Finding Frida

I am currently sitting in Atlanta Int'l Airport, waiting for my connection flight home after a soul journey to Mexico City. I have pre-Hispanic music in my headphones in an attempt to keep some of the magic I found in Mexico alive within.

The story I want to tell you begins back in September, on the eve of Latinee History Month. Prior to this phase of my life, I was not deeply connected with Frida Kahlo. I knew she was an artist and that she was a feminist icon, but beyond that, I knew nothing at all. That night, I dreamt of her death, of her final writings and personal property being sealed for 50 years, and of an older man who loved her greatly dying shortly after her. I was shown people who still grieved her loss, and I was given 3 sticks of Santo Palo, along with a garland made up of wooden tropical birds.

When I woke up on September 15, I immediately began researching what I had been shown, only to learn the accuracy of the details. I threw myself into her biographies, paintings, love letters, journals, and even a cookbook written by one of her stepdaughters. I planned a trip to Coyoacan, Mexico, for the end of October, when the veil is thinnest.

The 1st full day in the city was a straight away to her family home, called Cassa Azul. To stand in a darkened room with her clothes that had been sealed for the 50 years I had dreamed about was weighty in a way I have yet to find the words for. Her casts, corsets, and even hospital gown with paint of it took her from a legend in my head to a flesh and blood woman. I walked where her feet once walked, I looked out at her courtyard as she must have done countless times, and it was like she was standing right next to me. I spent hours in the museum absorbing as much as I could.

One of the museum signs shared stories of what people had said about her, one in particular resonating with my spirit and how I show up in the world. A former lover said that you could hear her long before she entered the room because of how she adorned herself, and that children on the street would tease her, asking where the circus was. She dressed just as she wanted to, and just look at the lasting impression it left behind.

Monday night, I wondered why Frida had come to me. What was it she wanted me to do? Despite feeling so deeply connected to Coyoacan and forging more of a relationship with Frida, I did not yet feel closer to an answer to what she wanted of me. That night, I dreamt of her dresses, and I was having a conversation with someone about how we needed a cultural shift. The person said but I am just one person, and as I looked around at Frida's clothing, I noted that so was she, and look at the impact she had made. My dream continued on from there, but it feels right to sit with this sentiment for now. When things are dark, it can feel overwhelming as just one person, and the problems are so large. But perhaps some of the magic, some of the power is being so blindingly ourselves that we create local seismic shifts around us. There is no confusion that Frida was the main character in her life. How many people in this very moment make themselves so digestible that they are not even the main character in their story?

I went to Mexico to find Frida, but what I found alongside her was an everyday magic, rituals waiting to be fulfilled, and this aliveness or maybe awareness that pulsed from everything. I found something in Mexico that leaves an ache in me as I return to the States, and the energy is dormant. Ignored? forgotten? The ancient is not forgotten in Mexico, and it is like there is something there readily available to plug into. A wildness? sacredness? A doorway?