On Halloween and Our Shadow Side

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

We were made from the universe, so we contain the same elements of the universe. The universe is both dark and light, and so are we.

But who are “we,” really?

If we can agree that we are not our liver or kidneys, even though they are vital organs, is it feasible to agree that we are not the brain either?

If we are not the brain, are “we” what is in the mind—the function of the brain? It would be analogous to saying that we are not detox, which is the function of the liver.

Hopefully the answer is no, because “we” are the substance that hears what the mind is saying. We are the part of the body that isn’t cells or physical substance. Just because it is only us who can hear what our mind is saying doesn’t mean that what the mind says is actually us.

Our mind is influenced by the physical world around us. Jingles in our head, the replaying of conversations, things we’ve watched, and the internal back-and-forth of competing thoughts all arise without effort. If we are able to notice them, then the part that notices is closer to who we are than the part providing the commentary.

That is, if we notice at all. The thoughts, songs, internal dialogues, arguments, and justifications are so constant that we often believe they define us. But that is not the case. Who we are is the witness to this chatter.

I’ll go back to the idea of the angel and devil. How can we claim to be only the “angel,” advocating for the right decisions, when the opposing voice is right there doing the same thing in a different direction? We may align with one side because it reflects our values or what we’ve been taught is right, but the other side still exists within us. It may not be comfortable to acknowledge, but it is no less real. That side is often referred to as the shadow, representing the parts of ourselves we don’t want to admit to having. It can exist outside of our awareness at first, but with attention and self-reflection, it becomes easier to recognize.

Neither the angel nor the devil is who we truly are. We are the part that notices both, and both will influence the decisions we make unless we learn to separate our identity from the constant activity of the mind. One way to begin noticing thoughts more clearly is through practices like meditation, but that is a deeper topic for another time.

The point here is that we are not our thoughts. It is as natural to have both “good” and “bad” thoughts as it is for the day to move between light and dark. Our physical bodies are part of the natural world, and they are governed by the same patterns. Both sides exist, and no human is exempt from this.

Some may have developed a deeper understanding of it, and many teachings point toward recognizing the difference between thought and awareness. Even without formal language for it, this idea has existed in different forms throughout history. We can think of this in terms of different layers of awareness: the unconscious, which regulates automatic functions and influences instinctive reactions; the conscious mind, which contains our thoughts and interpretations; and a deeper level of awareness—the part that observes all of it.

If we don’t recognize that we are not our thoughts, we tend to attach ourselves to the parts we prefer and reject the parts we don’t. We identify with what feels acceptable and try to hide what doesn’t, but that doesn’t remove those parts—it simply keeps them out of sight. Acknowledging the full range of what arises in the mind can create more clarity and allow us to understand what is influencing us, rather than reacting without awareness.

Accepting the presence of both light and dark within ourselves is not about acting on every thought. It is about recognizing that they exist and understanding that they are not the entirety of who we are. In nature, cycles of light and dark are constant. As seasons shift, we move through periods where one is more dominant than the other, but both are always present. The same can be said for us.

There are times of clarity and times of uncertainty, times when things feel lighter and times when they feel heavier. These shifts are not separate from us; they are part of the experience. During certain times of year, particularly as we move into the darker months, these patterns can feel more noticeable. The transition itself can be a reminder that change is constant and that both aspects are necessary.

Accepting that we move between these states can make it easier to navigate them. Not everything needs to be resisted or controlled. Some things can simply be observed and understood.

When I taught yoga regularly, I often used the theme of embracing the unknown during this time of year. I would invite students to consider what they might be avoiding and to allow it to be present, even if it felt uncomfortable. Not everything needs to be solved in the moment. Sometimes the first step is simply noticing.

Embracing the unknown. Facing what feels uncomfortable. Allowing space for both light and dark.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Demystifying Yoga: Movement over Exercise

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

When I meet someone and they learn that I practice or teach yoga, they almost always feel compelled to share their own experience with it. Sometimes they’ve tried it and didn’t like it, sometimes they love it, and often they follow it with something like, “I’m not flexible,” or “I have an injury,” or simply, “It’s not for me.”

One of my favorite responses to that comes from the owner of the studio where I used to teach. She once said that saying you’re not flexible enough to do yoga is like saying you’re too dirty to take a shower. It usually gets a laugh, but there’s truth in it.

If you’ve never really tried yoga, it’s hard to know what it actually is. For many people, the assumption is that it involves twisting into complicated shapes or keeping up with a fast-paced class. In reality, it’s often much simpler and much more accessible than that.

Yoga is, at its core, movement and breath. The movements are often slow and intentional, and the breath becomes something you begin to notice and work with rather than something that just happens in the background. Most classes are designed so that people at different levels can participate in a way that works for them.

In my experience teaching, many of the students were older or working with limitations, and they kept coming back because they started to notice small changes. Those small shifts—more ease in the body, a bit more clarity in the mind—tend to build over time.

People often come to yoga after an injury or surgery as well. It can be one of the first ways to begin moving again gently. That said, it’s always important to be aware of your own body and any specific conditions you may have. A good instructor can offer ways to modify movements, but the most important guideline is simple: if something doesn’t feel right, don’t push through it.

Yoga is different from what most people think of as exercise. It’s not about keeping pace with others or pushing through discomfort to reach a goal. It’s about paying attention. The teacher offers guidance, but you decide how far to go. There’s no real concept of falling behind, because the practice is happening within your own experience.

Over time, that combination of movement and breath can have a noticeable effect. Physically, people often experience more flexibility, strength, and balance. Mentally, it can help with focus, stress, and overall awareness. But those benefits tend to come as a result of the practice itself, not as something you have to chase.

If you already practice, you likely understand that in your own way. And if you don’t, it might be worth approaching it with a bit of curiosity rather than a fixed idea of what it is or isn’t.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Being in the Dark

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

A light breeze blew in from across the street when I opened my blinds and cracked my bedroom window while it was still dark this morning. The sound of the Long Island Sound filled my ears as the semi-salty air drifted into the space where I stood. A bell buoy chimed in the distance. A nearby bird sang. The cool, damp air felt refreshing against my skin in the otherwise still, sleepy room. I took a deep breath and let it all in, appreciating the quiet of that moment in the dark.
I moved through my morning routine and into meditation. Since the clocks changed last week, it is dark again in the early hours, and for a short time we get to watch the sunrise earlier along the horizon. It had rained overnight, and the world felt just a bit more crisp—renewed. I chose a different space to practice this morning, turning off the lights and opening the curtains to let the darkness slowly give way to light.

I stumbled around to find my meditation pillow while carrying a glass of lemon water. My animals moved around me, a little confused and curious about the change in routine. As I felt along the floor for the doorstop, I struggled to find it and eventually had to put everything down to search more carefully.
At some point, I knocked over the water. I heard it spill and felt the dog walk through it moments later. I sat down on the floor, slightly defeated, and then laughed as I felt wet paws and kisses on my face. My mood lifted almost immediately.

There was a lesson in it.

We can’t see well in the dark. We can move through familiar spaces by memory and touch, but our sense of sight is limited. We don’t fully know what is around us—we only know what we remember from when there was light.

Nature ensures that we spend half our time in darkness. Depending on where we are in the world, that balance shifts across the seasons, but the presence of darkness is constant. It’s part of the rhythm.
In many ways, our internal world operates similarly. There is so much we don’t know—about situations, about other people, even about ourselves. When we don’t know something, we are, in a sense, in the dark. Often, we don’t even realize what we don’t know.

There is something humbling in that. Accepting that we are not always seeing clearly can change how we move through the world. It can soften certainty and make room for curiosity.

This becomes especially relevant when we form strong opinions or beliefs. Whether the topic is something as large as politics or something as small as a personal interaction, it’s easy to assume we understand more than we actually do. We operate from our own experiences and perspectives, which feel complete to us, but are still limited.

When we stay open to the possibility that we are only seeing part of the picture, it changes how we listen and respond. It doesn’t mean abandoning our views, but it does mean holding them with a bit more flexibility.

There are countless sources of information, perspectives, and experiences that shape how people see the world. Not all of them reach us, and not all of them are easy to understand. Accepting that we may not have the full picture allows for a different kind of awareness—one that is less rigid and more receptive.

After cleaning up the spilled water as best I could in the dark, I made my way back to my practice. My cats and dog settled around me as I sat, the door slightly open, the cool air still moving through the space.

Without relying on sight, the other senses became more vivid. I noticed the sounds—the birds, the water, the buoy, the distant hum of a car, the steady rhythm of my dog’s breathing. The feel of the air on my skin was more pronounced. Things I might normally overlook became clearer.
As the rain began again, a new layer of sound filled the space. Gradually, the darkness gave way to light, and with it, my attention shifted back toward what I could see. It became easier to rely on sight and, in doing so, easier to overlook everything else.

There is something in that as well. Our strongest sense can sometimes become the one that limits us the most.

My animals seemed to take the whole morning in stride. The change in routine, the spilled water, the unfamiliar movements—it was all simply part of what was happening. They adapted without resistance.

There’s something to learn from that.

When we accept that we don’t—and can’t—know everything, it becomes easier to move through the world with a bit more ease. We make decisions with the information we have, understanding that it may not be complete. That awareness can feel less like a limitation and more like a kind of freedom.
It allows space for learning, for adjustment, and for seeing things we might otherwise miss.
And perhaps that’s part of the rhythm, too—moving between what we can see and what we can’t, knowing that both are always present.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Holidays, Divorce & Surrender

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The holidays can be a difficult time for many people. Those who are newly divorced or navigating the aftermath of a long separation are no exception. There are many reasons people struggle this time of year—loss, uncertainty, or simply the weight of change—but for this reflection, I want to focus on divorce, something I’ve now experienced over many holiday seasons.

It took me a long time to understand that the holidays do not have to remain difficult after a separation. That shift, at least for me, began with accepting what was, including my own part in it. That acceptance didn’t happen quickly, but it changed everything over time.

The loss of shared traditions, expectations, and future plans leaves a space that isn’t easily filled. When children are involved, that space can feel even more complicated and painful. What often makes it harder is not just the loss itself, but the feelings that linger—resentment, blame, or an inability to let go of what once was.

In my yoga classes this month, the theme has been surrender. Not in a passive sense, but in the sense of releasing resistance to what is already happening. Letting go of what we think should be happening, and beginning to work with what actually is.

That sounds simple, but it can be incredibly difficult to live.

Over time, I’ve come to see that in many relationships, when things fall apart, it’s rarely as simple as one person being right and the other wrong. In my own experience, there were things I didn’t see at the time. I was focused on responsibilities—children, work, daily life—and I missed signs that my partner was struggling. When I did begin to see them, I focused on fixing what was visible, not what was underneath.

Looking back, I can see more clearly now that there were unmet needs on both sides. I didn’t understand that then. I thought there would always be time to figure things out later.

There wasn’t.

When things finally broke down, I felt hurt and betrayed. But with distance, I’ve been able to recognize that the situation was more complex than I allowed myself to see in the moment. That understanding didn’t excuse what happened, but it did allow me to move out of blame and into something more productive.

That shift matters, especially during times like the holidays.

When there is ongoing tension between former partners, it doesn’t just affect the two people involved. It impacts children, families, and everyone connected to them. When there is even a small amount of cooperation or understanding, the difference can be felt by everyone.

This doesn’t mean every relationship can or should look the same after it ends. It simply means that holding on to anger or resentment tends to keep the pain active, while working toward acceptance can gradually ease it.

I’ve also come to understand that relationships change for many reasons. Sometimes people grow together, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes one person recognizes that something is no longer working before the other does. That doesn’t necessarily make one person wrong and the other right. It simply reflects where each person is at that point in time.

It’s easy to look back and wish things had been handled differently. It’s harder, but more useful, to look at what can be learned from the experience.

For me, that meant recognizing my own role, understanding where I had been unaware, and accepting that growth often comes through difficult transitions. Without that experience, I’m not sure I would have seen the patterns I’ve since worked to change.

The holidays can already carry a certain level of stress, even in the most stable situations. Adding unresolved tension to that mix only makes it heavier. It doesn’t have to be that way.

When we begin to let go of the need to assign blame and instead focus on acceptance, something shifts. It doesn’t erase the past, but it does change how we carry it.

Over time, that shift can make room for a lighter experience—not just during the holidays, but in life moving forward.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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You are the MOST important person on your gift list

Posted on by Esterina Anderson
  • You are the most important person to take care of. Give your time and attention to yourself first.

    That statement can be misunderstood, so it’s worth clarifying what it does and does not mean. It is not a justification to be selfish, ignore others, break commitments, or dismiss the impact we have on people. It simply means that without taking care of ourselves, we don’t have much to offer anyone else.

    It’s similar to a car that won’t run without gas. We need rest, nourishment, and experiences that genuinely support our well-being. That nourishment isn’t only physical. It can come from time with people we love, being in nature, quiet moments alone, creative outlets, or practices like meditation or prayer. The specifics are different for each of us, but the principle is the same: when we are depleted, everything else suffers.

    Taking care of ourselves is not about accumulation or external things. It’s about being filled in a way that allows us to move through the world with more clarity and energy.

    Giving to others is one of the most meaningful ways to experience that sense of fullness. When it comes from a genuine place, it often feels better than receiving. It allows us to share what we have—our time, attention, care, or presence—in a way that connects us to others.

    This kind of giving is not about obligation. It’s not tied to holidays, expectations, or social pressure. It happens when we recognize a need and respond to it naturally, without keeping score. It’s an extension of having something to give in the first place.

    At the same time, there is an important distinction to be made. Not all giving is received in the same way, and not all of it is sustainable.

    There was a time when I spent a great deal of energy trying to give to people in my life—family members, friends, colleagues—in ways that weren’t recognized or appreciated. It wasn’t something anyone asked for. It was something I chose to do, often out of a desire to make others happy or maintain relationships. Over time, it became draining.

    That experience made something clearer to me. There is a difference between a simple “thank you” and a deeper sense of gratitude. Gratitude carries a kind of presence and appreciation that goes beyond acknowledgment. It has a way of continuing forward, often showing up as care, respect, or a desire to give in return, not necessarily to the same person, but outward into the world.

    When giving is consistently met without that kind of awareness, it can start to feel one-sided. Over time, that imbalance depletes rather than connects.

    This doesn’t mean we stop giving. It means we become more aware of where our energy goes. Giving where it is received with appreciation tends to create a cycle that continues, while giving where it is not can quietly drain us.

    In that way, taking care of ourselves and giving to others are not separate ideas. They are connected. When we are grounded and supported, we are better able to give in ways that are meaningful. And when we give in environments where it is received, it reinforces that sense of balance.

    Learning to recognize that difference has been part of my own process. It has shifted how I think about where I place my energy and how I choose to give it.

    Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Soap Operas & Modern Times

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Flashback to March 4, 1997—North Shore University Hospital in Long Island.

I wake up (or think I do) in a recovery ward. Everything is a blur. Voices are talking around me—about something… me? There is one voice I recognize.

“Mag her.”

Mag her?

I realize the “her” is me. The voice is Dr. Seaman, my OB/GYN.

As my mind slowly clears, I remember: I had a scheduled cesarean section. I was conscious during the procedure, my then-husband by my side, as our firstborn son Thomas—breech—was brought into the world.

More than 22 years later, I still don’t know how aware I truly was in those moments. What I do remember is my blood pressure spiking and being in the high-risk maternity ward, hearing that phrase—“Mag her.”

The “mag” was magnesium. To this day, I don’t know why. But I do remember what was on the TV.

Days of Our Lives.

Kristin DiMera had just had a baby too.

In my foggy state, I was oddly captivated. I wanted to see my son. I remember a brief moment of him on my chest, flashes of a camera, and then he was gone. I was in pain. And the show became a strange, steady distraction.

A week or so later, home with a newborn, exhausted and in pain, the TV was on again. The same characters. The same storyline.

My husband went to change the channel, but I stopped him.

I wanted to see what happened next.

And that’s where it began—my quiet, unexpected relationship with Days of Our Lives.

Over the years, it stayed with me.

When Thomas was little, I’d watch on days off while working as a cook in the Coast Guard. Later, as a military wife and reservist, I’d put both kids down for naps, make popcorn, pour a Diet Coke over ice, and settle in.

In 2002, when I started working full time, I moved to VCR tapes. Later, DVR. Now, streaming. The format changed, but the habit remained.

Sometimes I watched daily. Sometimes weeks went by. But it was always there when I needed it.

The characters became familiar—almost like extended family.

The Hortons, Bradys, DiMeras.

The town square, the Brady Pub, the traditions, the chaos. The comfort.

Yes, there were the ridiculous storylines—possession, comas, people returning from the dead. But woven in were real things: loss, addiction, depression, relationships, identity.

And strangely, it helped.

At different points in my life, the show mirrored something I was going through.

When Jack and Jennifer were getting divorced, I was too. I remember feeling like a failure. Then one night, I turned on an episode and saw their storyline unfolding the same way. It felt… oddly comforting.

Years later, after a difficult stretch with my own mental health, I returned to the show to find a character struggling in a similar way. Again, it helped.

When addiction, illness, or loss showed up on screen, I didn’t feel so alone in my own experiences.

It’s easy to dismiss soaps as melodramatic—and they are. That’s part of their charm.

But beneath that, there’s something else.

They tell stories about being human—messy, imperfect, resilient.

And sometimes, seeing that reflected back—even in a fictional town like Salem—can be grounding.

A few days ago, the show jumped ahead by a full year. Curious, I looked it up and learned there’s uncertainty about its future.

It made me pause.

Because while the show has changed over the years—and so have I—it has been a quiet thread through so many seasons of my life.

I don’t watch it the same way anymore.

But I still understand what it gave me.

Familiarity. Distraction. Comfort. Perspective.

Like sands through the hourglass… so are the days of our lives.

 

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On our Five Star World

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

A few weeks after moving to a new town, I went to a local salon to have my roots touched up.

I was on the fence about getting a haircut. I loved the cut I had, and it had only been six weeks. But when they asked, I said yes anyway. I’m not sure why.

From the moment I walked in, something felt off. The place was quiet—too quiet—and not in a peaceful way. There was an old television playing dated shows at a volume just high enough to be distracting. The products they claimed were “organic” didn’t seem to match what I saw on the shelves, and when I asked about them, I didn’t get clear answers. Still, the couple running the salon was kind. Really kind. And maybe that’s what made it harder to trust what I was seeing.

At one point, while waiting longer than expected for the color to process, I had the sudden urge to just get up and leave—with the smock still on and dye in my hair. I didn’t. I stayed. I didn’t say no to the haircut either, even though every instinct was telling me to.

The result was exactly what you’d expect when you ignore your gut. I ended up with a haircut I didn’t want, uneven ends, and a lingering feeling that I had watched it all happen in slow motion.

For a few days, I let it go. The couple was nice, and I didn’t want to be critical. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something bigger was bothering me. It wasn’t just the haircut.

Around the same time, we had purchased a new refrigerator that we hadn’t seen in person before ordering. It arrived with multiple small issues—nothing catastrophic, but enough to make daily use frustrating. The ice maker wouldn’t stay in place, the door didn’t always close properly, and the overall design just didn’t quite work. We also replaced a coffee maker that had lasted for years, only to return the new one within weeks. It looked sleek, but it was difficult to clean, didn’t pour well, and left us wondering how something so basic could be so poorly thought through.

There were other moments too—small ones, but consistent. A return process that took far longer than it should have, a service experience that felt disorganized, and restaurants with glowing reviews that didn’t match the reality. Individually, none of these things mattered all that much, but together they started to feel like a pattern.

I began to wonder whether the bar had shifted, or whether we have simply stopped being honest about it. We rely heavily on ratings and shared experiences to guide our decisions, yet five stars has come to mean something closer to “good enough,” or sometimes just “nice people trying their best.” Kindness absolutely matters, but it doesn’t replace quality.

At the same time, I understand the hesitation. It’s uncomfortable to leave a critical review. No one wants to hurt someone’s business or livelihood, and there is always a human on the other side of that feedback. But without honesty, the system doesn’t really work. If everything is five stars, then the distinction disappears.

So I went back and wrote a few thoughtful, honest reviews. Not harsh or emotional—just accurate. What worked, what didn’t, and what someone else might want to know before making the same decision. It felt like a small thing, but perhaps it’s not. It may be one of the quieter ways we shape the world we move through—not by complaining, but by telling the truth.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On the Chakras

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

More often than not, we find scientific “proof” that ancient wisdom passed on through generations—once considered ignorant, hokey-pokey nonsense—turns out to be true. How did they know?

This painting I created is my artistic interpretation of the manifest and unmanifest world. The colors symbolize the manifest world, and the shades of tan, white, black, and gray represent what is on the other side. The colors also represent the chakras.

As humans, we know very little that can be scientifically proven regarding the spiritual world or how conscious life appears and disappears. The energetic body is something that some scientists explore, but again, there is no definitive “proof.”

Eastern philosophies and their ancient texts explain that just as there is a visible physical body, there is also an accompanying invisible energetic body. It is just as complicated and intricate. It has systems, nodes, and channels, as our physical bodies do. Energy can get blocked just as an artery can. Emotions are energetic. They can become stuck and, if not released, go deeper into our being and eventually manifest as physical pain.

Mental health professionals do this type of work and exploration. Yoga is deeply connected to the energetic body and helps energy flow more freely through the practice of physical postures (asana). Hence my interest in the topic. Additionally, my interest in art and color piques my curiosity about how color is combined in various ways.

The chakras are something that has always fascinated me, long before I understood, practiced, or taught yoga. The first time I heard about them, they simply made sense to me—almost as if something deep inside already knew, even though my mind questioned the idea.

For anyone who doesn’t know about the chakras (I was well into my 30s before I ever heard of them!), they are seven main energetic centers in our bodies through which energy flows. They start at the base of the spine, in the tailbone area, and move upward through the body to the crown of the head.

Later, while completing a 500-hour yoga teacher certification, I learned more about the broader energetic system, but the chakras remain the most widely recognized and are depicted in many texts and images throughout history.

The chakras have colors—seven in total—and they coincide with the colors of the rainbow. Their flow is vertical (unlike my art piece). Like the koshas and other systems I’ve learned about through my business education, they remind me very much of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. It also reflects a kind of evolution, beginning with basic physical needs and moving toward higher consciousness and self-actualization. In the chakra system, if something is blocked at a lower level, energy cannot flow upward.

An illustrated diagram of the seven chakras in the human body, highlighting their locations, colors, and meanings, featuring a meditating figure at the center.
An infographic illustrating Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, represented as a pyramid. The levels from bottom to top include Physiological Needs, Safety, Love & Belonging, Esteem, and Self-Actualization. Each level describes the needs necessary for personal development and fulfillment, with keywords highlighting concepts such as basic survival, security, relationships, confidence, and growth.

The chakras are energetic. Over time, I’ve noticed that when I am in emotional pain, there is often a physical sensation located at a chakra point. It often points me in the direction of where I may be blocked.

I’ve studied and read many spiritual and religious texts. I don’t hold a strict belief in any one system, but I have developed a personal understanding of the physical and non-physical worlds—the tangible and intangible. The part where we are alive and moving through this world, and the part that remains unknown. What happens to our consciousness or spirit when the body dies? What is it before we are born? Is it even real?

My artistic expression of the spiritual life cycle is depicted here. Like the Yin-Yang, part of our existence is in the manifest world and part in the unmanifest.

The colored lines represent the manifest world—the world where white light refracts and we perceive color.

The neutral tones represent the unmanifest world. When all colors are combined, they create what we perceive as brown. Adding white lightens it to tan, while black darkens it. White contains all colors, while black represents their absence. Together they create gray—still without distinct color. At dusk, when we are between day and night, color fades, and only form remains.

Our physical life is surrounded by this unknown. Before birth and after death, there is something beyond our current understanding. Perhaps it is not empty, but instead contains everything in a different form—blended, unseen, or beyond our perception.

At least to our current senses. Perhaps with another sense, we would perceive an entirely different world.

The chakras in this painting represent the physical living world we experience. They move from a lower vibration to a higher one—less conscious to more conscious, more connected to the physical world to less so, much like Maslow’s hierarchy.

1st CHAKRA
Color: Red
Sanskrit name: Muladhara
Known as: Root chakra
Location: Base of the spine

Symbolizes: safety, survival, grounding

My interpretation: It is our root. It connects us physically to the earth and to others. It represents the earliest stage of life, where we are fully dependent on others for survival. This foundation shapes our perception of the world.

2nd CHAKRA
Color: Orange
Sanskrit name: Swadhisthana
Known as: Emotional chakra
Location: Lower abdomen

Symbolizes: emotion, creativity, sexuality

My interpretation: This is where feeling begins. It relates to growth, creativity, and the early development of identity.

3rd CHAKRA
Color: Yellow
Sanskrit name: Manipura
Known as: Solar plexus

Symbolizes: personal power, will, identity

My interpretation: This is where we act in the world—through drive, identity, and personal energy.

4th CHAKRA
Color: Green
Sanskrit name: Anahata
Known as: Heart chakra

Symbolizes: love, compassion

My interpretation: This is the shift from intellect to deeper awareness. It connects us to something beyond ourselves.

5th CHAKRA
Color: Blue
Sanskrit name: Vishuddha
Known as: Throat chakra

Symbolizes: communication, expression

My interpretation: When energy flows freely, we are able to express truth and creativity.

6th CHAKRA
Color: Indigo
Sanskrit name: Ajna
Known as: Third Eye

Symbolizes: intuition, wisdom

My interpretation: This reflects deeper understanding gained through experience.

7th CHAKRA
Color: Violet or White
Sanskrit name: Sahasrara
Known as: Crown chakra

Symbolizes: connection, consciousness

My interpretation: A state of peace and connection beyond material attachment.

The base of the system is wider because it is more grounded in the physical world, where most of us spend our time. As we move upward, fewer people consistently operate in those higher states, and the experience becomes more subtle.

In my artistic expression, these colors exist between the known and unknown. The symbols in the painting represent movement through the chakras toward something beyond—something expansive, light, and difficult to define.

This and six other pieces were inspired by contemporary artist Sean Scully. Two weeks ago, Daren and I visited the Wadsworth in Hartford on the last day of his exhibit. He works primarily in stripes.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Inevitable Scream

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

2am this morning.

I’m taking deep breaths with my hand over my mouth—a long-established, almost automatic practice. My eyes, temples, and the space between them ache. As I write this, I can feel that same pressure building again. It hasn’t been that long since these small acts were even noticeable to me, and now they provide insight into what is happening. Chakra-wise, it’s the voice and wisdom center that feel in pain.

I thought back to one evening about a year ago on my therapist’s couch. When I described “The Scream,” she said, almost immediately and with empathy, “It’s because you had no voice.” Instantly, tears sprang to my eyes. With that sudden understanding—something unknown becoming obvious—my throat hurt. It made sense. It was clear to her, but new to me. I couldn’t wait to tell my husband, but when I tried to explain it later over the phone, it got lost in translation. It lost its potency, and I lost the motivation to explore it further.

The scream I speak of took place in mid-February 1994, just days before my 18th birthday, outside of the Patchogue courthouse on Long Island. The previous summer, on July 9th, was the first time police were involved in the domestic violence and abuse that had been present in my home since I was born, resulting in that February court date. I wanted justice. I wanted something to happen. But nothing did. Because I was still a minor, the case was moved to family court, and my father walked away without consequence.

I didn’t understand what was happening that day. As we left the courthouse, I asked my mother what was going on. At first, she said nothing. Then finally, she said, “Nothing is happening.” With each step toward the car, it began to sink in. Confusion turned to anger, and anger turned into something I couldn’t contain.

I stood behind the car. I didn’t want to get in. The car felt like the box I had lived in my whole life—hot, enclosed, inescapable. They urged me to get in, but I couldn’t. And then it came. A scream I didn’t know existed inside me—loud, uncontrolled, inhuman. I screamed again, and again, and again. They froze and watched me like I was something wild, and in that moment, I was.

When it stopped, I felt different. Not fixed—but released, even if only slightly. I got in the car, went home, and we never spoke about it again. But I never forgot it.

Years later, that scream came back. At first I didn’t understand it. It would happen in my car, at home, sometimes in the middle of the night. It felt like something building and building until it had no choice but to come out. I thought it was dramatic. I didn’t connect it to anything real. Hindsight is something else.

What I now understand is that my body was reacting to something it recognized as danger—something emotional, not physical. The same feelings of being trapped, unheard, and without control would surface in my adult life, especially in situations where I felt I had no voice. My body didn’t see the difference between then and now, so it screamed.

For a long time, I didn’t understand what was happening. I just knew that when it came, I couldn’t stop it. It felt like a complete loss of control, followed by an overwhelming release. Last summer, something shifted. After a particularly intense episode, I began to understand what was happening in my body—how trauma lives there, how it gets triggered, and how the mind and body respond even when the present moment isn’t actually dangerous. That understanding changed everything.

I haven’t screamed in many months now. Not because the past is gone, but because I can recognize what’s happening before it reaches that point. I can get somewhere safe. I can slow things down. I can give myself what I didn’t have then—a voice, space, and awareness.

This post doesn’t wrap up neatly. It doesn’t tie itself into a perfect message. It just is.

I woke up this morning with my hand over my mouth, my temples aching, and a memory resurfacing—reminding me of where that pain comes from. The scream felt inevitable then. Maybe it doesn’t have to be anymore.

Peace.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Unassuming Pear

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The pear has little to no reputation. It is in a few desserts. It isn’t as popular as the banana. It’s not used in any popular lessons (such as the famous non comparison- apples to oranges). It’s not considered exotic like a papaya or coconut, it’s not a popular “pick your own” fruit, was never “in” like the avocado, or so heavily used in food or drink like the grape that fields and farms are required to keep up with the demand.

It’s just an unassuming pear, which is why I chose to paint it. 

The pear is like almost every other living thing amongst us. And like most things we don’t give it a second thought most of the time. 

The pear, the apple, the banana, the trees that produce these fruits, the flowers, our pets, sea life and of course humanity all live through a cycle. It’s as natural as nature itself. Humans are the only ones who sometimes fear or fight it. The rest of the planet accepts it as the flow we live in.

The flow and these cycles are shown to us by nature and what governs living. Particularly through the seasons. 

The pear painting goes from left to right, top to bottom through it’s very own abridged life cycle.

Winter
Winter is when most consider their surrounding closest to death. Life as we know it rests and hibernates. We hunker down and wait out the storm, most of us complaining along the way and wishing away the time until spring.

However, in the midst of the storm, under ground, and right below the surface, Mother Earth is preparing for the next cycle. The frost and subsequent defrost are laying the ground work for what is coming. Perhaps we may even consider it to be where life truly begins.

Like the architect on an empty lot where a new building will one day stand, the architect is surveying the surroundings and mentally creating what will later manifest as a structure using what is available in that time and place to make it so. 

In that time where there appears to be nothing, there is a vision of the future bubbling right under the surface- waiting to be put into action once the sketch is complete.

Winter is the sketch. It’s the time to not do, but just be and know that the spring will come, and with it there will be work to do. 

Under ground the trees and perennials are preparing the seeds that will come forth in the spring. Compared to sentient creatures such as us humans, it is the time when the mother’s egg prepares to be fertilized. 

It’s actually where all the magic is taking place. All that we cannot see or understand in the material world. It’s that beautiful dark little slip of space and time where the spiritual world intersects with the physical one. It may be the most auspicious time of the year.

Spring 
The thaw. The flow of water and life. The sun is with us longer. Dirt is tilled. Seeds are planted. The egg is fertilized.

Of all the planted seeds (the seed of man and animal as well in the form of sperm), only a small percent actually sprout forth into life. The lucky seeds that mesh perfectly with the womb of mother/Mother Earth, the ones that happen to have the prime conditions that nurture it’s growth, are so very lucky. We take it for granted, but we are fortunate to be alive and to experience life. The spring is the time of rapid growth where what makes it lives through its early days to survive through to maturity.

If we are looking at spring through a seasonal lens, it’s the time we lay the seeds, nurture what is planted and help it along until its strong enough to be on it’s own for whatever reason it is here to be. 

Ayurveda calls this time “Kapha”. It’s cool, wet and dense, just like the earth in the spring. It is strongly rooted to its source; very grounded. It grows quickly, and puts on weight easily.

In the chakra system it’s close to the roots. It’s red in color like the root chakra. All life needs a strong root to connect to the earth and then hold it strongly enough to keep it safe but light enough to allow it to grow.

Through the lens of a human, it’s the time of fertilization and early growth until young adulthood. Baby fat, rapid physical maturation, rosy cheeks, dense, learning-growing, needing a bit more nurture and support from the source as the child matures. For the mother who housed the egg and was in rest during the “winter” of the relationship with her own child, the work arrives in the form of carrying the child and then helping it arrive safely in young adulthood.

The pear… it isn’t quite ripe. If it is off the tree, it will be light in color; tinged by that red root that held it close to the branch. If eaten it’s a bit bitter, not quite ready. It has yet to mature. It’s a child. It’s in the spring or Kapha cycle.

Summer
Sun. Teaming life. Hot. Moving for purpose. Lighter, a bit dryer & quick to inflammation. 

The earth and it’s fruits are mostly in full bloom. Growth slows but it’s at the peak of maturity. The seeds no longer need help- they have the ability to live on their own, fighting off bugs and weeds without much outside help. The result of those spring planted seeds are here doing and being precisely what they are meant to do and be.

In Ayurveda this is “Pita”. Hot, quick to fire. Sustaining of life as we know it. Chakra-wise it’s lighter, and yellow like the sun. It is the chakra of digestion. It gives and supports life by helping everything keep moving as it should. Like digestion it’s lit by “Agni” or that internal moving fire.

Humans are now young adults to middle aged. In their prime. Taking care of both the young and old. They have an inner fire to make things happen, to sustain life, get things done, and keep the world going. They are the largest source of income generation. They have the energy and drive to keep it all going. They are like the full summer blooms, doing what they were meant to do.

At this time the pear is ripe. Mission accomplished. It’s the time to eat it or bake with it. Despite its color, it’s tinged with yellow undertones.

Autumn 
The change. Colors deepen. The temperature starts to cool and the air is lighter and drier. The days begin to darken. It feels like a welcome relief. The trees start to relax and succumb to nature. The leaves allow themselves to deepen, change, and finally let themselves go. Before the leaves do let go, that tree never seemed so beautiful.

Ayurvedically speaking this part of the cycle is “Vata”. Whether you are a half empty or half full glass type of person, it can be seen as the time of death or the agent of change. The necessary change that needs to take place so the next cycle of planning and development can take place. Chakra-wise we move up the body to the color blue or the throat chakra. The throat representing voice. With a mature and wise mind, humans have less energy but are able to speak their truth and guide the next generation.

Humans at this part of life also begin to slow down and let go. They often feel colder and have a more deep and philosophical understanding of this cycle and their own part it in. They are closer to spirit and that magic time of “winter” so to speak.  Generally they have more trouble keeping on weight and become drier. The skin is tinged with blue and darker undertones. They are like the fall.

The pear, if uneaten, becomes darker too. Blue & brown undertones. Overripe. More age spots. Soft to the touch. But the sweetest and juiciest it will ever be if you can handle the mess! Another proverbial day or two in its own cycle and it just becomes a pile of mush. Mush to turn the seeds inside to something new perhaps? The opportunity to begin the cycle again as we head back into winter.

Circle of Life
It’s a beautiful cycle. It is nature. Each part has its very own purpose and feeds right into the next. There is no real beginning and no real end.

We should keep in mind that there is truly nothing to fight. Try… but we will not win. It’s easier to just understand nature and accept and open up to where we are are in it.

Nature is bigger than us. She will carry us through each awesome, perpetual, ongoing, self sustaining cycle so we can play our own special part.

Like the seed that created the unassuming pear, we are each a seed lucky enough to have made it. 

 

I painted two versions of this. One with the raw primary colors and the other with a softer tint of each.

Below I used photography and light alteration to show the same concept.

The original pear this blog was written about is the one to the bottom left of the first photo.

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