Balancing Head and Heart in Love (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Plans go bad, especially with lovers. This is due to the volatility of romantic relationships. The instability stems from the fact that in romance, we rely on our hearts rather than our heads, and the heart may be fickle. It is unstable and unreliable. The brain represents rationality and fair play, but the heart represents passion, and it acts without hesitation. It merely feels. To make love last, both the mind and the heart must be employed. It's a mistake to rely exclusively on passion to get you through, since that tank will run dry. When you notice your beloved's imperfections and inconsistencies, you understand they are only human after all. Then, you have a choice to make. If you want it to last, your desire for thrills and excitement must be satisfied elsewhere. This isn't to suggest you won't have recurring spurts of fresh desire for them; you will. But passion is cyclical. It flies away and then unexpectedly reappears. To remark, "I don't love you anymore," means, "I don't feel the same passion for you as we did before." But love does not necessitate intensity. That's not even love. Passion is a rush of intense feelings that makes you feel cherished. It does not mean that the person truly loves you. So, while love might inspire passion, it is not the same as love itself. Rather, love is a choice to stand by the other. The object of your love may not stand by you, but if you genuinely love the other, their lack of love towards you will not erase your feelings for them.

What if you had intended to spend your life with someone, but now you are facing the future alone? How awful to have planned and hoped to never be apart, only to discover that they were simply a fair-weather friend. Of course, I'm referring to commitment. Commitment is required if you want to maintain long-term partnerships. If you have a job, you must be devoted to being on time and working hard, or you risk being fired. If you have a child or pet, you must be dedicated to placing their needs ahead of yours. Even owning a home necessitates attention to its care. Am I correct? Romantic relationships are no different. They necessitate a willingness to endure the highs and lows of the heart. However, the heart is not concerned with establishing or maintaining a marriage or commitment. It seeks only powerful and charismatic romance, ignoring everything else. This is why any meaningful connection needs commitment. You cannot compel someone to be committed if they are not. People "move on" to what they consider "greener pastures." Someone else seemed simpler and more thrilling, just like your first relationship did. Each new connection looks to be just what you've been seeking. It is simply because you are looking through "rose-colored glasses." You have not uncovered the flaws and difficulties that the next person will create. Then you look back with regret, wondering why you didn't try harder to make it a success. Simply because, when it comes to romance, you have listened to your heart rather than your head.

My parents stayed together and were devoted, but their marriage lacked love. They remained together out of loyalty to their family and to convention. This taught me that while commitment brings security, it does not ensure that the heart is happy. My parents were both disillusioned with each other. Instead of finding emotional pleasure through shared hobbies or social engagement, they grew to despise each other because they felt uninspired and "tied down." They felt like their wings had been clipped. I realized as a child that each individual is accountable for their own happiness. Do not give someone else the power to make you happy. Couples should have individual interests, aspirations, and creative outlets. So, dedication alone does not ensure a happy marriage. It is a combination of the two: the head plus the heart produce a good marriage.

A mutually satisfying relationship is not easy to build, and by easy, I mean thoughtless. You do not build a house without a blueprint, do you? Yet couples enter the biggest commitment of their lives minus a blueprint. Wedding vows are not the same as a plan to build one's life upon. They are promises, but promises are not plans. How much better would it be if couples sat down and crafted a blueprint for their relationship? Do you think they might fare better through the hard times? Enter into long-term relationships having hammered out a blueprint first. Make goals, and craft agreements that both can commit to. Make relationship and financial goals. Then both of you sign it, committing to the plan. When the feelings of romance fly away, as they inevitably will, you have the blueprint to fall back on. You can point to the signed document and remind them, "That is not what we agreed to." You would be amazed how much more committed people will be once they have signed their name to something.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that I signed my name to our marriage twice, we had no agreements, nor did we have a strategy. My tiny bird disappeared when the rain came. Yes, he returned when he realized he loved me, but he flew away again when things became tough. And for those of you who do not want to stay if your partner becomes ill, please do not marry because everyone will ultimately become ill, grow old, and die. Be absolutely upfront and honest about your intentions. It will save everyone from heartache in the long run.

The most common issue I find among couples is a failure to express their true needs and desires. Because they do not ask for what they want, they will seek it from others. But if you never ask for what you need, is it your partner's responsibility if you don't get it? They can't read your mind, right? Maybe if you offered them the opportunity to meet your requirements, they would. It is unjust to take your wants elsewhere without giving your partner the chance to try!

I am not the queen of relationships; I had a turbulent romantic life filled with mistakes. However, in retrospect, I realize that we were both lacking in communication skills. And this is where it all boils down: how clearly and effectively you can communicate. We are hesitant to communicate with those we care about for a variety of reasons, the most important of which is our desire to avoid disappointment and conflict. However, understand that conflict is unavoidable in an intimate relationship, and failing to communicate invites conflict. Suppressing your truth never helped anyone. It is like sitting on a porcupine. You can only sit so long before it hurts too badly to sit anymore. Eventually the truth has to go somewhere. Do communicate, but in such a way that you are not a bomb exploding. This was my issue. By the time I conveyed my sentiments, it burst out like a firehose going off. You must find a method to share without overwhelming the other person. We could all be better communicators. Be willing to admit this and change your approach. When romantic plans go haywire, as they always do, or when love abandons you, remember that it was not entirely their fault, no matter what they did. You both missed the mark. And if romance should give you a second chance, use your head at least as much as your heart. True love is both a choice and an emotion.

With Love,

Frida

Frida on Peace in Hard Times (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo)-by Devi Nina Bingham

It makes no difference if a person is poor or affluent since contentment comes from inside. You will do much better if you are satisfied, if not delighted, with your station in life, whether poor or wealthy. Nothing can affect you once you realize that satisfaction, often known as happiness, is an internal job. They may remove your luxuries, which will undoubtedly hurt at first, but even conveniences, which make life more pleasant and simpler, do not equal pleasure. When I mention happiness, I do not mean joy, that effervescent high feeling we experience when we are pleasantly delighted. I am referring to tranquility. 

Peace is a lack of anxiety or stress. It is an unwillingness to succumb to anxiety or depression. It is a state of continual affection. Love, unconditional love, can only accept. Isn't this true? It never rejects. When you love your child, you love them unconditionally, for who they are rather than what they have done. When you love your pet, it is unconditional since they cannot reciprocate, at least financially. True love is boundless. When you love this way, without expecting anything in return, the conclusion is always peace, since peace is the product of love. To achieve a peaceful serenity, we must be in love with something. It might be a partner, a pet, a family member, a friend, or even God. If you love God with all your heart, even if you are on a desert island, you can still experience enduring tranquility.

Why does love provide calm in our hearts? Peace is an inner knowledge, an internal trust that everything will be well. The world may crumble around you, but when you have something to love, you will find peace. For example, spending time with an adored dog will make you feel appreciated and therefore tranquil. This is why couples' breakups cause so much sorrow. Because they made their lover the focus of their affection. When the wellspring of love was taken away, the tranquility evaporated with it. When we are not at rest, we experience anxiety and sadness, both of which are unpleasant. This explains why some people switch from one relationship to another. It's not that they didn't experience true love; it's just that they dislike the discomfort they feel without it. The cure to a split is not to replace your partner, but to learn how to replace worry and sadness with tranquility! If you give yourself the love you wish you had received, you will discover tranquility that comes effortlessly.

In times of economic distress, you must make a decision to overcome inconveniences such as homelessness and hunger. The best way to overcome the fear of grave situations is to remember who you are. Refuse to be overwhelmed by dread. Refuse to be defined by your fears. You are not considered a "loser" because you are jobless, homeless, or starving. You are the same worthy individual who formerly had a full bank account. You are the same amazing person you have always been, only without a job, a home, or a bank account. I say temporarily because your luck might change at any moment, and those things may return. You see, bad luck is fleeting. Bad conditions arise and then go. Some days are excellent; some are horrible. You must not be under the impression that all is lost. As long as you have your mind, you will ultimately get back on your feet.

Have you ever heard a rags to riches story? Mine is that. I was born to modest parents in a little hamlet just outside of Mexico City. We were not as destitute as some Mexican peasants, because my father was usually employed. But money was always scarce, so I never knew wealth. It wasn't until my work gained international recognition and my paintings sold that I first had my own money! I wanted to pinch myself at times because I was so happy for the praise I received from the creative world. However, money was never the reason I became an artist; I would have painted regardless of whether I sold them or not. My inspiration was the love of creating.

When I was confined to bed, I resolved to rise above my circumstances by erecting a scaffolding that  allowed me to continue painting. I am one of the few international artists who painted from her bed. For if you love something, you will not let adverse circumstances prevent you from doing or being with it. Your integrity will find a way around the challenges. When I painted, I lost track of time or whether or not I had eaten for the day, and I forgot about the discomfort that tormented me since my concentration was totally focused on what I enjoyed doing. 

My advice to you is to not allow anyone to fool you into believing you will be lost without them. Yes, you will need time to grieve, but this does not imply you will be lost forever. You may be homeless and have nothing, but do not be afraid. Instead, devote all of your energy to solving issues and doing what you enjoy, and tranquility will overcome the worry. Because peace is actually love, and love is truly peace. Peace has always triumphed. When you experience tranquility, you do not feel any unpleasant feelings, do you? But peace won't just "happen." It does not arise as a result of pleasant conditions, because it may also provide consolation during difficult times. Throw yourself wholeheartedly into loving anything totally, whether it's your spiritual life, a loved one, a pet, or learning to love yourself, and thoughts that tell you you're less than others or that there's no hope. There are no permanent situations; everything can change suddenly. Tell yourself the truth: I have nothing to fear as long as I have something to love and something to share. Hard times will come and go; see that you are the enduring constant. Fashion for yourself a better tomorrow; do not wait on anybody to make it better for you. 

With Love,

Frida

Why People Fall for Fascism (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Men and women are not that fundamentally different. Fundamentally, both sexes need satisfaction, security, a profession, and to be loved. However, the difference arises in how the two sexes approach these goals. Typically, males construct civilization, while women sustain and nurture it. I recognize that I am speaking in generalities; there are exceptions. When you compare men's and women's bodies, you'll see that males are larger and have greater muscle mass, which makes them physically stronger. When it comes to constructing, strength is key. While women's bodies are designed to carry and feed a child, which makes them natural homemakers. Both construction and homesteading are required for a community to thrive. 

However, in an age of automation and artificial intelligence such as yours, planning and construction will be mechanized in the same way that automotive assembly has been. Many gender-specific vocations will be replaced by computers and robots that can operate more quickly and precisely than humans. Even "women's work," such as food preparation and housework, will be cheerfully delegated to robots. How will society adapt if humanity's social roles are drastically transformed or rendered obsolete?

People identify themselves by what they do. When asked, "What do you do?" you answer with your job title: "I am a carpenter," or "I work at a dentist's office and am a part-time mom." Occupational responses provide a wealth of information on a person's role in society, including their economic status and role within the family. But what happens when a person's role is no longer defined by a specific task? Robotics and artificial intelligence (AI) are task-oriented technologies. They are programmed to look for issues and find solutions. They resemble the search and rescue team. They can outthink and outmaneuver humans in most situations. For example, automating the warehouse has increased output while decreasing accidents and improving efficiency. What it used to take ten people to do now just requires one robot. As companies aim to enhance revenues, automation becomes an unavoidable reality.

The consequences of being replaced by AI will inevitably lead to a loss of identity. When essential, fundamental identity is lost, humans desire to cling to something. An idea, a leader, a religion—something that feels solid and appears "in control." Insecure individuals feel in control when powerful leaders flex their muscles. This display seems comforting and reasonable when everything else is hazy and uncertain. Much as the military will attract young men who have yet to discover their way in life, strong direction attracts males, since society has proliferated the message that weak men will be kicked around.

During uncertain times, leaders emerge and assume an authoritarian role. They are accepted at a time when normalcy has been endangered. Be cautious of the larger-than-life characters. Understand that they, too, are insecure; they just disguise it better. They are more deceitful, dishonest, and ruthless than most people. They are the "superman," the powerful who constantly reassures you that he alone is correct. The powerful daddy-types will bluster and bluff their way to the top, then recruit those who will cover for them.

When you observe a dominant power on the global stage, be wary. He rose to prominence because he wanted to be someone significant and needed to be in charge. Unconsciously, his subjects desire to be dominated. This artificial control offers the population a false sense of safety and success since they are linked with a leader who appears to be succeeding. However, every authoritarian tyrant harbors a deep-seated sense of insecurity, and explaining this to the insecure sheep is a waste of time. They will only raise their flags and caps higher because they fear something worse than fascism: they fear losing their place, status, and stature, which they are unwilling to give up.

What will halt fascism? Diplomacy never has. Attempting to argue with them will just aggravate them. Making fun of their ignorance has never worked, since it is a deliberate ignorance. History demonstrates that the only known cure for authoritarian rule is to physically battle and defeat it. This has taken a league of countries and resulted in the loss of innocent lives, as well as the destruction of treasured artifacts and national treasures. Once a tyrant has been entrenched, removing him may practically destroy everyone. Don't be deceived by the bull charging at the matador, nor be fooled by the crowds screaming for blood. In the end, the big, scary bull will fall to its knees when it is pierced by a sword, just like the rest of us. Fascism is a passing fad. Humanity must discover a better method of remaking itself in this new age of technology and loss of traditional identity. How is it going to turn out? That is up to you.

With Love,

Frida

 

Frida on Courage (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Courage is often associated with saying yes to intimidating or dangerous situations, when in reality, courage does not always involve confronting danger. It takes guts to walk away from what is not meant for you. It takes guts to stand alone, to slay the dragon and become the hero. Bravest is the one who turns their back on the dragon when everyone else is bending down. Individuals who make their own way are the embodiment of courage. This is because staying with the throng is an evolutionary behavior that provides protection in numbers. However, show me a lone spirit who has gone its own path, who is not frightened to be alone, and who will confront any inconveniences or threats that may arise—these are strong. They may be quiet and humble, but they have an internal moral compass pointing the way. 

For them, submitting to a corrupt and unfair system is a fate worse than death. Their devotion is not to a country or an ideology, such as capitalism, but to right and wrong. For them, doing good is right, and showing no mercy is wrong. They refuse to compromise their values since it is the ultimate humanizing factor. Those who have lost their sense of justice have fallen into the hands of the worst sort of evil. But the bold have a clear moral compass that points the way. This is the yardstick that can be used to determine your level of courage: do you follow what is kind, or do you stand with the selfish?

Democracy was a popular notion in my lifetime. It functioned as the political standard by which nations were measured. However, my associates and I saw past democracy to a system that benefited society as a whole. Rather than championing everyone's rights as democracy did, Communism extolled socialistic notions of a government that supplied for all equally. It was a romanticized picture of a government that would equally divide the rewards. If you have struggled to make ends meet, you'll understand the sense of futility that comes when there is no money left after paying the bills.

At the time, Mexicans were hungry and living in primitive conditions, and this was never far from my thoughts. It saddened me to see my compatriots suffering and jobless while the Americans enjoyed such abundance. When I heard the concept of Communism, it sounded like the solution. But that fantasy evaporated when I discovered that all men are alike; there is no politician who would not steal from the public. And they despised and persecuted Communists because we posed a danger to their mainstream democracy. They could sell democracy to the public, this fairytale concept of the common guy amassing his own fortune, while Communism demanded that the government respond to the people, accountability they clearly did not want. So the capitalists referred to us as a threat to the government, when in reality we were only a threat to their dishonesty and greed. It is clear that capitalism, despite its lofty ideals, has not resulted in fairness for all. It has not brought widespread wealth. It has resulted in a severely stratified economic class structure of the affluent and the poor. But I say that the bravest souls, the intelligent people, do not subscribe to any particular system or ideology that trespasses the compass of their own heart. Right and wrong are the only elevated values that influence their actions and conduct. 

In my day, I was hailed as courageous because I endured in the face of adversity when I came out in support of Communism. But politics was not what sparked my desire to be a hero. It was my readiness to be vulnerable. My paintings revealed my deepest problems and torments, which I bared to the world. This is another kind of courage: the ability to be transparent. Showing others your sensitive inner workings is the most terrifying type of courage, because what if they don't think my secrets are worth knowing? What if they make fun of my most intimate feelings? Some mocked my art, passing judgment.

But I was indifferent to them since they were critics who had never created anything as adventurous; therefore, they were hypocrites. No, it was the average person that I cared about and wished to reach. If the public had replied, "We cannot relate to this," I would have quit. But they stated the reverse. They replied, "I can relate to the pain I see here." Their affirmation was the finest honor. I was more interested in how I made the common person feel than in what the renowned contemporary artists had to say. I am now of the opinion that the greatest courage is to be vulnerable. And so, you must create something that reflects your inner landscape to such an extent that it reaches the hearts of every man. 

We all have the same feelings: all of us sorrow and grieve, rejoice, and get confused, angry, anxious, depressed, and jealous. We are all afraid of death. We all apprehend life in the same ways. Psychologically we are built very much the same, but our stories are different. Telling your story from your unique perspective allows others to see life from a different angle, and this is important since understanding increases empathy. It takes courage to express yourself, for you risk criticism. But keep in mind that even if your audience has not been run over by a train or had their back broken, or miscarried, or been married and cheated on, or lived life confined to a wheelchair, they can relate to the pain of it because they have had their own trials and tribulations. Courageous feels deeply, while vulnerability expresses itself. Harness these two forces together, and you may call yourself an artist, a surrealist, a politician, a Communist, or simply, a Frida.

With love,

Frida Kahlo

Frida on Humility (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Being ill will humble you more quickly than anything. When you can't get out of bed, there's no need to feel self-important. When forced to rely on others for basic human needs, you realize how fragile and vulnerable you truly are. So, the best thing that ever happened to me was my inability to help myself, even though I didn't realize it at the time. The accident that caused my disability was horrific, and polio took its toll on my child body. These misfortunes came very close to killing me. However, the human spirit recognizes when it must continue, and if so, it will persevere. 

As an adult, I was in excruciating agony. I was tempted several times to give up, to refuse surgery and live in a wheelchair. However, my work always startled me back to reality. It existed independently. There was constantly something to say. If I had been the type of person who didn't have a firm opinion, I may have accepted my fate as an invalid. I frequently thought of that word as meaning "not valid;" having no value, weight, or consequence. But squandering my life was not an option. I understood instinctively that life was valuable and I couldn't afford to waste it.

I wanted to have a child because it would be another chance for me to leave my mark on the world aside from my work. Children represent our immortality. But it was not meant to be, and each loss took away a piece of my heart. It was as if every time we attempted to construct a tiny "us," God answered, "No." Then I'd dive into my art as if it were my gift to the world, my vibrant and bold child bearing my name. But I could not understand why I was being denied the most basic duty of women, which is to produce children.

I couldn't comprehend why I had polio, which had withered my limb, or why the accident had punctured my uterus. My life was full of why questions. But "why" is the only foolish question because God never answers it with anything other than, "Because I said so." God is omniscient, able to view the entire timeline. God knows our fate from beginning to end, but He owes us no explanation. Pain is permissible regardless of how heinous. And I began to feel that only souls in need of rapid evolution would be born in this world of incredible beauty and inconceivable anguish. What I did not understand is that God's retribution or fury does not chastise us, it is instead our soul's drive to evolve. And, while growth is proof of progress, it may be difficult and painful to achieve.

Strangely, my greatest anguish was not the disease that limited me. You can be physically unwell and still find joy in life. However, when you suffer mentally, when you are crushed like a flower, these stripes leave a profound and lasting impression. The words said in haste, or cruel acts committed may vanish with time, but the mark remains forever, much like a scar. And when you touch it, even if the trauma has faded, the anguish is reawakened. It has been stated that there is no worse pain than a shattered heart, and this to be correct. I'd rather die a hundred physical deaths than walk around aching on the inside, which affects your attitude, productivity, and zest for life. Shakespeare was correct to write Romeo and Juliette as a tragedy, since genuine love may depress lovers to death. It was more than a romantic concept; it was a reality in my life.

For those dealing with a shattered heart, I can only say this: you must learn to care for yourself again. When you love someone or something entirely, you prioritize them over yourself. You will deny yourself happiness, sleep, adequate nutrition, and even hope. You'll punish yourself in these ways because sadness always punishes, never rewards. I reasoned that a hunger strike would only injure me. When I became malnourished, a doctor intervened and directed a nurse to force-feed me a liquid diet. I was so depressed that I would rather die, and die by starving, a long and agonizing death. Why wasn't I prettier? He even chose my sister over me. But nobody would let me die. Neither death nor grief could kill me. I considered myself indestructible, not because I chose to be but because it was imposed on me. And with time, I felt like I had meaning and purpose again, and my happiness was not reliant on anyone. God and I became partners, and we each performed our part. I prayed and believed, even if it was a private and silent faith, and God kept my shattered spirit alive.

Then the discomfort confined me to a wheelchair and finally chained me to my bed. I finished with a portrait of brilliantly colored watermelons, which was very different from the somber abstractions I had become renowned for. I wanted to leave the world with a sense of simplicity and purity, and what could be more wholesome and colorful than a Mexican watermelon? I left behind a spot of bliss, a fruitful paradise. As the pneumonia worsened, I couldn't get out of bed. It ate me up as the painkillers did. My story, my skill, my shattered body, and my scarred heart were all eaten up before I was fifty. Being broken my whole life was not my decision but rather the result of entering this planet where ambitions are crushed so that we might learn humility. And Frida did. 

With Love,

Frida

Army of the Unthinking (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Every single ideology believes it is correct.

Every single politician believes their party is correct.

Every single religion believes its God is the correct God.

Every single clergy believes their way of worshiping is the correct way.

Every single parent believes they know what is best for their child.

Every single teacher believes education to be the panacea.

Every single uneducated worker believes hard work to be the way to prosperity.

If every single person cannot be corrected, 

believing their way to be the best and only way,

what hope is there for people to work united?

And this is what the elite, the rich and greedy, are counting on.

Set the commoners at odds, then sit back and watch them duke it out.

Let them give each other black eyes instead of throwing their anger where it really belongs—at us.

Instead, let them defend us, saying we are championing their cause.

Though we are paid to protect their tax money,

we will really be spending it obscenely and irresponsibly for our own enrichment.

Let them defend us while we secretly break their backs, 

after all, we are the cream of the crop and God's very chosen.

We will put slogans into their mouths, what they will repeat like mindless, lost zombies:

"Stop the steal!" while we rob them blind.

They will pay to wear our products with our slogans as they elevate us to royalty.

In every way we will psychologically addict them so when it comes time,

we have an army of unthinking and addicted consumers.

We will become so powerful that we will be able to turn brother against brother.

And all the while we will toast to their demise.

And the captains of industry will lead the Army of the Unthinking. 

With Love,

Frida

 

Communism (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

It is not progressive to be wasteful, nor is it conservative to be cruel.

This is where labels get humanity into trouble.

One calls himself a liberal, and the next, a nationalist.

Labels are simply calling yourself a name and the other a name until both take sides against each other, refuse to compromise, and cannot agree on anything.

Communism was a politically naive ideal.

To believe one human would care about all the others enough to share,

was only a dream. When put to the test, it faltered due to greed.

It is still used as a hammer with which to verbally bash another: "They are a Communist!"

It has devolved into an insult meaning: enemy of the state.

Originally Communism was a high ideal before it was spoiled,

and I was a young and enthusiastic supporter.

The harm which labels can inflict has cost innocent people

their very lives, and wrongfully imprisoned others.

It has torn families apart; it has divided once peace-loving, sane people

and turned them into monsters who followed leaders

until grave harm was done to so many guiltless people

that the gravity of their cruelty cannot be denied by history.

When you see a country, a society squaring off into us vs. them

and using labels to divide, be certain that what the future holds

is not freedom or justice, for those happen when groups become people again.

When each man, woman, and child is respected, freedom and justice will return.

Until that golden age, if division is emphasized and if differences are not tolerated,

violence will be used liberally and without conscience.

And that society will not hang together but will be fragmented into ragged pieces.

Such a republic shall not stand.

In the final summation, we are all simple, erroneous people

made of the same frail flesh and blood.

Until we see past the labels and see the human inside,

we are caught in erroneous ideas of right vs. wrong.

Only ask yourself: am I willing to drop my political sword, if peace will come by it?

Peace begins with you.

With Love,

Frida

Shriveled Souls (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

To defy convention

is not a small feat

when everyone expects you to be a certain way.

Maybe your heritage expects you 

to wear certain clothes

and because of your gender,

have certain attitudes.

What if your soul,

the bright, shiny knowledge

hidden within 

knows a secret that wants to get out?

Do you squash the real you

into the wrong clothes

the wrong hairstyle

the wrong expression

to make someone else

more comfortable?

And why are they uncomfortable

with the real you?

Because they had defined you without asking.

They never inquired: do you like yourself as you are,

because they did not care.

They only cared what they thought,

what they could grasp,

even if embarrassingly little.

They never inquired: how does it feel to be you?

They would have had to listen

to a perspective very different from the one

they expected.

Not being large enough to care,

their souls shriveled up.

Once a soul has shriveled

it usually does not recover.

And shriveled souls are everywhere.

You will know them by their callousness and intolerance

to whatever is foreign 

to their itty, bitty, teeny, tiny

soul. 

And this, their pure bombastic ignorance

is what they take the most pride in.

Do not trouble your head about intolerant people.

They are nothing—they are so nothing.

And nothing will ever rule the world.

Their outdated ideas may live as a misfit in time,

but never has a shriveled soul

wrapped in obscene intolerance survived for long.

It is never as smart as it judges itself to be,

nor does it comprehend that inclusion is a force for good

and destined to win. 

With Love,

Frida

Art is Heroic (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

One person is daring and bold,

the other lives in the shadow of convention.

Is it temperament that makes a legend?

Are you the hero of your own play?

To survive is heroic-

to face the heartbreak,

to brave the disappointment

day after day--

isn't this the hero's journey?

You may not see yourself that way,

but to live 

is either heroic or mad.

Every artist sees in an unconventional way

and is seen as irregular 

to those who long to say to hell with the world,

but don't.

Besides a difference in temperament,

the artist is rebellious.

They cannot see the benefit of superficiality

and do not need society prescribing

how life should be lived.

Art by definition interprets the world

in a unique way.

The more solitary and clear your voice,

the more of a force your work becomes.

It is finding that voice, and unapologetic confidence

which makes one an artist.

Sing your own song proudly. 

It shouldn't sound like anyone else's. 

It is heroic to refuse to bow to the masters.

Instead, find something original to say that is wholly you

and become a hero.

With Love,

Frida

Simply Frida (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Who knows me,

really knows me?

Not my work,

Not my artistic style,

Not my iconic look,

Not my unibrow,

Not my peasant skirts,

Not the sparkle in my eye,

Not my tragic life story,

Not my demolished love story,

Not my two-timed, two-timing marriage,

Not my tourist-infested studio,

Not my money-making name.

When all the trappings of my existence have burned out

like eternal stars,

stars that I mothered,

that I gathered to my childless bosom,

when all trace of my existence has been erased,

will you know me,

really know me?

For I am simply Frida. 

Indelible Misery (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

When your own blood betrays you

it is your own limb that maims you,

being attacked in your sleep

by your own fist. 

Shocking, reprehensible, and unexpected.

Doubly hard to forgive the betrayal

by one as close as your own breath. 

Impossible to forget,

I hide what I feel,

you laying with my love.

Shake it off, let it go

these memories of indelible misery.

Those who inflict misery do not feel it; 

they do not feel. 

Only those maimed by their cruel words

and denials swallow the sorrow.

The rapist never feels sorry

wondering if he produced a bastard child. 

Perpetrators do not look back

or even stop to pause.

That would take courage,

what the betrayer has never had.

It takes no courage 

to speak without thinking,

to act like an animal. 

The most unfortunate part 

is that you, the betrayed, 

still have to see them at Christmas dinner. 

I say: fuck 'em. 

Skip dinner all together.

Let them ingest heartburn without you

for it may be the only time their heart feels anything.

With Love,

Frida

Broken Pot (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

We were young,

or I was-

and idealistic,

before the hard hammer of disappointment struck

with a fiendish vengeance.

Thinking nothing of giving myself

as easily as water slipping over a rock.

Because I had not learned

the great worth of my own heart.

The body is worth less than nothing;

as the years pass

it is an anchor that weighs us down,

a ship's rusty anchor.

Our indestructible core

is agile and lightening quick,

ageless; the only valuable piece.

Even the mind ebbs away,

carrying off our love of this dirty world.

So, dance will you, will you dance

when the moon hangs heavy in the sky

and the sunrise dazzles in soft swipes of pastel.

When the magic of daylight falls from the sky

to bid you a fond farewell?

Remember, won't you

that you are worth a thousand fond goodbyes.

Oh, I gave myself without a second thought

not realizing I was the Latin queen

with mean dark eyes

and a catatonic stare.

Ferocious as a lion's roar yet, I knew it not,

for we of genuine crystal never see our own brilliance.

Broken is what I was,

made to be broken as a maiden.

I knew nothing besides.

How does it feel to be a broken pot?

Leaking when I tried to hide,

always wanting, but knowing

I could not hold you.

Always facing emptiness

when I deserved happiness.

I was a broken pot

yet a vessel of fine crystal

because I rose above myself.

With Love,

Frida

Paris (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Rubbing elbows with high society folk

who bitched like large-breasted matrons 

in uppity street cafes over the bitter necrosis of morning coffee

about the uncouth, capitalist Americans

whose only redeeming value was industrialization

which turned cities into mills of children

who worked like hopeless slaves, 

who turned young women into mistresses of the boss

to escape the unending grind of the sewing machine,

who made high society folk rich, greedy, and thankless.

Surrealism was our attempt to depict human debauchery

without protesting in the street.

We drew, painted, and sculpted the ugliest facets of society,

and because it was art, they did not throw us in jail.

The surrealists of Paris were shamelessly critical

because Paris had become the pinnacle of antiestablishment sentiment. 

Artists dressed in barrettes and suit jackets smoking rolled cigarettes

and drinking wine late into night, until no one was walking home.

Yet these brilliant intellectuals never stopped to ask

how France might improve.

The only issue I had with it

was their superior attitude. 

Snotty, haughty, and dismissive, 

they believed my beloved Mexico primitive.

And by association that made me primitive, which is why I went on display

wearing the traditional peasant Mexican dress and hairstyle.

To show that while Mexico was not as savvy as the French,

being a Mexican was nothing to be ashamed of, either. 

I was a Mexican surrealist painter

in a country did not exploit women and children,

nor did it sit around spouting its bushwa.

Mexico asked to live as it had for eons, simply and respectfully.

And for that my art was called quaint by some critics.

So, countries who lived with industrialization were criticized,

and countries like Mexico who lived without industrialization were also frowned upon.

And no city felt more superior than Paris, France. 

With Love,

Frida

Consolation (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Even my name had the word "free" in it,

and I was as good as my name.

While none would argue that I was a free spirit,

my own insecurities held me captive.

I played a game of "I do not care" 

when the truth was that I cared too much.

We play games with those we love

while hating to fool them.

We should share

our most sacred truths 

with those we hold the dearest.

To be dishonest is to denigrate the relationship,

but I played "I do not care" because he genuinely did not.

What I learned from this game 

was how ugly and hurtful it can be,

acting worldly and callous 

and using others for your own purposes.

A part of myself was satiated 

that I had taken my revenge.

I proved that I could be as flip and careless as he. 

Once this facade wore thin

I would retreat to my house of blue

and feel the rejection, the loneliness, and the longing,

what I hated most to feel.

Then I would paint my broken interior

for the world to see,

as shattered as my spine and unhealed.

Either pain or wonder is the cause of creation.

I wondered at the amount of pain I had been given to ingest.

How can one frail girl be asked to bear the sins of the world?

This wonder at my own complete misfortune 

caused not a powerlessness, but a defiance. 

If circumstances were going to whip me

I would be the bravest and strongest and bear my back,

never betraying how frightening were the endless surgeries,

the miscarriages and the living hell of my husband's indignities.

I resolved to play the mute when in public.

But in private, he heard plenty.

Women have always swallowed their betrayals and sorrows

for the sake of protecting their marriages.

Funny, but I do not think there has ever been a husband who realized 

how catastrophically his wife could have and wanted to ruin him.

The life of a woman in love is destined to be tragic

though at first neither can imagine how.

My life was a series of disasters 

that I illustrated in an odd way

that came to be known as an artistic triumph. 

At the time I did not think of my work 

as worthy of acclaim.

To me they were nothing but an open diary.

In time they found an audience 

among the heartbroken, my fellow sufferers.

Many would interpret what I painted

as their own grief.

Those who looked closely

saw their misfortunes

hidden among my own.

Yet the one person I needed most to see

did not care.

The warmth of an adoring audience

has been a consolation far greater,

like that of a thousand worshipful suns.

With Love,

Frida

 

Art Must Be Beautiful (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

The whole point of art

is that it must be beautiful.

If your creation is grotesque, 

it must be beautifully grotesque

or what is the point?

No matter the subject,

whether bloody war, inhumane slavery, 

or the many surgical assaults

my body endured,

within your depiction must shine 

a sort of grotesque grandeur.

Minus this mitigating factor

art is reduced to common screaming,

and nobody is entertained 

by the crude banalities of life.

Give your art a distinguished voice

that reflects God's own,

whether your subject is the tenderness of love

or the dizzying depths of destruction,

for you are part Creator, and part created.

Rise above what the eyes can see.

Produce only what the heart can feel.

Your efforts will testify that you are an artist

no matter what the world calls you.

With Love,

Frida

The Dot in Your "i" (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Of a world I never saw and only imagined,

like the Louvre, I wished to visit and did not,

though Paris was the mecca for surreal artists.

San Franscisco had to suffice.

It had a charm but was so unlike my Mexico

with Romanesque concrete columns and the windswept Bay,

yet not so different from Mexico's tiny, winding streets and steep hills.

Houses were tall and thin and stacked upon one another,

windows with high square eyes peering down

rather than squat and wide.

They were awash with drab, demure colors

while my hometown was short, fat casas

painted obscenely 

sometimes screaming in

bright floral.

San Franscisco was elegance, education

and art exhibits by fine capitalists whom I did not believe in. 

Upon returning to Mexico, I was always relieved 

to be out of the societal straitjacket

and back where I could speak fast and loudly

and smoke to my heart's content.

Brave blood was running through my veins

of my European father and Mexican Indian mother. 

Not a mixed-up heritage, but two coordinated worlds lived under my skin.

One not better than another, though richer and poorer

is usually confused for better or worse. 

I was most at home in my Tahoua dress and braided hair.

Each is born in a period of time so brief

like the dot over an "i." 

The one importance we have,

what will outshine our mortality

is whatever art, music, and literature we leave behind.

Beauty ages and crumbles into a pound of messy ashes,

and money is handed to someone else. 

Only expression, and what men have well built

will stand the test of time. 

Wherever you live, in whatever period you live,

this is your chance to give your all.

Though your time is nearly done,

sands of the hourglass are still falling.

Do not wish your life away,

lamenting, "If only I were here or there, 

or with my lost love."

I spent too much time mourning

instead of fully making use of my talent.

Do not let pain or regret determine your outcome.

Resolve not to squander the dot in your "i."

Get as close to genius as you can. 

Then, and only then, will you feel glad you have lived. 

With Love,

Frida

Wind, Blow (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo)-by Devi Nina Bingham

Desert wind, blow

stronger, faster, harder.

Blow the roof off,

rattle the windows,

shake the foundation,

sweep my hat away.

Wild winds of Mexico

can peel the paint off stucco walls

yet lulls me to sleep with its howls

like coyotes yipping at the moon.

Coastal breeze, blow

caress my dreams

and softly tussle my hair.

Hard to believe these two winds

are exactly the same. 

I am more like wind than fire.

I would rather play than take revenge.

It depends, it depends

who you are to me

as to which wind will blow. 

With Love,

Frida

Hurricane Frida (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

It was not the money I longed for.

Why would I want dull and ordinary things?

I owned my world: paints, canvases, and brushes.

What I wanted was beyond recognition.

So I became the suffering Madonna

smoking like a chimney,

and the alcoholic Our Lady of Guadalupe.

I turned to these not because I craved the taste of ash

or the bitter tang of Sangria,

but because they were easy to come by,

common crutches that helped me to stand.

It was not addiction I lived for, 

for I was better and stronger than that.

In one snap of my spine I could have

ripped off my medical corset

and walked again.

But I took to the bed

because it was the only time

you came to visit.

Something about seeing me there,

laying helpless as a trampled daisy

made you able to see me.

My natural strength was subdued

like a light turned down,

like the sunshine dampened by rain

and you felt safe to come out into the open.

But did you always have to run?

Escaping love that wanted the best for you.

No reason for this nonsensical fear of being caught

in the natural calamity that was me.

But I saw, to my relief, it was not only me

but any woman. 

No one could hold you,

and yet, it was cold consolation. 

So I chained-smoked and drank in an idiotic fashion

to show myself and others that I was not afraid to die.

Death, death, death

skeletons with glowing ruby eyes

wearing sombreros and chugging Tequila

that slips right through the bones.

I loved Dia de Muertos

for it mirrored where I was headed-

the dark, undisturbed grave

where critics could not take my bones nor heart.

Hurricanes do not apologize for their strength

so I never apologized for getting carried away.

I was born a force 

which is why trolleys and iron bars impaled me.

I was a hurricane wadded up inside a little peasant girl.

Everything, including love

was made to imperil me. 

It was my eyebrows knit together in a silent scowl 

and my sideways stare that suggested a storm was brewing.

It is because hurricanes are so frightful

that I was alone.

Yet had you offered a hand

you would have seen my turbulence melt away

for that is what I really needed.

One touch would have calmed the storm

that was Hurricane Frida.

With Love,

Frida

The Language of Frida (Dedicated to Frida Kahlow) by Devi Nina Bingham

Love is an international language

we understand

when it is not reciprocated.

Words are unnecessary

in the language of love.

What is necessary

is to throw aside

wasteful wanderings, 

the mind's Tom-foolery,

and to be present by your attention

to the smallest detail:

the way of the inhale and exhale

of your beloved as they sleep.

How the lines creep across their palm,

and the change of weather

upon their knitted brow.

Curiosity about the other speaks volumes.

Do you care to learn?

I was a fool for love

wandering from the golden sun

as the maize of corn

which bursts its sheath.

I fled my mind

so color, form, and expression

could have its way with me

and its day in the sun.

Abandoning all reason,

chasing after the ghost of you

I fled to the sky,

tattered as thin cotton clouds

torn into whisps and scattered

anytime you came around.

I became a lost doll thrown into the corner

when newer dolls arrived.

I made my mouth turn up at the corners,

my red lips infuriatingly full of a distant hope.

Blue paint streamed from my black eyes and dripped

on my blouse which burst into blue flame.

A flame which once knew every turn of your long fingers,

every swipe of your hand

that impatiently brushed away your curly black locks.

The maestro of murals

and his weeping, virginal onlooker

with two limbs who crawled to you.

Dragging myself 

under the pitying gaze of strangers

to stand in your shadow.

And for what? 

Not to watch you work,

that was only a guise.

But to hold a place for myself.

Like a bookmark

stopping time as if I could

as it marched over my body

like Communist revolutionaries.

Invisible infant in my arms longing to be held,

I imprisoned her spirit on canvas

where I could see for myself 

this mystery called love

represented in the reds, blues, yellows and greens

and in hues of dark and light. 

The thorny crowns of surreal simplicity,

the hot nights and cool sunsets all encapsulated

in what was relegated "modern art."

I smiled inside when asked to describe my art

because I was never a painter. 

I was always the same:

your lover 

who spoke in a language few could understand,

the language of Frida.

With Love,

Frida

Heart Turned Outward (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

I wonder

if all the waiting I did for you

held any magic,

or isn't love so stubborn

really a curse?

The heart cannot be told

anything. 

It stands up and walks out

when you silence it.

It either runs the show

or you haven't got one.

I lived my life

with my heart turned outwards.

It faced that direction

so I would not drown

in my own sorrow.

I loved you even when I didn't want to.

Through the indignities and betrayals

my heart was a train on a singular track.

How many times I jumped off

and tore up my ticket.

Then my illness would call you to my bedside

and we would instantly be "us" again

like we never, and always were.

At no time were we parted 

or in someone else's arms.

That was a dream

and when our eyes met, 

we awoke from the dream.

To love improbably and unreasonably

is the only way there is for me. 

I cannot be a fire without burning myself.

Passion pumps the heart's red blood

and I would not trade one day

of this high-octane passion 

for a lifetime of safe and sane.

Surely, I will burn myself out.

With Love,

Frida

The Princess and the Frog (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Everything and nothing made me royalty.

My talent for painting stories

of the princess and the frog.

I was everything:

blooming, flowering, fragrant, and bursting

with the colors of a Mexican peasant girl

who clawed out of her cage of pain. 

And I was nothing:

the scalpel's blade hacking away at my brittle bones.

The blood seeping, the skin pulling my stitches apart

like a too tight corset.

A crown of thorns laid upon my frowny brow,

I became the posterchild for how to survive 

what was not survivable. 

And you, associating with artists of renown

made little time for me

while I only wanted it all.

Photographs show you looking away

while I stared with hopeless longing

as if an invisible spotlight

creating a halo was shining

illuminating only you.

When you did see me,

my heart stopped pounding,

my blood stopped coursing,

and a smile that began in my frigid toes

streaked through my body

and shot out of my head like bolts of lightning.

Inevitably someone would remark, 

"I don't know what she sees in him."

Because all they could see was a frog

and not my prince.

It was not until the last curtain fell

that I realized my own kiss

had made you beautiful to me. 

With Love,

Frida

 

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

So odd,

a chair with wheels.

So odd, 

a cripple with wings.

How does unbounded creativity

flow like water rushing from a barren field.

How does beauty the color of vibrant Spring 

push its way past decay?

Until black death sucked me away,

drowning me in pure spite,

in bitter resignation to a hope run dry.

The wheelchair was my captor

and my only friend,

for it never left me.

So odd

that a girl so full of life

would be thankful for a metal best friend.

Center of You (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Though I never discussed it,

your stomach enchanted me.

Perpetually giving birth,

something I could not do.

Carrying my hope like a still-born baby

I touched your stomach first

before your giant hands wrapped mine up,

or your arm, heavy as a log, fell across my shoulders. 

It was magic to touch the center of you

where all was hidden,

wrapped in intestines,

a treasure no eye could see.

The inner you, never given to me. 

With Love,

Frida