Victoria Amazonica, a podcast by Lina Cuartas
Memories of the Amazon Rainforest
My name is LIna Cuartas, and I will be telling you stories and memories about my adventures in the Amazon Rainforest. But before I begin, I asked myself the question: Who am I telling these stories to?
Who will be listening?
Who are you?
I found my answer, as well as more questions, as I collected a donation in my Little Free Library last month.
It was in a magazine called psychosources, and it had been published by Psychology Today, in 1974!!! When I was just 5 years old. Yes, go ahead, do the math, I am now 50 years old!
The poem was structured like a staircase, with one word as its first line and nine words making up its seventh line.
It inquired:
WHO
WHO ARE YOU?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT YOU CAN?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT YOU CAN CHANGE?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT YOU CAN CHANGE THE WORLD?
And Yes, I am one little human, a female, a mother, a writer, a teacher, an artist, a sister, a wife, a friend, one individual, and nothing I have ever accomplished has ever been achieved by me alone.
Every success, minor or substantial that I have enjoyed, has been the product of many interventions, known or accidental, that other people have contributed to my life’s journey. By telling You my stories, I hope you too will be reminded of this amazing fact; we are a tiny part of a collective called humanity.
Today, April second of the Year 2020, as our realities are being radically altered by an invisible, yet ruthless virus, we are being told to isolate, to stay away from our friends, relatives and our networks of support; all of those crucial relationships that fill our lives with meaning. I suspect the relevance of what I am trying to say about the importance of community may be easier to understand precisely because of our shared crisis. WE are being called to consider the well-being of the collective over our own personal wishes. In the Amazon, that is a given. Noone can survive in such a hostile environment alone. When the river floods the lower villages, people move in with their friends, relatives or even strangers that offer respite spontaneously, without thinking twice about it, upriver. There is a tacit understanding that if there is a need, your neighbor will offer help, or find someone who has the supplies you might be lacking.
So yes, I do think I can change the world, one story at a time. And I think that you, too, can change the world by sharing your own story. It is to you, fellow human being with an open heart, open eyes and ears, that I dedicate Victoria Amazonica. I have seen your eyes. They haunt me. A pair of eyes, surrounded by greenery, are a recurrent scene in my dreams. The eyes, wise and inquisitive, vary in color and shape, but they always look straight at me. They ask, but they also answer, and defy:
WHO
WHO ARE YOU?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT YOU CAN?
WHO ARE YOU TO THINK THAT YOU CAN CHANGE?
Who are you to think that you can change the world?
Welcome to Victoria Amazonica!
Episode 1
The Why
Why Victorias Amazonicas? What are they? Victorias Amazonicas are giant water lilies that live in the Amazon Rainforest. When they were first discovered, they were called Victoria Regias by botanists in order to honor the Young Queen of England, but later on, their name was changed to reflect their origin.
They are large flowering plants connected by thick, strong stems.
Their leaves are massive and beautifully patterned with deep crevices that resemble wrinkles of experience and age on a human face. The leaves open up slowly from tightly folded cocoons covered with thorns. The underside of each leaf has a slightly different purple hue, contrasted with dark green that intensifies as the leaf flattens to cover the water. The ways in which magenta and green are combined in the plant are an artist’s dream.
The blooms are the star of the show, though. Some experts have compared their aroma to ripe pineapple, but it’s not quite the same; the smell is not fruity, but it is pervasive and seems to intensify and diminish as the flower goes through its performance. The buds in which the baby flower is nestled are not as big as the leaves, but they are thicker and also covered with barbs, so that the fish do not destroy the precious flower. I often thought that the Victorias were like a warrior dressed for battle; every surface of the plant, except the petals, is covered with thorns. That’s how I started to believe that these awesome flowers are like the mythical Amazon Warriors. Like them, too Victorias thrive in the tranquil, stagnant pools of the Amazon River, where they often co-exist with the pink dolphins of the Amazon. In these quiet waters, the debris and decomposing matter provide a thick soup of nutrients and life abounds.
Victorias have a long, colorful history, and they have obsessed many people before they seduced my imagination. The first stories I heard were from the natives, Huitotos to be exact, who live in the eastern Colombian Amazon, close to the Putumayo River. The Amazon basin, which is shared by Brasil, Peru and Colombia, is vast, and its forests are rapidly disappearing. Victorias are mentioned within many of the origin stories of the different native communities. Many of the Shamans and healers value the blooms and believe that the essence of Victoria Amazonica has the power to connect the world of the living and the afterlife.
The flower blooms over a 2-day period, during which it changes color from pure white to intense magenta. The performance is enhanced by the physical movement of the flower itself. The flower opens its petals gradually around 5 pm on the first day, glowing white in all its infant glory, its sepals standing erect, to offer its full presence, like a daring ballerina., ready to dance all night long. Around 10 am on the second day, the giant bud closes, often trapping an unfortunate beetle. Around 2 in the afternoon the flower re-opens, assumes an upright position, as if in ecstasy, and its outer petals turn pink and reach down to touch the surrounding water. In the center of the bloom, a pink crown is formed by the inner petals and the yellow stamens release oil, which makes the flower glisten as its pink color intensifies. Around 11 pm that same night, apparently exhausted, the flower closes, bows its head and slowly sinks in order to die underwater. The flower will then decompose to feed the plant that allowed it to dazzle while it was alive. AS its last precious gift, it will leave a seed behind as a token that assures the continuation of the whole plant.
Every single time that I witnessed this extraordinary process,I thought Victorias were the feminine essence Incarnate, woman power made flower.
AS i did more research, I realized that the parallel was much more accurate than I thought, but also, more complex. The leaves, when seen up close, are porous, sort of like a sponge, highly buoyant.They look indestructible from a distance, but they are much more vulnerable than they seem. Every leaf is connected to each other, and to the thick stem which constitutes the line of community of the plant. The plant as a whole suffers when any of its elements is attacked, that’s why even the bulbs are also covered with barbs.
But the essence of the complex Victoria is not only female, as I had thought. The initial white bloom is definitely female, but its gender changes once it closes, trapping its pollinator. The lovesick beetle, which becomes intoxicated by the aroma, is trapped inside the flower overnight, and the flower becomes male. When the flower reopens, releasing its pollen covered victim to go and fertilize another flower, it becomes female again, and shines its magenta colors to celebrate its maturity.
To me, Victorias are a personal totem. AS I grew up, I met and witnessed many women who embodied the fierce spirit of a Victoria Amazonica. They were warriors of life.
I am from Colombia and in my culture, men were often absent or worse, not fully present or reliable. My grandfather abandoned my grandmother, leaving her with 13 children to feed and take care of. My father abandoned my mother and many other women around us confronted the same fate. AS I grew up, women were the axis of existence in my universe. They labored, struggled and overcame, with intelligence, resourcefulness and most importantly, by relying on each other.
Victorias are not just the person who achieves the feat, but also, the feat achieved. Victorias Amazonicas are all those small triumphs that are apparently unremarkable, achieved in daily life. Paying tuition on time, fixing a meal when not much food seems available, turning a bus journey into a luxury tour because of the joy of togetherness. These successes that unfold within our hectic lives suddenly seem much more observable and important in our quarantined lives, and they deserve to be acknowledged. They are are crucial to our personal stories, and are rarely celebrated . I have listened to so many stories of amazing humans who ,within the war of daily survival, with patience and dedication as their weapons, have solved one challenge after another. I have met so many Victorias Amazonicas throughout my life, of varied colors, sizes and origins. They have defeated prejudice, barriers, violence, abuse, gender biases and expectations, societal injustices, abandonment and neglect, and yet, they do not relent.
I also left everything I knew, loved and held dear, not once, but several times, in order to re-invent myself, chase a dream, love, a belief. Every time, I never managed to overcome any obstacles alone. I learned by example, by copying role models and warriors who had, long before me, leapt into the abyss of life and survived to tell the tale. I will start the stories of Victoria Amazonica with my own favorite memories of the Amazon Rainforest, my many little victories in a place where a River as wild and unpredictable as life itself is the boss. So, come along, jump into my canoe and get ready to explore the River of Life. Then, it will be your turn to start telling your own stories, remembering your own Victorias Amazonicas.
With Love, always,
Lina.
The Podcast, each episode available in English or Spanish, is available on Apple Podcasts
https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/victoriaamazonica-podcast-with-lina-cuartas/id1513476190
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Ezomindus
In a valley where silence grew like silver grass, And the mountains seemed to hold their breath, There lived a soul whose name no map could claim—Ezomindus. He was no king of armies, no lord of stone halls, But a traveler of thought, a seeker of questions, A spark that refused to bow to fear or certainty. Ezomindus was born on a night When the moon hung low, swollen with mystery, And the wind whispered secrets through the cracks of the world. The elders, wise yet fearful, said, “This child will wander paths unknown, And his thoughts may burn like fire.” The stars, however, had their own counsel: “This child will wonder, And in his wondering, awaken others.” From his first breath, he listened—not just to people, But to the heartbeat beneath the soil, The rhythm of rivers carving their patient paths, The quiet ache of shadows folding over themselves. He heard the sorrow hidden inside laughter, The longing beneath simple words, The unspoken truths between two people’s eyes. While the villages built houses of brick and pride, Ezomindus built bridges of questions. “Why does the river never hold its shape?” he asked. “Why does the flame dance even as it dies?” “Why does the heart ache for what it cannot name?” His questions were neither rude nor loud; They were gentle arrows of thought, Piercing the illusions of routine and comfort. He wandered through forests older than memory, Where trees leaned close as if to hear him think. Roots twisted like ancient riddles, Leaves shimmered with the dust of forgotten stars. “Everything changes,” the trees whispered, “Even the one who asks.” Ezomindus was not afraid of change. He feared the stillness that numbed the mind. He saw cities wrapped in golden noise, People chasing shadows of approval, Running toward mirrors that reflected only themselves. He whispered to them softly, “Your chains are not iron—they are thoughts You never dared to examine.” Some laughed. Some scowled. Some left. A few felt something stir inside, A small trembling recognition of a mind not yet free. He carried no sword, yet battled storms of doubt. He climbed mountains that seemed to pierce the sky, Where air thinned into honesty, And only the purest thoughts could survive. At the summit, there was no throne, No crown, no prize—only a mirror of ice. In that mirror, he saw himself Not as hero nor as failure, But as a river of becoming. His courage and his fear flowed together, His wounds glimmered like constellations, His mind stretched out like the horizon itself. He understood at last: To conquer the world is smaller than conquering the mind. So he descended, carrying no gold, No trophies, no scrolls of fame, Only awareness. He spoke in marketplaces, empty fields, In the hush of midnight and the blaze of noon. “Do not fear the darkness,” he said. “It is the canvas upon which your light can paint.” As years passed, Ezomindus did not grow old in spirit. His eyes remained young with curiosity, His voice tender with truth. Children gathered around him, Drawn to the way he asked questions Instead of offering answers. “What is strength?” one child asked. He smiled and replied, “Strength is choosing truth Even when lies are easier, Even when the world calls for silence.” “What is freedom?” another asked. He touched the soil, the roots, the wind. “Freedom,” he said softly, “Is seeing your own thoughts Without becoming their prisoner.” “And what is love?” they asked. He paused, feeling the wind trace his weathered face. “Love,” he said, “Is the courage to let another soul breathe, To honor their mind as you honor your own, To walk beside them without claiming their journey.” Ezomindus became a legend, Not of battles won or lands conquered, But of minds awakened. He did not build empires of stone; He built awakenings, Invisible yet eternal, A revolution of thought, quiet yet unstoppable. When his final evening came, The sky blazed in amber farewell, And the valley seemed to lean closer in sorrow. He lay beneath the same moon That had watched his first breath. Around him stood those Who had once been lost in noise, Now awake to the rhythm of their own hearts. “Master,” they whispered, “What remains when you are gone?” Ezomindus looked at them, At their trembling hope, At their eyes opening wide to their own truths. “I remain,” he said, “In every thought you dare to examine, In every fear you face with courage, In every moment you wake instead of drift asleep.” His breath faded like a candle surrendering to dawn, Yet the valley did not grow silent. It hummed with awareness, Alive with the minds he had stirred. Ezomindus was never a body— He was a question set on fire, A space between impulse and reflection, A courage to look within. He was the whisper that said: Do not live asleep. Do not fear the depths of your own mind. For the greatest journey Is not across oceans or stars— It is through the vast, uncharted realm Of your own consciousness. Long after, children would trace his steps in the forest, Listening to the trees, to the rivers, Learning to see the unseen. They carried no scrolls, no crowns, Only the seed of questioning he had planted, A spark that refused to die. And so Ezomindus lives, Not in stone or story, But in every mind that dares to pause, Every heart that dares to reflect, Every soul that refuses to sleep While the world drifts blindly onward. For life is fleeting, And the noise of the world can drown the quiet, But the mind that awakens is eternal. Ezomindus taught this: To live is to be aware, To be aware is to be free, To be free is to walk the endless path Of truth, courage, and love. And somewhere, when the wind bends the silver grass And the moon hangs low like a question, A voice stirs inside the restless heart: “Do not live asleep. Do not fear your own depths. For the greatest journey Is not across oceans or stars— It is through the vast, uncharted Realm of your own mind.” Ezomindus is not gone— He is the question set on fire, The mind that will not sleep, The whisper inside every heart That chooses awareness over comfort, Courage over fear, Truth over illusion. And the valley, ever alive, Breathes on, Shimmering with the light of a mind awake.
By The best writer about 15 hours ago in Motivation
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