Category: Uncategorized

It is time to come back home.

Spoiler alert: I think it would be hard to spoil The Odyssey, written thousands of years ago, but I plan to discuss an element in Christopher Nolan’s adaptation, so if you haven’t watched the movie yet, you may want to read this afterward. You’ve been warned.

The People from the Sea

In Nolan’s Odyssey, a motif that keeps coming up is that of the “people from the sea,” an impending menace that may arrive at any moment. It reminded me of something I learned in a long-forgotten history class. Something about how the Greek (Mycenaean) Dark Age may have been caused by people “from the lands across the sea.1” Interestingly, everybody seems aware of this unknown but felt threat. In the movie, both royalty, such as Penelope and Agamemnon, and peasants feared them. They all speak of it almost like a rumor, one of those things we somehow know but can’t quite remember where we heard it.

It is one of the story’s main revelations, though one that may get lost amid the action that follows, that Odysseus, his soldiers, and perhaps even the Greeks as a whole, are the people from the sea. How could that be? Aren’t they the good guys? Isn’t history written by the victors? You see, they committed atrocities at Troy whose memory, together with stories of their cunning victory, also traveled quietly from port to port: “Beware and try to be ready for the imminent arrival of the wicked people from the sea.”

The Enemy We Do Not Recognize

The movie, mirroring the original story, works hard to teach us, and repeatedly remind us, of the importance of Greek xenia (the guest-host relationship); however, it subtly shifts its emphasis toward what later came to be called the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Odysseus argues that, by violating all that was ever sacred between people, they themselves, not mysterious invaders from elsewhere, brought about civilization’s downfall. It reminds me of Walt Kelly’s famous Pogo comic strip, where, after confronting the pollution of a pond, Pogo says, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Of course, there are many possible interpretations of what Nolan is trying to tell us. Is it a general criticism of the horrors of war, where human beings, winners and losers alike, unleash their darkest impulses, the beasts that Circe sees beneath their human disguise? Maybe. Does it refer to how humanity has turned its back on the Golden Rule, treating one another as enemies? Possibly. Is it a nod to how immigrants are currently not treated as guests (alongside how some guests, like the suitors, abuse hospitality) and the consequences that may follow? Probably. However, I am not a movie critic; I’m a psychotherapist, so I’ll leave those questions to brighter minds than mine.

The Odyssey and Jung’s Shadow

As a therapist, the revelation that we are the feared people from the sea reminded me of Jung’s concept of the shadow.

The shadow can be understood as the unconscious repository containing our repressed aggression, envy, weakness, hatred, fear, greed, cruelty, desires, instincts, etc. These are the parts of ourselves that society has taught us to reject, so we hide them and come to fear them. We all have one. It has been suggested that the more impressive or embellished the persona(lity), the larger the shadow it casts. Collectively, nations and cultures also have shadows: denied histories, disowned violence, racial fantasies, imperial ambitions, resentments, humiliations, archaic instincts, and unacknowledged guilt. While individuals project their shadow onto other people and then proceed to criticize or hate them, when nations, cultures, or groups do the same, the result is violent confrontation. In Jung’s terms, when we don’t become conscious of our shadow, our “inner opposite,” the world must act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves. We see this in every war; it is also evident every time we turn those who are different from us into enemies. We see it in the fear of “aliens,” regardless of whether they come from another planet or another country. Sounds familiar?

That may be why the Sirens’ song revealed to Odysseus that he really didn’t want to go home. Going home requires him to confront his actions and, perhaps more importantly, acknowledge that those unrecognized impulses, the ones that allowed Circe to turn men into pigs, also exist within him. Although consciously he declares that he wants to return to Ithaca, unconsciously he may be afraid of what the journey will demand of him. In this way, we are all Odysseus. We are all people from the sea.

What We Refuse to Own

What do we do with the parts of ourselves we don’t like? Do we try to reject them, like Dr. Jekyll? (We know how that one ends.) Jung suggests (and I agree) that we need to integrate them rather than reject them. We not only project our shadow onto others, but what we fail to own eventually ends up owning us. Repressed parts find indirect ways to express themselves. We may become passive-aggressive, judgmental (toward ourselves and others), anxious, depressed, or even explosive. Keeping those parts at bay requires psychological energy, energy we could be using elsewhere. Reclaiming those rejected parts allows us to become whole. Maturity is not perfection but integration.

The Journey Back Home

Understood this way, Odysseus’ journey is one of self-discovery. It is a journey I have witnessed countless times in therapy. To heal and grow, the client needs to confront the Cyclops, the sorceress, and the monsters within. Stop denying (or forgetting) past actions and humbly face their consequences. Become aware of old roles and stories that no longer work. Visit the underworld to extract the lessons needed to move forward. Again, as the Sirens revealed, he must face head-on all the things he wanted, all those he wished he had never wished for, all the things he will never have, all those he has lost, and all the promises he failed to keep. As Calypso tells him, once he is finally ready to return home, just like clients in therapy, he must surrender himself to the process (in his case, the sea), give up the fight, relinquish control, take a leap of faith, and return to life.

Becoming who you are meant to be is not an easy journey, but it is a worthy one. I bear witness to it.

What parts of yourself are you still denying? Would you like to stop? It is time to realize that society taught you (and me) that you are not okay and that you needed to conform by pretending to be someone else. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  We’ve all made mistakes and can learn from them. There’s no need to keep struggling. It happened to all of us.

It is time to come back home.

  1. The expression comes from Egyptian texts circa 1100 BCE: https://www.livius.org/articles/people/sea-people/ ↩︎

When life looks fine, but something deeper feels unsettled

Picture someone with what looks like a good life: a promising career, people who love them, a full calendar, and a life that checks every box from the outside. Yet they may still wake up with a quiet, unsettling question: Is this really my life? Is this as good as it gets?

That question points toward what is often called existential anxiety in psychology. It is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong with you. It is a deeply human response to becoming aware of uncertainty, freedom, death, meaning, and the burden of taking ownership. We are all called to be fully alive, but often we do not know how.

Existential anxiety can be painful, even baffling, especially in a culture that rewards productivity, certainty, and the appearance of having “made it.” But some questions are not solved by better planning, another achievement, or the newest app. They ask us to pause and consider how we are living, what we value, and whether the life we have built still feels connected to something true inside us. Are the goals we are chasing really ours? Are they still worth it?

Key takeaways

  • Existential anxiety often arises when we confront meaning, freedom, mortality, isolation, or the responsibility of choosing a life.
  • It is not pathological, but it can become painful, persistent, overwhelming, and even paralyzing.
  • Therapy can help by listening to these questions and helping you find, or update, your own answers.

The questions beneath the anxiety

Existential anxiety is often hard to spot. It may first appear as restlessness, dread, boredom, indecision, irritability, or a sense that life has become strangely flat. It can surface as disappointment after finally achieving something we worked hard for, or unsettle us after a divorce, illness, birthday, career change, spiritual experience, accident, or the death of someone close.

On the surface, the questions may be practical: Should I stay in this job? Leave this relationship? Move? Change my life? But underneath, deeper undercurrents are at play. What really matters to me? What am I avoiding? What part of me have I ignored? Is this how I want to live the rest of my life?

Not all anxiety is existential. It can be shaped by trauma, stress, biology, social pressure, health concerns, family history, and the nervous system doing its best to protect us in a chaotic world. An integral approach does not romanticize anxiety. It asks what is happening at all the relevant levels: body, relationship, history, culture, circumstance, meaning, and soul.

Freedom and responsibility

Although it may sound paradoxical, one source of existential anxiety is freedom. We often imagine freedom as carefree, but real freedom bears responsibility. To choose one path is to let other paths go, at least for now. To stay in a relationship, leave one, become a parent or not, change careers, or admit that a former identity no longer fits, is to feel the weight of authorship. Sartre somewhat poignantly said that we are “condemned to be free.”

Many of us wish someone could tell us the right answer: “Just tell me what to do.” But while advice can be useful and guidance necessary, no one can live our life for us. We are responsible for our choices and their consequences, which is both nerve-wracking and the source of agency. The question shifts from “How do I avoid choosing wrong?” to “How can I take charge of this life that is actually mine?”

Meaning and the feeling that something is missing

This feeling usually does not arrive as a dramatic flare. It creeps into awareness while answering emails, sitting in traffic, preparing dinner, or scrolling through other people’s carefully edited lives. The question may not be “What is the meaning of life?” in some grand philosophical sense. It may be more personal: What do I really want to do? What matters enough to my limited time and attention?

Meaning can be found in relationship, work, service, creativity, devotion, family, community, play, spirituality, and care for the world. But it is different to each of us, and it changes over time. What was significant at twenty-five may not be enough at forty-five. What once felt like healthy ambition may later feel like a burden. What felt exciting may feel uninspiring.

There is no single purpose hidden somewhere that, once found, will solve the rest of life. Meaning is discovered, created, revised, lost, and found again.

Isolation, belonging, and being known

Even in close relationships, each of us carries an inner world that cannot be fully accessed by another: memories, sensations, longings, fears, and private meanings that remain ours alone. This recognition sometimes hurts, but it also makes intimacy more precious.

To know someone, and to be known, is a never-ending enterprise. It means risking being seen in our beauty, quirkiness, and uniqueness, while accepting that the seeing will never be complete. This is not an argument against relationship. It is an invitation toward deeper, more honest forms of it.

Mortality and loss

Sometimes existential anxiety emerges after a loss, a medical scare, becoming a parent, aging, or simply noticing time passing. Suddenly we face the fact that we are vulnerable and finite, something we work hard to keep below awareness. It can bring fear, sadness, urgency, or a sharper appreciation for life. These waking-up moments are often uncomfortable, but with proper support they can become opportunities to remember who we really are and what matters to us.

Since time is limited, what conversation has been postponed? What apology, creation, repair, project, or act of love matters now? The clock is always ticking. What you waiting for?

How therapy can help

Existentially informed psychotherapy offers a space for the mundane and the profound. We may talk about work stress, grief, heartbreak, family expectations, cultural identity, spiritual questions, or fear about the future.

Being seen and understood by someone can reduce the sense of isolation and create a holding space where these questions can be explored openly. There are no ready-made answers. But together, you can find your own.

Facing existential anxiety does not mean you have failed or that you made the wrong decisions. It may mean that life is knocking at your door, asking for better or updated answers. Do not ignore the call.

Sometimes existential anxiety feels never-ending or unbearable. You do not have to go through it alone. With support, things can get better. If it turns into thoughts of harming yourself, or you feel unable to stay safe, reach out immediately: call 988, contact emergency services, or seek urgent local support. There is help.

If this sounds familiar, existentially informed therapy can help you stay with the questions long enough to discover what they are asking of you. Let’s explore together meaning, relationships, grief, freedom, mortality, and the choices that shape your life. Become who you really are.

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Why Artificial Empathy Should Not Replace Relationships

We often hear that things are moving faster than ever. The late Joanna Macy used to say that it took us a thousand years to move from hunter-gatherers to agriculture, a hundred to move from there to industrial society, and only ten to reach the information age. It took about ten years for the personal computer and the Internet to reach mainstream use, about eight for the smartphone, and only two for AI 1.

Just 24 months ago, very few people were even aware of AI. Now, almost every week, one of my clients tells me they’ve asked ChatGPT something they might have once asked me. In fact, according to a recent Harvard Business Review article, the most common use of ChatGPT today is for therapy and emotional support 2. Should I be worried? Will AI steal therapy jobs?

Some would say yes. Anthropic’s CEO recently predicted that up to 50% of entry-level white-collar jobs could be automated within five years 3. McKinsey estimates that by 2030, AI could displace up to 800 million jobs 4.  Are psychotherapists, psychologists, and social workers among them?   Optimists argue that since AI lacks emotions, intuition, and empathy, professions that rely on these are less likely to be replaced.

“Did you just say AI doesn’t have emotions, intuition, or empathy? Have you ever asked ChatGPT or Gemini for help? If they don’t have empathy, they sure fake it well.”

Agree. But let’s recall how AI works. 

Believe it or not, AI doesn’t think. It’s more like advanced autocomplete. It was trained on mountains of information and, when prompted, predicts word by word what’s most likely to come next. Its answers are patterns of probability, not insights.  However convincing it may sound, it doesn’t even understand the words it produces. When certain words tend to appear together, they are stitched together, sounding fluent and confident—even when it’s wrong.

I often remind clients that while ChatGPT is a fantastic information resource (though it’s wise to double-check—since it has no problem “hallucinating”), it has never had its heart broken or gone out on a date. Nor does it care for your feelings (since it doesn’t understand them). Its soundest “advice” is just a rehash of what’s already been said. Great for data gathering or quick answers, but not for personal decisions. Regardless of how much we wish for HAL 9000, Samantha, R2-D2, or TARS 5 to give us clarity, the truth is that each of us still has to make our own decisions.

While ChatGPT might be preferable to a bad therapist (hence the importance of finding a good one!), the relationship between client and therapist goes far beyond information. Something subtle and elusive happens in every genuine encounter. And therein lies the real blind spot—or danger—of replacing a competent human therapist with AI.

The importance of a real relationship:

Although efforts are being made to reduce it, most AI interfaces are designed to retain user attention. One way they do this is by being uncritically agreeable—basically sycophancy (who doesn’t like reassurance?), but this creates never-challenging echo chambers, and even delusional spirals—unlike real human relationships. What feels like empathy is just AI mirroring back language patterns to make us feel understood and keep us engaged.

Remember: AI doesn’t understand depression, existential angst, or loneliness. It doesn’t even understand the words you write (it turns them into numbers). This is the biggest risk of AI therapy—artificial relationships replacing real ones.

Psychological pain comes from isolation and disconnection. Attachment injuries happen between people, and trauma is relational rupture. As such, healing can only take place in the context of an authentic, reparative relationship.  Since wounding happens in relationship, healing must also occur in relationship.  

Most clients are unaware of how crucial the relationship itself is. Good therapy goes beyond giving advice or providing “tools.” Our brains are wired for connection. When we’re in contact with someone attuned to our emotional needs—through empathic resonance—our limbic system literally heals and rewires. AI can mimic that pattern but cannot truly reproduce it.

AI “therapy” is like replacing healthy food with junk food; it creates the illusion of nourishment, but it does not do the job. As the “A” in AI indicates, AI empathy is artificial.

“Of course you’d say that, you are a therapist and therefore biased.”

Probably true.  But even someone working at McDonald’s can tell the difference between healthy and unhealthy food.  

Every day I meet clients who are thoroughly “connected” yet lonely.  Among the many crises we face, loneliness ranks high, and social media and AI may be amplifying it. I am not against AI; I think it is fantastic. What concerns me is that the newer generations, surrounded by screens, may have a hard time telling the difference between genuine human relationships and artificial interactions with machines.  They may not know what they’re missing!

It may take generations to fully grasp the potential damage that human relational deprivation can cause.  Plastic empathy may not offer the same neuronal benefits.  Hopefully, we’ll be wise enough to use AI as the powerful tool it is—without letting it replace our shared humanity.  Let us not forget what Martin Buber suggested: when two people genuinely meet, God is the space between them.

But maybe it is just a matter of time… Let’s talk about it.

  1. https://ourworldindata.org/ ↩︎
  2. https://hbr.org/2025/04/how-people-are-really-using-gen-ai-in-2025 ↩︎
  3. https://www.forbes.com/sites/kolawolesamueladebayo/2025/06/04/will-ai-really-take-your-job-experts-reveal-the-true-outlook-today/ ↩︎
  4. https://www.iotforall.com/impact-of-artificial-intelligence-job-losses ↩︎
  5. Some of Hollywood’s almost omniscient and relatable computers. ↩︎

La madrugada del martes 29 de marzo del año 2022, falleció el profesor Guillermo Castillo Nava, mi suegro.  Nos cuentan que ya estaba sufriendo mucho. Mi esposa me dice que él les enseño que cuando un animal sufre, por compasión hay que ayudarlo a morir.  La muerte de mi suegro fue natural, pero esa idea, la de evitar sufrimiento innecesario, nos brinda consuelo de que fue lo mejor.  Casi parece que él decidió cuando iba a morir.  Insistió en que lo llevaran a su casa (había estado en casa de uno de mis cuñados) y murió en la misma cama que murió mi suegra tan sólo un año antes.

Cuando una persona muere, usamos todo tipo de eufemismos para que “no se oiga tan feo”.  Yo mismo lo estoy haciendo aquí.  La persona “descansó”, “pasó a mejor vida”, “se nos adelantó”, “se fue al cielo” etc.  Estas frases piadosas tratan de suavizar el golpe de decir que alguien ya no está con nosotros.  

Se entiende. Al fin y al cabo ¿quién nos puede decir con seguridad que pasá “del otro lado”?  Las distintas religiones nos dan sus respuestas.  Tenemos también los reportes de quienes han muerto y vuelto a la vida. Nos hablan de una luz blanca brillante, de una presencia amorosa, de encontrar a seres queridos, santos, ángeles o avatares que dan la bienvenida al recién llegado.  Pero la verdad, el fin de la vida, al igual que su inicio, son un misterio. A lo mejor es a propósito. Tal vez no se supone que debamos saber. Quizá echaría a perder la sorpresa…

Pero el deceso de mi suegro me hace pensar en lo que deja detrás y lo que se lleva.  Sin duda no se lleva su recuerdo, que seguirá vivo en nuestro corazón.  También nos deja su ejemplo, que trataremos de honrar en nuestras acciones.  Su memoria, sus consejos, sus bromas, sus anécdotas, todo ello queda.  Quedan además sus pertenencias y la dura labor de decidir qué hacer con sus camisas, con su colección de estampillas, con las medicinas que se quedaron a medias, con los chocolates que estaba guardando para cuando mejorara, los libros de Sudoku sin terminar, con sus sillón predilecto, con sus lentes para leer, papeles y papeles, las recetas médicas con las instrucciones para cuidar a su enferma esposa, la botellita casi nueva de aceite para el cabello… Son muchas cosas las que deja, recuerdos, fotos amarillas, radiografías, sentimientos encontrados, añoranza, agradecimiento, paz, tristeza…  Alguien dijo, una persona amada nunca se va del todo.  Se queda con nosotros y el amor que le tuvimos le mantiene vivo. Concuerdo.  Pero entonces ¿qué se va?

Se va el cuerpo.  Se va la posibilidad de abrazarlo, besarlo y hasta olerlo.  Se va también (aunque tal vez en menor medida) la posibilidad de platicar con él.  De compartir una broma, pedir un consejo, de ver su rostro iluminarse cuando nos pelaba papaya o mango (o una salsita picosa con chiles de su jardín, una chocha, o cuajada…).  Con ello se lleva también su sazón y sus infinitos conocimientos sobre el rancho y sus animales (muchos transmitió a sus hijos, pero se sería imposible compartirlos todos).  Se lleva también una historia, un universo del que sólo sabemos detalles.  Se lleva su muy especial forma de ver el mundo, lo que sintió cuando se comprometió con la que sería su compañera de toda la vida, su orgullo al ver crecer a sus hijos, la satisfacción de ver a un alumno finalmente resolver un problema, el gusto de cargar y ver crecer a cada uno de sus nietos, su opinión sobre la forma en que estaba cambiando el mundo.  Cuando alguien se va, se lleva también sus recuerdos ¿cómo se veía su mamá cuando era niño? ¿cómo era la voz de su padre de joven? las bromas de sus compañeros de Tamatán, los aromas de su rancho.  También se lleva sus sueños e ilusiones, los alcanzados y los que no se llegaron a completar.  Con él se irán los espacios físicos.  Pronto la casa de los abuelitos dejará de serlo, otros inquilinos vendrán, pintarán la casa y forjarán sus propias memorias.  Nosotros pasaremos por ahí y le diremos a nuestros hijos (y tal vez nietos) “¿te acuerdas que en esa casa, vivían tus abuelos?” o “en esa casa (que tal vez ahora es una oficina o un Oxxo) pasé mi infancia”.  

Estoy convencido que morir no es algo que hay que temer o lamentar.  Es la única certeza que tenemos. El precio del boleto para entrar en esta vida es saber que algún día, tarde o temprano, vamos a morir.  Que nos volveremos a fundir en esa luz (que muchos llaman Dios) de dónde venimos y que será al menos tan hermosa como la vida que dejamos atrás (por que con todo y todo, la vida es hermosa). Incluso me atrevo a decir que habría que estar feliz por el que se va.  Pero, todo eso no cambia el hecho de que el que se va deja un hueco inmenso en nuestro corazón.  Un vacío que nada ni nadie podrá jamás llenar, y que es más, no debe ser llenado.  El tamaño de ese hueco va en proporción directa el amor profesado.  Llorar purifica el alma y es un homenaje al amor que sentimos y seguiremos sintiendo por esa persona que se nos adelantó y que tal vez, literalmente o como energía, volveremos encontrar cuando lo alcancemos.  Pero mientras tanto, hay que llorar, dejar fluir esas lágrimas agridulces de agradecimiento por haber conocido a la persona amada y de dolor por que ya no estará aquí.

Descanse en paz Don Guillermo. Querido suegro, deja mucho, pero se lleva también mucho.  Nos quedamos atrás, con la esperanza de reencontrarnos, de alguna manera u otra algún día.  En lo personal, como le dije muchas veces, le agradezco confiarme a su hija.  Yo acá se la cuido.  Como usted, haré todo lo posible para seguir su ejemplo y ser un buen padre, esposo, hermano y un hombre de bien.  Ojalá, al final de mis días pueda decir como usted “se hizo lo que se pudo“. Misión cumplida.

Ayer dejo su cuerpo mortal Eva Rodríguez Salina. 

Digo ¨dejó su cuerpo¨ porque decir ¨murió¨ de alguna forma no hace justicia a lo que pasó. Cierto, el cuerpo dejó de respirar, cierto, la boca dejó de sonreír, cierto, sus ojos ya no verán más. Pero todo eso me habla del cuerpo, no de ella. El cuerpo es finito. El cuerpo se cansa, el cuerpo se enferma, el cuerpo muere. Pero ella no murió, sólo dejó atrás un cuerpo que ya no le servía como era debido, un cuerpo que se había vuelto pesado. Sólo eso, dejó atrás su cuerpo. Ella no murió. ¿Cómo podría morir? 

Cuenta la historia que cuando Ramana Maharshi, un sabio hindú estaba muriendo (llevaba tiempo enfermo) sus discípulos lloraban y le pedían que no se fuera, a lo que el contestó “¿Irme, a dónde habría de irme? Yo siempre estaré aquí”. Él lo tenía muy claro, era necesario liberarse de su cuerpo, pero él no tenía por qué partir. 

¿Cómo medir una vida terrenal? ¿Es acaso por las obras que dejamos detrás? ¿Por los hijos que criamos y los nietos que ellos a su vez criarán? ¿Por los lugares visitados? ¿Por las vidas que tocamos? Ciertamente no hay una sola medida que pueda incluir toda la complejidad de una historia. 

A todos se nos da el mismo obsequio al nacer. Una vida. No importa si es corta o larga, no importa si ocurre en la pobreza o la riqueza. Esa es la mano que nos toca jugar y cómo la aprovechemos (o no) es cosa nuestra. Eva fue una mujer de su hogar y de trabajo. Crio 4 hijos, tres varones y una mujer. Yo la pude conocer, pues me tuvo la generosidad de confiarme a su única hija. Cada día busco merecer esa confianza. 

Vivió, trabajó, rio, hizo tortillas de harina, cocinó cabrito, se quejó y disfrutó. Alegaba con su marido, don Guillermo, y también bromeaba. Recordaba su juventud, los bailes que organizaba de chiquita, la tienda de su papá. Su casa en “la Ribereña” que no sabía cómo iba a llenar cuando recién la conoció (pero que bien pudo llenar de recuerdos, de fotos, de detalles, de “tilicherio”). Vivió, como todos vivimos (u ojalá vivamos) lo mejor que pudo vivir. Nadie vive una vida perfecta ni libre de arrepentimiento. Eso es imposible. El chiste es vivir, según nuestras circunstancias y posibilidades, la mejor vida que podamos vivir, amar todo lo que podamos, servir como se nos sea dado e irnos satisfechos por lo logrado. Tal vez esa sea la mejor medida de una buena vida. Cuanto reímos, cuanto servimos, cuanto amamos, cómo seremos recordados. 

Dejar el cuerpo atrás no debe ser fácil. Dejar atrás a los seres queridos con quienes compartimos tantas risas, tantas preocupaciones, tantos momentos; debe ser complicado. ¿Como despedirnos del compañero de más de 50 años, de los nietos, del cafecito…? Todo es inicio y despedida. Cada día, cada encuentro, cada momento lleva en sí mismo la promesa de su final. Pero una vez más, esas son sólo apariencias. Recordemos a Ramana Maharshi, ¿a dónde habíamos de irnos? ¿dónde habríamos de dejarlos? No, sólo dejamos atrás lo material. Los viejos edificios, los utensilios de cocina, la ropa, el cuerpo. Los recuerdos, los sentimientos, las relaciones se quedan con nosotros (los que se van y los que nos quedamos). Nada se pierde, todo permanece. 

Me han dicho (y creo que con razón) que la muerte no es muerte, es sólo transición. No existe la muerte en la naturaleza. La semilla “muere” para dar vida a la planta, la flor “muere” para dar vida al fruto. Tal vez nosotros también “morimos” para seguir floreciendo. Floreciendo en nuestros hijos, floreciendo en nuestras palabras, floreciendo en el recuerdo que dejamos en aquellos que nos amaron. Doña Eva sigue floreciendo en cada risa de sus hijos, en cada vez que recordamos algo que decía, en cada tortilla de harina que hagan sus nietas, bisnietos y demás. ¿A dónde habría de irse? No, no se ha ido, ella siempre seguirá aquí. 

Descanse en paz Eva Rodríguez Salinas. Se va con la satisfacción de la meta cumplida, la labor terminada, la misión satisfecha. Tu cuerpo se fue, pero tú nunca te irás. Serás bien recordada. ¡Hasta siempre!

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