovery of America and the advancement of European culture westward. 

Twenty-six years later, in 1918, Antonio Caso also took a less sanguine view of the Columbian experience; instead of praising European domination, he turned his attention to the people who had risen from the epoch of subjugation: La Raza, the people of mixed indigenous and European blood. In 1928, Mexico officially declared the Día de la Raza as a national holiday. José Vasconcelos, Mexican philosopher and politician, expanded the concept of La Raza to that of a universal race encompassing all ethnicities: La Raza cósmica.

In recent decades, the questioning of Columbus’ stature as the “discoverer” of the new continent has been supported by the realization that other explorers had preceded him in the Americas, such as the Norsemen of Scandinavia. Mexican Americans, Latinos and Chicanos have all joined forces in downplaying the importance of Columbus Day, and now prefer to celebrate Día de la Raza. 

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad and Android optimized versions

Father Hidalgo was not strict about his role as a priest, and did not believe much in celibacy. He proved this by fathering two daughters while he was a priest. He also had a passion for gambling, and took to joining the people in their fiestas and celebrations. He had a great social conscience, however, and truly loved the people he served. He saw how unjustly the Indians were treated by the Spanish, and resolved to free them from the “tax of shame” that they had paid for too long.

On September 16, 1810, Father Hidalgo climbed the tower of his church in Dolores, Mexico, early in the morning, rang the church bells and implored the people to follow him. The people gathered and heard a fiery speech, asking them, “Who will follow me?” Then Hidalgo cried out in a loud voice: “¡Que viva la Virgen de Guadalupe! ¡Que viva la independencia! ¡Que viva México!” Responding to his brave words were three men, trained in military combat, who would become his most powerful generals: Ignacio Allende, Juan Aldama and José Mariano Jiménez. 

Father Hidalgo’s army grew to over 80,000 and had many victories, yet they also burned, looted, killed and stole property from gachupines and criollos. Hidalgo was beside himself trying to control them. As his army stood at the gates of Mexico City, ready to invade, Father Hidalgo could go no further; the slaughter would be too great. So, he relented, enraging his generals. Soon his army met defeat at the hands of the Royalist Army. Later, Allende and Aldama were questioned about the looting, stealing and killing and they denied being part of it. Father Hidalgo did not; he claimed responsibility for what his army had done, saying, “May God have mercy on me!”

The following year, on March 21, 1811, Hidalgo and his generals, while en route to the United States to purchase supplies to replenish their weakened army, were captured by General Elizondo of the Royal Army, then bound in chains and transported to Chihuahua to await execution. Eventually, their severed heads would be hung in iron cages on the four corners of the Alhóndiga de Granaditas in Guanajuato. Anyone who looked upon them with sympathy was threatened with death by Royalist soldiers. Ten years went by, and the remains of the heroes of the War for Mexican Independence grew to have great significance to the people of Mexico and stirred them to continue the fight for freedom. 

During the 98 days of his imprisonment in a tower, Father Hidalgo wrote messages of thanks on the walls of his cell, thanking his captors for their kindness. The morning of his execution, July 30, 1811, Father Hidalgo gave his jailers candy that he had hidden under his pillow, a bittersweet gesture of farewell to comfort his executioners, who were heartbroken over the task they had to perform. 

The word “hidalgo” means nobleman. Father Hidalgo lived up to his name; he lived and died as a nobleman – the Father of Mexican Independence. 

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version

Dreams are unseen, yet they can bring messages that are as real to us as if someone were standing there in person telling us what to do next. Dreams are part of the language of your own soul. When the question of language comes up at workshops, I often tell people, “It doesn’t matter what languages you speak, as long as you understand the language of your own soul.” 

In a dream, a person might see a tree, or a huge snowstorm, or a half-empty glass of water. What does it mean? Here is where each dreamer must ask questions of the dream, and search for a personal meaning that will most likely have nothing to do with any other person.

Currently, my newest book, Writing through Revelations, Visions and Dreams, will soon be downloadable as an e-book, and will also be available in print. In the book, I discuss at length the magical messages sent by the invisible world and how their power can reach us in our daily lives.

Every August, I recall three dynamic dreams that are related to some of the most important people in my life: my father, my mother and my beloved sister, Rosie, who all died in the month of August. Dreams can heal; they can bring prophetic messages that will change  your life and make all things new again.

The dream about my Dad in 1995 led me to an elegant, salmon-colored, spiral staircase that climbed into the heavens. My father’s words, “It’s right there what you have to do next, m’ija; it’s right in front of you,” led me to the writing world. This dream also healed me of a sense of loss of self, and restored my purpose for living.  

In August, 1994, after Mom’s death, I experienced one recurring thought: “I don’t know how to live without my mother.” I actually got physically sick as I mourned my Mom. Then, one night, a dream came to my rescue. I saw Mom coming into a room with my oldest sister, Linda, and heard this booming message: “You’re next!” Immediately I said, “I can’t be next; I’m one of the babies of the family!” I awoke with that terrifying message in my mind and was confused until the dream revealed the truth: That’s how you live without your mother – as if you’re next! Live life to the fullest, loving others and receiving love. Live as if you’re next!

In August, 2002, when I lost my sis, Rosie, my heart was broken almost beyond repair. She had been my soul friend, my second mother, and now she was gone. The recurring thought about my sister’s death was: “I can’t replace her.” One night, after months of depression, I dreamed that I was at the gym working out and saw my sister. We talked for a bit, and, then, I went out of the gym to discover that my car had been stolen. I said to myself in the dream, “I’m going to have to call my insurance company and they’ll have to get me a replacement car or give me money for the loss.”

I awoke from the dream thinking I had to call my insurance company, but soon the dream’s revelation reached my conscious mind: You don’t need a replacement for your sister, because she’s still there; it’s you who has to get used to the new relationship. Instantly, I felt as if tons of bricks had been taken off my shoulders and I was able to “return to life” again. She was still there!

Dreams speak to us from deep within, and, if we search for their meaning, they can heal our deepest wounds.

Stella Pope Duarte was born and raised in South Phoenix. She began her award-winning career in 1995 after she had a dream in which her deceased father told her that her destiny was to become a writer. Contact her at stellapopeduarte.com.

See this story in print here:

Click here for iPad optimized version