It is fascinating how I can now as an adult draw my terror until it becomes real, make sense out of the irrational and how you manage to alleviate with my happy ending.

As a child, I wasn't always afraid of wasps. Or not a particular one. Not the one that hides in the back of my neck and pokes my vertebrae with icy hands. Nor the one that breaks my throat in storms of screams.

But without knowing how, it happened at some point that that honeycomb of terror was gestated in me and that something was feeding it without my permission.

Perhaps the daggers of the world in which I was a foreigner shocked me and melted the pain into that hexagonal wax, of which I was making in my body the perfect nest for these winged and penetrating to begin to lodge in my organs and flutter in my temples, on my head.

Between frailejon ones of yellow love, me and my tamed fear.

Until I finally ended up making myself a garden of wasps. The one I feared. The one I screamed for him to leave me. I still can't find the exact spot of the very birth of the first wasp in my story.

But I know the place, the moors of that city in the Andean mountain range when I went to visit my paternal grandfather in the coffee and cocoa hacienda in Boconó, the tiny accentuation of the language, the frailejón a plant that lives in the forests of the Andean mountain range of my country, the solitary immense big house with basement and terraces. UFF, that house scared me so much.

And I confess that I know how its legs hang in flight, I see the orange on its sides, the three centimeters of its body, and the roar with which it approaches. And in them, I remember the six years of at least three monthly nightmares that plagued my rest, the six years of cars that almost hit me, they took me by the middle, in the middle of fleeing when I felt the wasp on me. The tears, the hours of uncontrolled screaming, the dread before an inanimate image.

It always seemed impossible to think that one day, my wasp garden and I would learn to live together among frailejon of yellow love. But it happens, in the end, it always happens that a warm voice, nimble hands, and small and deep eyes cleanse the body of fears and accompany you to start the way ... mom .... Who thanks to her wisdom and love placated my fears with the wasps, even with her 84 years she is my calm every time something hurts, she is fantastic, she is an anchor when I am about to lose myself.

Today I breathe a sigh of relief, I feel safe to let go because the challenges continue, but my attitude is different, thanks to pain, for giving me a double self-portrait to find myself.

She excites me a lot and makes me sigh and keep believing in life and its goodness. Then everything makes sense, there is a new order, meaning, and sense; one ends up talking to oneself, reconciling with one's wasp. From afar, of course, far away, with tears held back, but with courage, a lot of Peace and courage to the rhythm of life-death-life that represents my instinctive humane essence.

Inside me, there is a woman, who even in the moments when I have felt most repressed and afraid, encourages a secret life, a powerful force full of good instincts, passionate creativity, and eternal wisdom.

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The cover photo is from my eyes, it is not current, it is a flowered frailejón in the moor of the Andes in Bocono, I would like to return to that place again.