Viva la Vida. These words translate as "long live life." It was said by Louis XV1 at his execution during the French Revolution. It is a warning tale for the living. My final painting was completed in 1954 and featured colorful still-life Mexican watermelons chopped in various ways with full fruits in the middle. I was illustrating, 'We all come from the same source, yet every one of us is unique. Long live life in your own unique manner.' I, like the doomed English king, had accepted the certainty of my death. I knew my body wouldn't endure much longer, and my spirit was exhausted, right down to the fractured bones. I never told myself, "It is time to go." I just let it happen. I did not plot my death, but neither did I attempt to recover. By then, I had been devastated by tragedy; my brave heart had made its affirmations to no avail. Like an old, rotting Mexican home, I was disintegrating, brick by brick. In the end, only the chimney remained intact, and the faint odor of smoke penetrated everything. Char had burnt my walls, and the lungs of my house had been ravaged by fire.
When I looked into the mirror, I could see the girl who started out so long ago, in love with and trusting life. She had been buried beneath the bricks and mortar somewhere. I hoped that upon my resurrection I would proceed easily out of my body by sitting up and leaving the rubble behind. And my girl, the one whom I had shielded and adored, would reach out her perfect tiny hand and grasp my father's exquisite hand, hands made like mine. He would not pull me from the wreckage, but I would walk willingly and gladly out to my new home, his home. My father's house. He would look down with a smile I had almost forgotten and say, "What have you been doing, Frida?" And my black eyes would twinkle. "Living life my way, father," I would say.
Death is not to be feared. The effort to let go of life is hard. But death is as fluid and simple as taking your next breath. I knew death before I realized it. We met in infancy when polio threatened my life. During the accident, I once again saw the face of death. I instantly understood it meant relief, and it would have been simple to leave. But the first two times, I hadn't started living, so I clung to it. The third and last time, I couldn't resist. I gave in because I was proud of the job I had accomplished and the message I was leaving behind. I really had nothing left to say. There comes a time when silence speaks best for you, even a talkative gimp like me. That was my nickname, you know. It was what the school children called me because I walked with a limp. Strangely, I never shed that idea. This is the way I secretly thought of myself. I remained the gimp until my death. Had I spoken that aloud I would have been rebuked by admirers. But it does not matter how anyone else sees you. To me, I was Frida the limpy gimp. How does one rise above a fractured identity? You can ignore the imperfection, but at all times I was aware that under my skirts was a broken woman. I tried so hard because I was not supposed to succeed. It was forecast that I would be wheelchair and bed-bound, and what good can an invalid do under these circumstances? I showed them what I could do. What imperfect Frida with the limp and withered limb could do. I could not run like other children, but I could fly.
When the monarch said, "Long live life," he was headed toward the guillotine. What a thing to say when your life is taken. However, it is only when life is endangered that it becomes increasingly valuable. Then it transforms from a horror to a sparkling treasure. May life continue to flourish. May others follow in my footsteps, finding the fortitude and vision to overcome difficult odds. May they understand the value of a single day, even a few seconds. For living on this planet, however horrific it may be, is a precious privilege and pledge. While alive, we are blind to the perfection of our own life. We curse the daybreak because we are exhausted from our efforts and difficulties. But I assure you that when the sun sets, you will say, "Viva la vida," with your final breath.
Life must be on your terms solely. You are so distinctive and one-of-a-kind that you must be loyal to yourself. And this is something you will never regret. Even if no one supports you, living your life on your own terms is the ultimate success. You may need to make some modifications to be genuine to yourself. People won't always understand. They will dislike and perhaps condemn you. Still, stand. The only other option is to live half-heartedly, never revealing who you are and what you stand for. People will not be moved by a mediocre or lukewarm lifestyle. Only a life spent with enthusiasm, whatever your passion may be. Passionate people make a lot of blunders. You will injure both others and yourself. You will make messes from time to time. People may be disappointed with you. You will be an enigma who is called odd. Frida was an oddball. But isn't it typically the outliers who make a significant contribution to the world? Be open to being unconventional and even criticized. Make strong remarks and experiment with fresh approaches. Blessed are the passionate, since they will grasp life and hold it in their hands.
Take hold of life. Grab it while you can. Say, "To hell with fear." It never helped you any. It is a robber. Be all of who you are, not mostly what you are. This is living without regret. I only have one regret, that it is over.
With Love,
Frida