Art As Spiritual Practice

 

Worshiping a woman came very naturally to us. After all, my family is a matriarcado, a matriarchy. My sister and I grew up in the Dominican Republic with our mother, Mami, a teacher who held multiple side jobs to make ends meet. She was smart, ambitious, and always with a plan: to do better, to make more money, to help other women.

Perhaps she inherited this drive from my grandmother, Carmela, who worked as a seamstress and was known for feeding everyone in the neighborhood. I never met my grandmother, she died after giving birth to her ninth child, when my mother was only seven but I knew her through Mami’s stories. My mother spoke of her kindness, her creativity, and her vibrant spirit. Making was her gift. I know she would have loved to see us creating too.

 I’m sure mi abuela was all the things I heard growing up, but I often wonder what made her sad, what worried her. As I understand it, she had nine children by the age of thirty-three; I can only imagine the toll that childbearing must have taken on her body. In my opinion, she deserves a place on the altar of our ancestras because she endured at a time when women couldn’t complain about their fate. I hope she was happy and I hope she is proud of us. Judging by the stories I've heard, abuela made the most of what she had and being creative was a big part of what brought her joy.

My grandmother was worshiped like a saint in our home. Mami kept her picture on the wall, surrounded by candles and flowers, an altar in her honor. We talked to her as if she were still there. My sister and I learned to love the woman on the wall and everything we learned about her: that she was kind and beautiful, talented and witty. She had seven daughters and two boys, she sewed, cooked, and made-up songs. She loved fresh flowers and made bouquets to put on her altar and around the house; she made curtains and dresses for her daughters. My mother spoke of her with reverence, and we adored her completely.

The altar has always been a presence in our home, a place of comfort, remembrance, and connection to our dead. It is a space of trust, a portal where prayers are received and answered, a place where love lives beyond the physical. Lighting a candle is more than a ritual; it is a tradition rooted in faith. It was way to honor both our ancestras and the future ones. Mostly everyone in my mom’s part of the family has an altar in their house with pictures of our loved ones. A place to slow down and be present.

 I remember when Mami lost her teaching job and decided to open a school for women in our living room. We moved the little furniture we had to make room for students, who brought their own chairs if they wished. She called the school Centro de Capacitación Femenina HELCA, an acronym for Helen (my sister) and Carol (my middle name). She taught women sewing, knitting, macramé, etiquette, everything you could think of. It was an afternoon school, and my sister was her right hand, helping Mami with everything while learning too. I was more of an observer, creating dialogues in my head as I picked up fabric scraps from the floor.

 The school made space for women to be creative, to learn a craft that could earn them income. It was a space for gathering and taking care of each other. Women in our family are the light bearers, the creators of paths for themselves and others. We were taught two things consistently: to have faith and to be creative. When I think about this, it becomes so clear that these things go hand in hand. Creating is an act of faith. You first have to imagen that something is possible, a painting, a poem. Then you act on it, the act of creating is faith accomplished.

I realize now that my mother’s school for women, in the middle of our tiny living room, was her way of coping with a situation that was grim and hopeless. Instead of giving up, she created a space for women to create, to learn a craft. By being of service, she was also taking care of herself. Creating was a ritual that didn’t have to be explained or understood as a title; it was simply what we did.

My mom never called herself an artist; none of us did. When something is so close to you, it doesn’t need to be named to exist, it just is.

Art was a spiritual practice, and worshiping a woman came naturally to us because it was never really worship, it was gratitude. Gratitude for the women who created, who endured, who taught us to pray and to make something out of nothing. The altar is only a mirror of what already lives in us: a faith in women, passed down like a secret blessing.