Hold On (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham, MH

Let us discuss devotion and why it is important. Unless you have a measure of devoted feeling towards your relationships, your schooling, and your career, how can excellence be your moniker? Excellence in all areas happens because of your devotion, for the greater your devotion, the more attention and focus you are willing to give. Think of it: a devoted parent raises children who know they are loved and cared for when the parent's full attention is trained on the child. A devoted student earns high marks and the ultimate goal of graduation and a degree. A devoted partner stays for all of the ups and downs, all the problems that invariably come from having a relationship with another imperfect human. With this attitude and commitment, they will have a secure relationship that lasts. Yet, with all these benefits, there are few truly devoted people. Why is this? We think of the word "devotion" as describing a spiritual act. The devoted worshiper is, in fact, called a "devotee." One who devotes time and effort to their spiritual life is rewarded with divine intervention and blessings. Then why are there so few devotees?

Because it asks us to give something extra of ourselves. At work, a devoted employee goes the extra mile, meaning that they go above and beyond their job description. A devoted student studies harder and is more serious than classmates to earn the top grades. A devoted partner isn't only concerned about their own views and feelings but sees their partner's needs as equal to their own and at times gives them priority. A devoted parent puts the child's needs ahead of their own and really listens, anticipating needs. In all these cases, the devotee is required to put themselves in second place. Being a devoted person takes effort and focus that the average or mediocre person does not want to give.

I want you to take a fearless moral inventory. Ask yourself, in what areas of your life are you devoted? Are you a devoted parent, partner, student, professional, or spiritual seeker? Are you giving it your all? If not, why not? Why would you be mediocre in any area when you can excel and perform with excellence? Really, this is not a rhetorical question: why aren't you performing at maximum ability in all areas of your life? I dare say we all would wish to be the best, for devoted people are admired people. They are looked up to, they are proud of themselves, and as a result, their self-confidence is high. Who wouldn't want to walk every day with your head held high? We all wish to perform at our maximum, yet we fall short. Why?

Rejection. Abandonment. Hurt. Discouragement. These pins can take the air out of our tires faster than anything. They are more like bullet holes than needles, because they blow holes in our commitment that derail and sideline us. Like blowing a tire when you are whistling down the road, we grind to a halt and limp to the side of the road when we have been hit. We get out of the car that sits like a sunken ship in the hot sun and start walking. After a while, a stranger stops and offers us a ride back home. We take it because nobody cared to stop. We get in the car of a complete stranger and hope for the best. In this scenario, the stranger is an idea or thought that occupies our mind and seems to rescue us but which may not turn out to be friendly. You see, when you are discouraged or hurt, when you are angry or betrayed, jealous or afraid, a thought can pick you up and take you for a ride because you are at its mercy. You are in need of help when this thought comes along and says, "Why not give up on your relationship? Why not give up on your horrible child? Why not give up on your studies? Why not give up on your job and find another one?" For so many problems in life, your thoughts will appear as a savior, urging you to abandon what you devoted yourself to. And in that moment, fatigued and sad, angry and dejected, the suggestion will appear perfectly sane. In fact, it will seem like the only answer. Yet, just days before, you promised yourself that you would hold on. You see, circumstances can get so miserable that you accept a ride from any old stranger.

I am not suggesting that you stay in an abusive situation. If you are being abused, staying will neither help you nor your abuser. The longer you stay, the less your abuser respects you, and the worse it will get. But I am advising you to stay as devoted as you can to your goals and not let passing thoughts carry you away. If you have a goal and it means something to you, there are instances when you will have to abandon your car and walk. You may be cursing the entire way, but better this than getting into the wrong car. To have your dreams, you will have to persevere. As I did, you must ignore pain, discomfort, and discouragement. You will have to become your own cheering section, because nobody will be there to urge you on. You must summon the inner fortitude deep within to keep walking the lonely road until the sun comes up again. I am saying, walk in the darkness if you must rather than let strange thoughts entice you to give up on your dreams. If you have a dream, it is everything. Dreams define us. They make life worth living, for they show us what we are capable of. Above all, be devoted to your dreams. When something tries to knock it out of your hands, pick it up! Hold it tightly this time. Tell that passing thought, I don't need your help; I am tough enough to meet this challenge. I have been through tough times before, and I will rise again. I will not give my dreams away so easily. This is my own goal, and nothing but death will shake it loose from my hands and heart. Then you go on walking. On the road you will find another willing to walk with you. If you give it your all, the universe will lift you out of despair. 

I spent the last half of my life confined to a bed and painting in a medical corset from a wheelchair. A special scaffolding was constructed so I could paint from my bed above my head as Michelangelo painted his chapel. I experienced the most devastating blows that life can give: betrayal, abandonment, rejection, and criticism. I felt angry, discouraged, jealous, and many times, hopeless. I turned to drugs and alcohol for solace. But all they did was blunt my pain; they couldn't solve it. My one grace was my art, for it was my dream to be the most celebrated Mexican female painter. The little crippled girl who wouldn't amount to anything could at least show the world her brave heart, and that I did. I showed the world my two selves: the public persona, cool with the lips pursed, dressed as a traditional Mexican. And the personal persona, whose heart was battered and weeping. My two selves shared one glorious heart. During my lifetime, I accepted rides with many men who tried to derail me. In the end, I held onto my dream with both hands, and today you know me as Frida Kahlo, the overcomer and the Mexican painter. 

Hold on, hold on, hold on, my friends.

With Love,

Frida

The 3 Monsters and the 3 Virtues (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham, MH

Man's natural instinct is to fight. It always has been and will be. Aggression almost characterizes human existence. Anger, jealousy, and vengeance are all extremely visceral emotions that always take precedence over peace. This is because we are more emotional than rational. We feel first, then think. As mankind evolves, it will think more than feel, but this is in the far future. At this time in history, the three demons of rage, jealousy, and vengeance govern your affairs, especially the most volatile: your romantic life. But is it really a love life, or hasn't it been more of a battleground? If pressed to tell the truth, we would admit there is more of the monsters in our battered hearts and less love. I know you do not want it this way. Only fools would choose strife and heartache over peace and joy! Why then don't we have what we want most in the world, which is to be loved and to return that love? How do we become containers filled with the magical elixir of love?

It is a common saying that "birds of a feather flock together." This is a common yet accurate adage. Who and what we surround ourselves with will control us. When it comes to the elusive and precious quality of love, few people have enough of it to flow over onto others. There are sweet-natured folks, but when put under pressure, even the sweetest person can turn almost unrecognizable. Even the most innocent individual can harbor the three beasts. We are all susceptible to powerful negative emotions until we free ourselves of them. Given this reality, we are rubbing off on each other, which is why violence and suffering persist. It's as if one individual contracts an ailment and unknowingly spreads it to the next person. Humanity loves to think of itself as autonomous, but in reality, we are more like pack animals. We pass on our negative attitudes, critiques, and even hatreds. We are extremely similar to a pack of wolves that run together in families.

Outliers are wolves who have chosen to remain apart from the pack, putting themselves in danger of assault that the loyal members do not face. Usually, the "black sheep" have worked out a secret: being part of the pack entails being susceptible to contagious disease. To remain part of the inner circle entails following the pack and being exposed to its attitudes, decisions, and ideals. "Black sheep" have had enough of unhealthy thinking and habits and have decided it is healthier to go it alone. If you consider yourself a "lone wolf" or perhaps the "black sheep," you wear it both as a badge of honor as well as a mark of sorrow. It is not by choice that you stepped away from your family, nation, or relationship; it was by necessity. Had you stayed, they would have chewed you up completely. You saved yourself when you stepped outside the circle of anger, jealousy, and revenge. There was a deep sadness felt when you had to turn away, and even today you only wish you were not alone. You gaze out at the midnight moon and howl. There are lone wolves scattered throughout the planet, all howling their distinctive songs of loss. How to return to love?

How to keep love in our hearts if we are alone in the night or if we are still running with the pack, observing the rules? Regardless of your situation, I know you want belonging and love. But not everyone will have it, though everyone deserves it. As I said, "Birds of a feather..." What you are nearest will fill your cup. Unless you take time to still yourself and be with the opposite of the 3 monsters, you will never rid yourself of them. What are the opposites of anger, jealousy, and vengeance? Acceptance is the reverse of rage. The opposite of jealousy is freedom. Forgiveness is the antithesis of revenge. Who possesses these three virtues in sufficient quantities to fill you? Acceptance, freedom, and forgiveness can only be found in one location. You might guess God, which is a decent assumption, because God is all of those things. But closer to home, your soul is all of these elements. It is as Jesus said; it is a well of fresh water that ever flows from the center of you. When someone has hurt you, how do you find forgiveness? It is found in this eternal spring. When you want to control and hold even tighter, how do you let go? You find it at the center of your heart. When your anger cools, how do you love again? Your heart's door opens to that fresh wellspring. Isn't it so?

The entrance to your heart must be opened, and the eternal qualities must flow out in order to drive the monsters from your mind. Only you, my friend, have the ability to open that door. Not even God can force it open. These qualities are divine, but only if you permit them. It just requires bravery. Sometimes it takes a lot of bravery to let go, forgive, and accept again. But if you will only let it flow, you are a never-ending wellspring of goodness. Let your heart open and release it.

With Love,

Frida  

 

Being True to Yourself (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

You feel that your life is difficult, if only occasionally. You wonder why fortune picked the wealthy over you as you observe them enjoying lavish vacations and living in mansions. I referred to my existence as "terrible" and wished I had been born someone else. At gloved dinner parties, how many times did I discreetly, inwardly fume when wealthy Americans with brand-new vehicles made a concerted effort to include me, the weird Mexican artist with a broken command of English? I never belonged to the group. I was the outsider all the time. Being the last to know made me the outsider even in my own relationship. I was confined to the notion that I would always be a poor, sad cripple who learned to paint because of my numerous personal and professional setbacks. You could question if popularity or recognition should have made me feel less insecure and inadequate, but they didn't. Because emotions originate from within, don't they? Since they couldn't get to it, no psychologist could have healed what was wrong with me. These feelings that troubled me were only known to me, the quiet outsider. It was a horrible secret of mine.

You may be a rich and accepted member of country clubs and golf courses, but on the inside, you are still a child who fights to believe in yourself. Because it makes no difference how much money you have or who you know. Insecurity may plague a person for the rest of their lives. Why are some people so confident in themselves when you and I are questioning whether our decisions are correct? Why do we second-guess ourselves after doing our best? Isn't our best enough? Why do we compare ourselves to those who appear more handsome, stylish, intriguing, or younger? Because at some point, generally in childhood, we came to the terrible realization that we were not as excellent as other people. Somewhere, we failed to meet expectations. We were too overweight, not athletic, or not bright enough. That's when we withdrew and were quiet, or at least not as confident as we usually were. We started living by pretending we were nobody and hiding in the shadows, or we pretended to be someone we wanted to be but knew we weren't. It happened in a single second, so silently that no one saw the difference in us unless they really cared, and there weren't many people watching attentively enough.

When we reached maturity, we took our mask or mouth gag with us, and this version became us, on the outside at least. We adopted a persona and acted it out. We were so well-rehearsed that it was difficult not to act our false roles! We had misplaced the authentic, loving selves we were meant to be and replaced them with the flawless me. Except when we play a role, we wind up hurting people we didn't mean to. We would act out in ways that did not value those around us and would be devastated by the pain we had caused, but it had become our character. A character is a way of being that has solidified into a permanent condition, similar to how mud hardens into brick. Your character is a collection of other people's assumptions that you have internalized. My argument is that if you choose to change as a child, you may still change as an adult. It is possible to do a fearless moral inventory to see who you've become. Not who you claim to be, or even how you act around others, but who you aspire to be. You may be whoever you choose at any time, just like you once became a second you. It will demand you to honestly evaluate your choices and conduct, which may be difficult. How else will you improve your life?

You're well aware that money can only provide fleeting satisfaction. Partners and friends can only remain for so long. Happiness does not come from such things; it is an inside state. The only way to return to the carefree condition of childhood is to be your natural, unmolested self! This may be accomplished by taking time away from your regular activities to reflect on your life. Are you really where you want to be? Are your current connections fulfilling? Is your spiritual life blossoming? Do you live where and how you wish? Are you achieving your most significant goals? Most importantly, ask yourself, what quality did you have as a kid that came naturally that you have dropped? Because your child was exactly who you were meant to be. There was nothing wrong with them whatsoever, even if others did not understand you. This is what you must see. Your child-self was not wrong; it was always right. Yes, you made mistakes, but you always will. You have made much worse mistakes as an adult!

Nothing is more essential than being loyal to yourself, since there will only ever be one of you in the history of the world. You will never again walk the world at this point in history. And what you have to offer is vital, or you would not be here. Being faithful to the kid within is so important to your happiness and development as a real person that I can't put it into words. That youngster knew who they were without being told, didn't they? Your inner kid already understood who they were, and that was enough for them. You were a seed that would germinate into an oak tree, and if left alone, you would have grown straight and tall. However, adults modified your perspective, and this interference altered your course. And now you find yourself in a different situation than you should be. I'm not suggesting you haven't done well with your skills and abilities. But I'm arguing that you gave up some attributes to become what the world wanted or expected you to be, such as laughter and joy, empathy and kindness, curiosity and creativity, and play. Children have an inherent sense of play! Why is this happening? Their imaginations haven't been ruined. Where did your imagination go?

There is freedom to be. I'm expressing how many of you have resigned to become responsible and mature members of society. I'm arguing that now is the moment to restore your childhood freedom. There is no better moment than the present to recover your unmolested self, the seed that began so innocently. It is still present at the center of your heart. This time, don't change who you are for anyone.

With Love,

Frida

We Are All Broken by Devi Nina Bingham

You are broken. I am broken. Even if you don't consider yourself broken, we're all broken to some extent. My mother and grandmother taught me how to maintain a "stiff upper lip" like the image of a dog trained to smile like a human, with its top lip quivering. My family's women only wanted to turn me into a good soldier, not to educate me in invulnerability. Furthermore, films like G.I. Jane taught me to be discreetly stronger than men who brag to their friends but then return home to be subservient and meek because their girlfriend, wife, or mother is in charge.

My maternal grandmother helped to raise me, and because I got to see her relationship with my grandfather up close, I realized that Grandpa was pampered and spoiled by my grandmother. He earned the money while Grandma was the planner, the organizer, the strategist, and the problem-solver, as well as the hired help. She was the brains of the outfit who shouldered the harsh realities of life. My Grandfather read the newspaper as Grandma fretted and stewed over the problems. Gramps would only come to life as the protector when asked to, when he absolutely had to. I admired how courageous my grandmother was while noting how withdrawn Grandpa was. This curious domestic pattern was repeated in my friend's homes. The mother wore the pants in her domain, while the father was the omnipotent male in charge when at work. I saw it as a balancing act of male and female energy. 

At school, girls were allowed to shine, but only so brightly. Boys were given the preferential treatment as they had the best sports equipment, the best coaches, and the best fields and practice times, yet their classroom participation was often lackluster compared to the girls. We were expected not to complain about our second-class treatment in life and to keep a smile on our face. If you did not smile, you were told that you were not as attractive as the other girls. The school photographer held up his hand and crooned, "Smile!" This command to smile was not expected of boys who could look as mean and tough as they wanted, and nobody called them difficult. 

It was not safe to show how you really felt except to your closest girlfriends or to your mother. My mother had been told by my grandmother, who was a bank manager, to "put your Bank of America smile on, and never let them see you sweat." My grandmother, one tough cookie, had learned never to let the mask slip if you wanted to play in the big leagues with the men. When I shared my real feelings with my mother or grandmother, I was reminded of my responsibility as the big sister and to set a good example. I was not able to show fear, weakness, or insecurity. Those were undesirable traits. Because there was little room for real feelings, I turned into glass. I had to harden. But as I seized up emotionally, I became as fragile as glass, though I was not see-through. Nobody could see through me unless I wanted them to. I was more like frosted glass. And when dropped, I shattered. Reality would splinter, making it difficult to piece anything together again. This is how we get shattered—we have held ourselves together too long, pretending jagged rocks of words and betrayals did not hurt us, wearing phony smiles slapped on top of broken glass.

There are those among us who have broken so many times that they do not feel very much at all. Their breaks were catastrophic, more like Grand Canyons than potholes in the road of life. These stopped smiling altogether and prefer to live on the fringes of society. They may refer to themselves as introverts, but it is much more serious than that. They are not merely inward-turned; they are a personality devoid of something. A car cannot run off a cliff without being mangled. Something catastrophic happened to these people, something terrible and unforgettable, something nightmares are made of. I would call these people "the forgotten" because they may have been written off by society and their families as unredeemable. In turn, they have no need, no desire to be part of a society or family who only want them to keep smiling. These are a subset of society who refuse to play the game of respectability anymore; they have grown beyond the rules. They mark out their own standards and rules. Their pain was so consequential that being a part of society was not an option anymore. The mask had slipped once and for all.

I am a forgotten person living on the edge, doing my own thing and making my own rules, living an unapologetic existence. But do not feel sorry for me, for it was a conscious choice to leave what I found to be a contrived and plastic life, which held no meaning for me anymore. I wanted to find myself, to find my real self, and I did. It took many years of inner searching to find the me that time had buried, but eventually I unearthed her. It was an excavation of the girl I had once been. The tragedy of this story, and it is everyone's story, is that my inner child was the best part of me. She was the beautiful and innocent part that should never have changed. She should have stayed, for the layers of adulthood meant nothing. But she was chased away in my effort to be brave, to be strong and resilient. Not that those qualities were bad, but in the process of becoming something, I sacrificed my core self, what I was destined to be, which was a strawberry blond, green-eyed, laughing daredevil. A musical leprechaun I was, full of melodies and magic. Then I was told that I had to be a way I wasn't, so I changed, and so did you.

The question for us is, how do we get back what was lost, what was ours at birth but taken from us? Of all important questions, this seems to me, late in life, to be the most urgent. How do we get back what was traded away, like gold exchanged for tin foil? Who you and I were, that organic, shiny, innocent kid is still at the heart of us all. Isn't that good to know? In reality we did not give it away but covered it up. As years of pretending were piled on, our real selves, our souls, disappeared. But while we cover it up and ignore it, a soul is assigned to us for an eternity. It has not gone anywhere; you have. You moved away from it. When told you were not good enough, you dressed it up and someone patted you on the head and said, "Good lad," or "Thata girl." The only solution is to remember yourself as you once were. You may have traveled a long way from where you started, and this is perfectly fine. But try and catch a glimpse of yourself as you began this journey. 

Know that you will never be that child again; it is not possible. Too many events have passed to go back now, and you are no longer that child. That is only a memory of who you once were. Life is about change; you are always changing. In ten years, you will be a different person than you are today. See that there is no way to stay the same or to turn back time. What matters now is fully accepting the person you have become without trying to change it and without rejecting it. It is vital that you do not try and put a happy face or keep a stiff upper lip. These sorts of masks only keep us apart from our real selves. You are exactly as you should be at this age and stage. There is no better place to be. There is no need to hide who you are. If others cannot understand your real feelings, it is because they are wearing a mask to hide their pain. Do not conceal your pain or the real you for anyone because that only serves to reinforce your cracks. If you are broken, as we all are, face it. Accept it. Really look carefully at yourself. The more you face your real feelings, the less you will feel the need to hide. Being cracked, even becoming "forgotten," is not a weakness; it is the result of tremendous stress and trauma. You are worthy of compassion, not judgment. And see society for what it is: a broken system that produces broken people. Nevertheless, take responsibility for giving away the parts of you that you gave away. 

Shame is the feeling or experience that something is wrong with you, that you are broken. Shame, and other people's condemnation, can make us hide ourselves, stop relating, and feel less-than. Shame is toxic because it is usually dumped upon us by other broken people working overtime to cover up how defective they are. Arrogant people are in fact struggling with an inferiority complex, or at least feelings of not measuring up. Instead of admitting feelings of brokenness, judgmental people point the accusing finger away from themselves as a detour: "Don't look at me, look over there." Shame is a trap that guilt sets, whether that guilt is warranted or not. I am not asking you to swim in a cesspool of shame. Rather, I am suggesting that when we are willing to look at ourselves with honest eyes, we can see how far we have drifted. This realization should fill us with compassion for the younger part of ourselves who felt not acceptable or not safe to be ourselves. I am not asking you to feel less than or better than anyone else. I am only stating a truth: that we are all broken. And knowing this can give you the strength to stand apart from other people's arrogance, judgmentalism, and attempts to manipulate you into whatever they want you to be. You do not deserve to live in the shadow of shame, but neither should you pretend that life has not broken you, for it has. I know that with certainty, without having to meet you. For life is a merciless steamroller whose job it is to kick the shit out of us. And if it has not done its job on you, I daresay you still have an ego that is yet to be smashed. You are broken. I am broken. We are all broken, and there is a tremendous freedom in understanding that. 

Making Sense of Living-(Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

 

The biggest mistake that you have made about life is your conception of death. You see it as something separate from life. To you, death is a robber that creeps silently, stealing your most prized possessions. It only takes and never gives. It dresses in black tatters, whispering regret. It comes too soon and leaves without apology. Upon your headstones are inscribed foolish words and a dash where your real life stood. But after life, you will know that the dash was also meaningless, because you never died. Death is only dreadful to the living, or should I say, to those embodied. A soul does not need a shell to be a soul, just as an egg does not need to a shell to be an egg. Death is the cracking of the egg and is a good thing. You cannot enjoy the egg unless the shell is first broken.

When you leave the body, you think of it no more. The joys and sorrows are dumped as you dump your garbage, no longer considered. What you called life becomes a fading memory, like a dream you try and piece back together but cannot. It counts as much as the mist that hangs over the sea which rises and disappears. You see, this life is as important as a forgotten dream because there are so many of them. What is the weight of fog lingering over the road? The road is your soul's journey stretching on as various weather conditions descend and lift, descend and lift. Thousands of weather patterns fall and rise, and while they seem very important, in the sun of it, each life is no weightier than the blink of your eyes.

Therefore, can you not try to make so much sense of it and just live it, experience it? Taste the rain and lift your face to the sunlight? Marvel at the mist and the thunder? Watch the lightening with wonder? Every day does not need to make sense. Look at the natural world. Not much of it makes sense because the creatures are busy living rather than making sense of living. Your mind tells you to figure it all out, but how will you do that, for the weather is always changing. Maybe you were only meant to wonder. Maybe you were only meant to wander. Maybe you are not meant to be God's philosopher and were meant instead to be God's lover. God's lover shares the moment with a sparkle in her eye. You only hear the music and dance. You only find the mystery in life and savor it. For truly, there is no making sense of the weather; it simply is. Life is whatever happens and whatever is given to you to manage, you must manage.

Lastly, stop blaming God for everything or claiming it is God's will that this or that happened. You have absolutely zero inkling as to why things happen as they do. When you speak for God, claiming God loves or hates this or that, what you love or hate, you are blaspheming, because you are speaking for God, and who has the right to speak for God? Can a mortal know divinity? Can a mortal interpret for God? Do not fool yourself or others claiming to know the mind of God. Instead say, "Only God knows." You cannot get into trouble saying that.

When you cannot make sense of living, do not try to. Allow events to flow into your life and to flow undisturbed out of your life. Let all things come and go. Nothing is yours to hang on to. You cannot marry it into staying, you cannot bribe it or buy it into staying. When it is time for it to go, it will. Yours is to let go, this is your only job: to release without resentment. It will take a lifetime to learn this one important lesson. You are not here to make sense of it, but to let go of it, over and again. And when the wind blows in something new, pick it up but realize that one day it will leave, too. This is the rhythm of life: the wind blows in; the wind blows out. You are not meant to comprehend the wind.

How hard is it to be in every moment, not figuring things out, not anticipating the next event so you can be prepared or to soften the blow? It is the most natural thing in the world to follow your heart and not your head. But you have gotten so used to listening to your head. Get back to your heart. Return to that stillness, that softness, that surety. Get back there and try not to leave your heart center. Do not allow your mind to have the last word, for it knows only what it cannot figure out. The heart knows nothing but feels everything. Feel everything and your heart is fully engaged. Drop thinking in favor of experiencing. Risk! The heart will risk while the head hides behind rationalizations. Surprise yourself with how delightful life can be. 

With Love,

Frida

POETRY 101-Learn to Write Good Poetry with Nina Bingham, MH

 

For those who wish to compose quality poetry, POETRY 101 is a seven-week, online and affordable community college course. Early enrollment is open for the class, which starts in the Fall. I'll be your teacher; I have a publishing firm, ten books published (3 poetic), and a master's degree in English and creative writing. Kindly forward the flyer! For further information email:

createyourlife.nina@gmail.com

Be an Original (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

The phrases "I will be a famous writer," "I want to paint like Frida," or even "I will be the industry leader" are perilous since they imply self-rejection. You might believe that you are merely attempting to improve yourself and hone your skills. In reality, you are just a copycat. Because what is being perfected is more of the stand-in and less of the actual you. You can put your hair in braids and dress like me in peasant skirts, and you can paint fantastical pictures of the tragedies of life, but you will only look like a dime store copy of someone famous. The reason for this is that you failed to draw inspiration from your own individualistic imagination. You created using the inspiration of another artist, not your own. Until you give the world an original gift, you cannot claim to be an artist.

Initially, your talent may be of poor quality. You may not earn any awards or recognition. If this is the case, you have two options: continue practicing until your voice becomes distinct to you and others, or settle for second best. There is only one first place, isn't that correct? Only one person may be the original. Therefore, if you want to be the best, find out what you have to say. When said, there will only be one unique perspective, allowing you to be the best at what you do. When you duplicate someone, no matter how much you respect their brilliance, you can never say with pride and conviction, "This is an original," and you will always be second best. Staying true to your own voice and vision is essential to honoring your life's story because any product reflects the creator's journey in some manner. All work reflects the originator's thoughts and feelings. An original is determined by its origin. Allow your work to reflect you in some way. If not, you've lost the one genuine piece of life that should be sewn into it.

Because the ideas and emotions I conveyed through my paintings were entirely original, I have been referred to as original.  Had my style been a knockoff of Picasso's, a chunky, mismatched brilliance, the observer would have said, "It looks like one of Picassos." They couldn't say that, though, because mine looked just like me. Critics actually couldn't agree on how to categorize my work. I didn't like that they were referring to my works as this or that. "Why can't they be just what they are: Fridas?" I asked myself. However, people are eager to categorize things because it makes it easier for critics and sellers. I still say my style was not surreal; my style was my own. 

My work did not fit neatly into the definition of a surreal depiction, which is a representation of a central notion or idea through the use of indirect themes. For example, in "The Two Fridas," a heart connects both Fridas, symbolizing the sense of duality that I experience internally. In reality, there were not two of me sharing the same heart. However, the heart served as an indirect theme for expressing my deepest emotions. Stylized subjects appeared repeatedly in my work, such as Diego's face on my forehead. I was the only one to portray myself as a peasant in both art and life. I was the only one to illustrate the facial hair. These met the criterion of surreal, while many other paintings did not. My art was more characterized by its originality than by its bizarre components. "Frida" was proclaimed in each piece so that a person who had never seen my paintings before might recognize them. Despite the diversity of subjects, my style—the "me" that was poured into it—was indisputable.

A categorization or title shouldn't adequately capture your art; your style should. With a label like "this" or "that," you can sell it. However, don't make the error of being so commercialized that you neglect your personal signature. What makes you "you" should be evident in your work, which should reflect your soul. The difficulty is that most people don't know who they are, so they cannot define it sufficiently in their work. You may be familiar with the many roles you play, such as parent, spouse, employer, or boss. This does not imply that you are familiar with your spiritual self, which is your inspiration. How can you produce if you are not in touch with that aspect of yourself? It is the source of creativity. Be alone if you want to be an artist, for solitude and introspection reveal the truth. Without truth, there is no art. Art is really about expressing one's truth. The artist may be expressing the truth about themselves, their lives, or society, but art never lies. 

Art is like the confession you get after an injection of truth serum; it comes from the subconscious mind, which does not lie. The subconscious records reality and plays it back in dreams, disguised as characters and settings that we mistake for something different. It conceals itself while always telling the truth about what it has recorded. The subconscious is the driving force behind all artistic interpretations. Because of the world's noise and activity, only silent reflection stimulates the subconscious to express itself. Allow your spirit to extend out and listen for its message. The message might be in the shape of images or words, music or recollections, or nameless feelings. When they surface, there will be a sense of urgency and significance, and these concepts serve as messengers. Like Mercury's winged feet, they will push on you until you are forced to take up your paintbrush, sketchpad, or computer.

Original ideas do not need to be bent into the shape of another artist. It's only because you haven't spent enough time honing your trade that you might not think your artistic voice is worth hearing. Realize that your message is crucial because it has to be heard by someone. We need your voice. Continue to forge your own route. If you persevere, you will eventually discover that you are an original as well. 

With Love,

Frida

Tapas-by Devi Nina Bingham

There is a word--a concept in Hinduism that holds great significance. The Sanskrit word is "tapas." It means discipline; more exactly, disciplining oneself. Monks take this word to mean spiritual discipline, and mental purification. The Buddha starved himself in order to find the meaning of life (and found it not to work); this was his tapas. Tapas is denying ourselves what we want for what we really need. It is the opposite of gluttony, addiction and indulgence. In addition, anytime we are suffering and growing as a result, we are enduring tapas. We do not ask to suffer as the Buddha did-it just drifts into our lives when heartbreak, illness, injury, death, or a divorce comes around, so many situations in which we are involuntarily thrown in the water and asked to swim. We suffer the most when we do not have the strength or the skills to stay afloat yet are asked to stay in the water anyway. Suffering can engender a host of unwelcome emotions, among them anger, frustration, and hopelessness.

Likewise, when a seed is planted, it does not know it already has everything inside of it, a blueprint for how it should grow. It only knows the repressive darkness and heaviness above it of being buried alive. It begins to reach upward but finds no help, no light. The seed is an apt metaphor for growth. When we are in enduring Tapasya we just want to cry because the tests and trails seem too heavy to bear. We wish someone would come and lend us a hand, but nobody does. In these moments we are being asked to grow into a form we have never been before. Like the soldier being whipped into shape at bootcamp, we cannot see the strong soldier we are in the process of becoming. We only feel the oppressive beatdown and like GI Jane, life is kicking us in the face, and we feel defeated by our enemies. But something within us keeps reaching upward, even when we do not know why. This must be because we were all created to burst our confines and to bloom.

If you, like me, have been experiencing anger, frustration, or hopelessness, you may be experiencing tapas. Perhaps you are being asked to let go of your lower nature so you can be purified. Growth is the hardest thing in the world. Most people don't grow very much because it is hard. But keep fighting and moving forward towards the picture you have of yourself, the purified and the whole you, remembering that suffering, or at least struggle, is the only way the seedling can bloom.

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1Devi Nina Bingham

The Long Walk Home (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

How to feel when every person has fled.

Every fair-weather friend, every half-hearted lover.

You, beset with the frailty of age and illness,

even a socialite comes to it.

A barren desert that harbors no life as far as the eye can see

where the tinkling sound of fiestas and frivolous toasts are a distant memory.

What is life devoid of love, stripped of its amorous distractions?

Left with memories of what was and will never be again.

Left with the little good you contributed.

Hiding from the selfishness, lust, and greed you justified.

When aged you dance with the truth.

Go on denying, even to your dying day.

Keep running, or face it squarely?

Admit, if only to yourself, that on many occasions

you failed to do the right thing.

Moral failures, regrets-all of us riddled with them.

Admit them to those you harmed, and peace comes.

Better to confess your shortcomings than to hear them from others.

More admirable to admit that you were flawed and human

than to clumsily go on blustering into eternity with hidden sins.

Only degrees of sin separate us.

Though the biggest person admits his doom,

he cannot nullify the price that shall be paid in the hereafter.

Only does it cleanse the conscience so he can die in peace.

Therefore, it is a good state, alone to ponder your deeds.

Try not to resent it.

Love,

Frida

Do-It-Yourself by Devi Nina Bingham

The biggest moment, and so few knew

I did this thing all by myself.

Family and friends hadn't a clue

So, I set the degree upon a shelf.

Most of my life is a do-it-yourself.

It's my own choice to live this way

ever since my hair turned grey

the only one I care to impress

is my dog, on a good day.

I'm a reclusive, if reluctant, success. 

Eclipse by Devi Nina Bingham

In a world of sound, disturbance and noise

you walked on a silent, perfect white cloud

and I went deaf at your wordless, glad poise

as you shouted over the din of the crowd.

 

From different worlds, like day and night

my sun did shine, your moon did set

I held your light ever so tightly

afraid that I hadn’t captured you yet.

 

But the moon only shines when darkness has fallen

when it’s hushed, unbound, and forever free

so you fled from me as the sun was setting

and I still rise for you, though you don’t see.

 

Our best day was together

was an eclipse in the weather.

The Philosophy of Eugenics (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Illness is a failure. Not a moral failure, but rather, a physical restriction that prevents us from being our best self. And we all want to present the world our finest side, don't we? However, disease forces us to reveal our brokenness, vulnerability, and humanity. I am not implying that my diseases made me any less of a strong person, because it takes fortitude to withstand a condition like Polio and chronic pain. It is heroic to persevere in the face of hardship, discomfort, and limits.

Heroic, you say. In what way is illness heroic? Because it is difficult enough to live on this planet. For one individual, eking out a living, navigating the difficulties of relationships and attempting to comprehend the meaning of life and existence, is sufficient. But then you have an accident that leaves you permanently crippled, like mine did. Or an illness hits as a youngster, like Polio did for me, and you are permanently marked as different. All of a sudden, the course of your life has changed and you adjust your dreams appropriately. It is heroic to bear a disease because, in addition to living the life that healthy people lead, you also have to navigate a second layer of life, all the while attempting to appear as though life is a lark. A hero is someone who can carry twice as much while maintaining a courageous demeanor and a can-do attitude.

People who are not part of the circle of disease are unable to comprehend this and may regard individuals who are unwell as less important. And this is the question facing civilization. Is it better to evaluate someone based on their value as a worker or soldier, or upon their inherent value as a person created in God's image? The aged, sick, and disabled are less worth less, if not worthless, when value is only determined by output. And a lot of individuals believe just this way. Someone is said to be a drag on the economy if they are unable to produce enough. But these ignorant politicians forget that they will also grow old and ill and be reliant on society to support them. But they won't exclaim, "Since I no longer work, it is off to the slaughterhouse with me!" They will argue, instead, "I have worked and contributed, and it is only right that society bear with me because of illness." The young and powerful will bear the brunt of their economic burden. That's the way life naturally goes.

What if, however, a politician claims that the old or the crippled are the issue? What if the government neglects its responsibility to care for the mentally and physically ill, veterans, and the elderly who have limits they did not request? Then there is justification for the government to ignore people, deny them social help, or even eradicate them. This may sound harsh or unlikely, yet the Nazis actually did this. The old, the crippled, anyone who was different, even children were collected up and people who couldn't work in a camp were thrown out like garbage.

Would something like this ever happen again? Keep in mind that a giant tree starts as a little seed. There was a political movement behind every law. Originally, all political movements were merely philosophical. All philosophical ideas were once thoughts, and all thoughts were once only feelings. Movements develop in this way. The false belief that one human is superior to another based only on physical attributes is known as eugenics, and it was this belief that spread among the German people. The idea that one gender is superior or that one religion is superior originated from the idea that one genetic line is superior. Throughout history, eugenics has been the cause of conflicts and fatalities. Could it occur once more? It is taking place! The seed has been sown, and leaders and their followers are growing the bitter seed that leads to ruin.

But why would anyone fall for such a harsh and senseless philosophy? Due to fear. The emotion that sows the seed is fear. They don't want to be caught in the rain because they can see the storm clouds brewing. "It's excellent," they say, pointing to the storm. When blood starts to pour, they defend it by saying, "Blood is terrible, but it has to be done." Pretending not to notice, they turn their backs on the worst of it. In any case, their guilt is equal to that of the executioners. Fear has the power to turn otherwise decent individuals into killers and liars.

Furthermore, they are blind to the fact that they are supporting an ideology that has been shown to be scientifically incorrect. According to genetic research, all humans started out with the same features: wide noses, dark eyes and dark skin. Humanity originated in the same part of Africa. Since we all sprung from the same seed, we share the same ancestry. It's true that humans diverged and developed many bodily changes, including lighter skin and eyes. My argument is that we are genetically related, not just by name. Since we are all members of the human race, there is no superior race.

Will stop this folly and reveal the truth at any cost, or will you, out of fear, support the aggressors who spread eugenics? I don't see strength when I see racists, I see cowards. I see uneducated individuals denying reality. It will become clear to them that we are all linked and that no blood line is better than any other with just a little investigation. However, as falsehoods are simpler, they decline to look for the truth. Like kids hiding under their mother's skirts, I don't think this kind of bafoonish conduct is admirable.

Everyone will have to decide whether to support the real heroes, or the aggressors. Because I struggled against oppression while also suffering, I chose to be a hero. You see, a hero is not someone who hides behind a shield, but rather, someone who stands without one. I would never call you brave if you hide behind a political party's falsehoods. Being heroic is calling out the storm for what it is and standing your ground against it even when you can see it coming quickly.

With Love,

Frida

The Madcaps (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

I wish to speak openly and plainly to those innocent souls who find themselves persecuted for being only who they are. Those who were given a certain skin color and nationality at birth yet demonized because of the cultural heritage they bring. They call it "assimilation," meaning that you are not to abide by your own way of being, but to talk and look like a white American. To assimilate is to repress whatever may threaten their way of life, though never did you harbor rebellious intentions. You were bringing a different flavor of perspectives and experiences and were shocked when your gift was rejected. It was not only your way of life which was marked as erroneous, but you yourself, and this was the biggest surprise. Your person was deemed inferior, and your familial history was marked as suspect, even dangerous. Beloved history, telling of your family's struggle to survive was used as evidence that you were a product of weak genetics and an inferior work ethic. 

These criticisms amounted to making you feel less than, what you had never felt before, since your family had always loved and cherished you. Having been assigned this marker of sub-human, you trudge through life with your head down and your eyes lowered. You would rather follow than lead because you do not wish to stand apart from the crowd anymore than you already do. Your confidence has taken a beating, and you only feel safe at home. It is to these souls which I speak, for I have experienced the societal disparage which I describe. What is most unsettling about attempts to force assimilation is that it has never stopped. Racial profiling is as American as apple pie and the 4th of July. Prejudice is woven deep into the fabric of American society, as is the idea of eugenics, the belief that one set of features is superior. Of course, the eugenicists are white, and according to them the blonder your hair is, the purer you are. However, humans began with dark features which are considered sub-human by Arians, which means of course that your ancestors were like mine; we are one big family whose genes have been mixed up over the march of time but still, genetically speaking, we all from the same seed. In truth, there is no superior race, there is only our race. This begs the question: how does humanity, splintered into groups with differing physical and cultural characteristics, acknowledge our sameness? There was one during my lifetime that attempted to eradicate the differences by extermination, the "final solution." The end game was to crush the poor, unfortunate, and the immigrant. What stopped this madness? Nations fought together against this great foe. In the process, many brilliant and creative souls perished, and literature and art were destroyed. Anything of beauty which would inspire was stolen and hidden, or demolished. Because where there is hate, truth and beauty will not be tolerated. The goal is to root out all those who will not serve the regime with a genuflect loathing of themselves. 

What to do about the latest round of fascism, those who say they speak for God though God is father to us all? Those who boast holiness in public while in secret make dark deals that betray even children? In order to remedy the division, opposite force must be used. Nations must come together, locking arms to stand against the aggressor. There is no other way, for a madman will never admit that he is mad, nor will he step down peaceably. Madmen want one prize over all, which is power. The power-hungry tyrant will never step away from his tyrannical throne. History shows that these must be torn down. Peaceful protests will not move them, only a threat to their own existence. Until this happens tyranny will reign. I am not advocating violence, only as a last resort. These are dangerous times that are only an echo of worse times. Look to history to show the way. 

To the intellectual and artist: they will target you because you dare to speak out. They will denounce you as a liberal when you use logic and science. From one artist to another, I would say to be as stealthy as you can and stay out of the limelight. But continue to research, to write, to paint and sculpt, to act and dance, and to make music, though the madcaps will denounce your art as useless. To them, creativity and beauty is useless for it does not make them money. But it contributes greatly to the happiness of society, what they care nothing for. They do not value happiness, they value productivity. To hell with happiness. In their world, turn the sky gray and lifeless with smoke from the atom bomb, and may the rays of the sun never shine again. So low are the dark and depraved thoughts of their minds. While the artist will toil all day to give the world even a scrap of hope, the madcaps are scheming to bring more terror and destruction. Based on this, who then are God's chosen? The ones who bring death, the proprietors of misery, or those who bring mercy and hope?

When you see people gone mad, meaning that they have traded their souls for money, cruelty will be their calling card. Ask yourself: Is what they are doing unjust? If the answer is yes, there you have a madcap. Justice becomes a weapon by which they excuse cruelty. They will make everyone's life much harder and still they will be hailed by their malevolent followers. Know that you cannot follow evil without taking a part of that evil into yourselves. It will seem to you that sanity and decency has flown, and like a virus insanity has invaded their minds, for they smile at ruthlessness and applaud horrific acts in the name of God and progress. This has been so since the dawn of time; there have been madcaps in every age. Usually, they are in positions of power by bullying their way to the top. 

I tell you, try not to despair because in the end they will die or be defeated. Evil cannot triumph over good. Cruelty never triumphs over mercy. The better angels always win; it is only a matter of time. Take a breath and know that there is a force in this world which can be counted upon in every man, woman, and child who has not given themselves over to evil, which will rise up to defend knowledge and beauty, the two pillars of society. The madness is temporary and eventually, help will be on its way. Until then, persist in truth, knowledge, and beauty. 

With Love,

Frida

Frida the Reconstructed (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

The systems of this world are corrupt and therefore, broken. Like my body, which had so many fractures; my spine, the column that supported the entire structure had been cracked too many times to reassemble. I wore supportive braces beneath my dresses so no one would suspect that I was an unfortunate accident. Yes, I became the accident and not the victim while still a young and carefree girl whom life had not yet corrupted, the sacrificial lamb, so that in adulthood I was little more than brokenness and sorrow. Never did I smile for the cameras, for the joy and innocence of youth faded after the second great accident, that of my marriage.

I did not marry for convenience as many women of my time were known to do. I thought it reprehensible for a woman to give herself to a man she cared little for in exchange for his financial support. To me, it was like selling one's most intimate secrets for pennies on the dollar. But I was a lowly woman in my own way. Though I married for love, which I considered the highest ideal, it came at a high price. Whether for love or convenience, the institution of marriage exacts its pound of flesh. It requires each one to set aside their own wants and needs and to consider the other first. Not many people are really prepared for such a sacrifice. I watched my parents set aside their dreams to care for their children, so I understood it. Thus, in my marriage I became the sacrificial lamb. I reasoned that if I came second, he would love me more. And if I kept silent, I could not steal his limelight, though his art had enjoyed much more acclaim than my own by this time. And this is how I lowered myself. I dimmed my light so that his would rise. In this way I lowered myself. I would caution you that there is never a circumstance in which your voice or talent should be traded for another's, because yours is a unique and necessary gift. I am not encouraging divorce, for it will tear your heart out. If you can stay together and still sing your individual song, you should. But men especially take it hard when a woman's accomplishments eclipse theirs, especially a lover. In this case, it is better to go your separate ways rather than cheat the whole world out of your talent to save one man's ego.

I never wanted to be Frida Kahlo the Mexican icon who strangers confess their love for, and devotion to; not at first, anyway. Now I do not mind if they worship at the fount of Frida. Like the dear virgin, my presence is at Casa Azul as it must be, for who else will attend to the prayers and good wishes murmured by adoring fans? But today my ego is not fed as it was when I was Frida the Reconstructed. Then I needed every stroke, being terrifically incomplete. I was isolated by my illness, and lonely; my body in tatters and my heart shredded and paper-thin. I needed to hear that I was brilliant, that I had triumphed and gotten the last laugh. But had I? I managed to stitch together a portrait of Frida made of paint, and she spoke from the canvas because the real me had fallen silent. Frida the Reconstructed had no more heart, for it had been ripped out. Thus, I painted two hearts connected, The Two Fridas. And between the whole and incomplete me, I became the icon. 

Do you understand? Sometimes one must build a likeness of themselves so they can keep going. For if you present yourself as you really are, on the inside, you would be called a bore, and self-possessed. But wasn't I self-possessed when my topic was always myself? This was because I dared not express how it felt to be the real me. Nobody wanted to hear that said aloud. They only wished to hear stories of the phoenix rising from the ashes. Thus, I created a public me who smirked and smoked, a tougher version me who laughed only at irony. For life was and is ironic, making little sense when added up, but costing a trusting soul everything. 

What am I saying about The Two Fridas? That everyone has two sides to them, and they build the second out of necessity. In marriage you will inevitably see the dark side. You will be shocked at how different your spouse is from what the world sees. Your beloved will appear to you as the sun being eclipsed by a storm cloud. You may wish to tell others how different your spouse is from what the world sees but dare not. For if you revealed all of them there would be no mystery. And every person must keep their mask. It protects what hurts the most, as a turtle's shell does. Only keep this in mind, that it is wiser not to touch that part, the stormy part, the tucked-in part. You may hug the child who suffers within them, but best to not call it out. It takes sensitivity to walk around someone's faults, to observe as they struggle against themselves, but it is their struggle. Their life is theirs alone and brave no effort of the best intentioned can save them. You must walk on. Will they ever see how much you cared, how you only thought about them and longed to take their hand? Perhaps not in this lifetime. This is the disappointment, the bitterness of love. That you wished to walk hand-in-hand through life when they could not offer the same. Therefore, promises made are foolish. You cannot promise what you do not have, though they did. This is why I say that marriage is a trap. It catches you in unrealistic promises, usually that neither can keep though your intentions are rock-solid. 

Now my admirers do not make any promises, and I prefer it that way. Come and worship at the Fount of Frida for a day, or even a moment as you gaze at what became my fate. I always hoped that you would see some of yourself in my paintings. Perhaps the furrowed unibrow or the pursed lips; the incisions and the blood flowing mixed with the tears. And above all the heart pulled out and suspended like an offering. However you choose to relate to my life, my suffering, you are right. There are no wrong answers, only more questions, which is the beauty of abstraction. It is whatever you say it is. But however you relate to Frida the Reconstructed, remember that I am not she. For after death, which is not death at all, you become what you wished to be on earth but could not. Your idealized self, the not-broken you, the whole soul steps forward and claims the broken you. Then the parts broken and scattered in the wind make what was intended to be you but because of pain, could not be. Thus, I am not that broken woman anymore, the woman of many sorrows. Nor am I any nationality or tradition. All those trappings are forgotten in an instant, as the storm clouds clear away. What remains is a blazing light as bright as the sun which twinkles like the stars. You will light your own way, glowing and pulsing with new hope and courage. 

This is your ultimate destiny, my reconstructed friend. For now, wear your mask and your heart on your sleeve, and cry tears for the tower within which was busted. It seems such a waste now, all your love gone to waste. It seems hopeless now, because nobody can put it all back together. Maybe it needs to fall apart, spectacularly. Let it fall apart, because life always regenerates, haven't you noticed? It always comes back together, given enough time. We were all towers, broken down and busted. One day you will join me, Frida the Reconstructed, Twice: once on earth, again at death. The second time it will all make sense.

With Love, 

Frida