Saturday, December 21, 2013

my new book "absence"

absence by amalia mayita mendez | Make Your Own Book

A meditation on the moments in-between breaths, "absence" is about going deeper into each experience and finding the seed of truth. Using the images as a discipline and daily practice, the photographs become a visual diary of a contemplative journey.  

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

The Mountain

The mountain called me back to her
Speaking to me in her silent language
Guiding me to her
I was there
Not knowing how I had arrived
Only knowing that days before I had longed to see her
Longed to feel her waters rush over me

When I realized where I was
I cried
Because time twisted itself around me
Wrapped itself
Turning tomorrow into yesterday
And with the gentle breeze on my face
It touched that part of me that had been hidden,
In becoming full with the wind
I recognized the absence that I had forgotten

It was the mountain again,
That day,
Saying “remember”
I cried
Driving slowly down her breast
I could barely control the descent
She wanted me for herself
Wanted me to stay
It would be the place where once I had been born naked
And now I would die covered with the sorrow of longing for this untouchable love

It was not my time to go
I would not go
No matter how breathtaking and beautiful she was
I decide my moments
Not her
Not my mind
Not these memories
Not him

So with tears in my eyes and a tremor in my being
I fought her
Screamed for my freedom
I held on strongly
And I won

She still waits for me

There is more to do
More to see
More to learn

I will come to her when I am ready
I will choose my destiny

Friday, March 16, 2012


There is her silent calling,
a tiny golden thread that leads directly to the center point of my existence.
There is no reasoning behind it that I can understand,
only my knowing that this is the truth.
Her exhale is my inhale.
If you strip me naked, beyond skin and flesh,
what you will find is her essence.
The scent of grace in the form of a yellow rose.
When I awaken it is her beauty that I see
and when I sleep I imagine her delicate hands holding another.
Please don't ask me to explain where the birth place of this love comes from.
It bewilders me.
I only know that it is my purpose for my living.
Her eyes are in everyone that I see.
Her silent call to act, to be, to love 
echoes through my being...
In the grandeur of her vastness, some tiny part of herself has made a home in me.
Did she know this before she bid us farewell?
She must have because she held me just enough, listened just enough, smiled just enough for me to live a fuller life, to love my mother more and be grateful for the gifts I do not always recognize.

When the breeze touches me just so, I hear the earth whisper back to me the sound of beauty, the sound of my dear beloved... 
L i n d a


Sunday, March 4, 2012

a visit to the community

opening the doors, the light entered the musty room where a life had been carelessly thrown into piles of papers and damp clothes.
a temporary holding place, an empty room that could hold this family, their stuff...
it had to be emptied, this room was for someone else.
and so began the task of having to literally step into the life of these unknown people.
picking up pieces of what to me was nothing, but to them was a necessary part of the structure of their day to day living.
the way everything had been thrown in, the way an old dirty shirt sat with a dusty hair brush next to a rusted hammer, all on the gritty floor, the way I was violating this privacy, this intimate collection of someone's life...
it was too much to bear. I hid the tears that exploded in my heart. this family had so very little and what they had was falling to pieces and all I could see was their poverty. all I could feel was the worthlessness of not treasuring what they did have.
it was pity.
and as I touched and handled this stuff, I suddenly recognized that this was far from compassion. 
this was my own poverty, my own sorrow, my own worthlessness. 
what good could I do by contributing more lack, more judgment, more and more and more of nothing.
so I made a conscious decision, right then and there. 
this life belonged to someone, these things had a story. 
not my story, THEIR story, their life. 
these pieces were just a part of someone's experience, an experience that belonged to them. these were not victims, but incredible and precious people who did not need my pity. I needed them.

as we finished emptying the room, I carefully placed the clothes in a bag. the papers in a pile. covered the bed with plastic out on the courtyard. I thanked these unknown faces. 
already they had offered me more than I could ever offer them.


Saturday, March 3, 2012


An opening leads to an opening.
A pathway that shifts with every movement it senses, 
guided by heartbeats and the opening and closing of eyes.
It hears you, listening with it's eyes, watching you from the inside out.
This is of your making, your doing, your act of motion.
Follow your footsteps to the source,
this walk is yours to climb,
yours to hold,
yours to be,
yours to live,
So live.
Please, live and come back to yourself.

Thursday, March 1, 2012


I begin falling into myself,
dropping, flying, hollowing in.
An endlessness of sorrow and of joy,
the pin drop point of experience
that contains everything within itself.
This must be the birth place of compassion
because for a moment I am crying with you
and for a moment your happiness is mine too
and I can feel everything, and I am falling into you
and within myself.
There is no landing, 
the falling is my only resting place.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012


She appears unexpectedly
through the crevices of thoughts and leaves and space.
She arrives bathing you in herself.
There is no escaping her covering of you 
inside and out.
You must breathe her.
And inside of you, 
you fall to your knees
because her grace is your beauty.