Posts from @neuropoeta

Listening to poetry after the post-guard duty [Eng/Esp]

neuropoeta — Sat, 24 Oct 2026 02:00:03 GMT

There is an almost physical threshold that occurs exactly twenty minutes after leaving the hospital following a neurology post-shift. Fatigue is no longer just a sensation but a substance. It clings to your clothes, weighs down your eyelids, and makes you a little clumsy, as if you were walking underwater. In that state, the outside world seems noisy and excessively sharp. All the body asks for is a bed and silence.

But yesterday I did not go home because there was an unavoidable appointment. My sister was the guest at a poetry and oral storytelling reading. One of those afternoons organized in libraries or cultural centers, and I, with my white coat still mentally on and the accumulated fatigue of thirty-six hours on duty, sat down. I was not sure I would be able to stay awake; in fact, the first few minutes were a struggle against the weight of my own eyelids. The background noise of the room, the coughs, the shuffling of feet, all blended with the distant echo of the ICU monitor alarms that still rumbled in my head.

Then she began to speak. It was not just the fact that she was my sister; it was the way her voice occupied the space. In neurology, we are trained to listen to what the body says through symptoms. We auscultate, we palpate, we interpret silences in MRI scans, but yesterday the listening was of another nature; it was a listening without diagnosis, without prognosis, a listening of the soul, to put it in some corny way that, after a post-shift, becomes terribly true.

Poetry, when spoken aloud, has a hypnotic quality. My sister told stories with a cadence that seemed synchronized with my own exhaustion. For a moment, I stopped feeling the weight of my legs and stopped thinking about the list of pending consultations or the patient in bed 12 who had not quite stabilized. Oral storytelling has that power: it anchors you to the immediate present; there is no past to regret nor future to fear, there is only the word, the rhythm, the shared breathing of a room full of strangers who, for an instant, stop being strangers.

There was a verse, or perhaps it was a pause, that made me completely forget I had gone a whole day without sleep. It was as if someone had opened a window in a closed, stuffy room. I felt something loosen in my chest, that knot that forms after delivering bad news, after running down hallways and making decisions that are not always black or white.

When it ended, I did not clap loudly but with a kind of silent gratitude. My sister looked at me from the stage and smiled, and I gave her back a tired but genuine smile. We did not say anything to each other in that moment because there was no need.

I went home dragging my feet, but with a strange feeling. The fatigue was still there, intact; however, there was something more, and that is that poetry does not cure insomnia nor erase dark circles, but yesterday it did something that medicine sometimes forgets: it reminded me that behind every shift there is a person who needs, from time to time, to be reminded of the exact name of things.

Poetry saves the soul and sometimes it also saves a post-shift afternoon.

💛 💛

_{🍃 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! 🍃
𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝑪𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒓.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏-𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 (𝒏𝒐 𝑨𝑰).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑼𝒑𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒚! 🌱}

VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL

Read the full post

Abrazar la luz mientras la tenemos [Esp/Eng]

neuropoeta — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 05:32:06 GMT

Estos días han sido extrañamente pesados. No es solo el agotamiento físico, es esa sensación densa de que el mundo exterior y los muros de mi propio hogar parecen confabular para derrumbarme. A veces, la vida te pone delante espejos que no quieres mirar y, en medio de esa tormenta, el golpe más duro no viene de fuera, sino de dentro, al ver que la salud de las personas que más amas se debilita. Es ahí cuando sientes que no solo se enferma el cuerpo del otro, sino que se te debilita el alma propia.

En medio de esa oscuridad, mi mente hizo un acto de rebeldía y se negó a seguir rumiando el dolor, y decidió viajar atrás en el tiempo, a un momento donde la vida se sentía distinta. Recordé un día, hace ya un tiempo, en que bajo los árboles del Casino Campestre, en el marco de la Feria del Libro, un grupo de amigos nos reunimos a hacer una tertulia de poesía.

No era un acto grandioso, pues no había reflectores ni escenarios de gala; solo éramos nosotros, con nuestros versos a medio terminar, nuestras voces temblorosas y las hojas de los árboles como testigos. Recuerdo que, en medio de aquella lectura, se nos hinchó el alma. Fue un momento de conexión pura, de esos que te recuerdan por qué estamos aquí. Eran momentos de almas iluminadas y, aunque ahora lo veo con claridad, en aquel entonces no lo sabíamos del todo. Creo que la juventud o la rutina nos hacen creer que la felicidad es un estado permanente, y no un destello fugaz que hay que saber atrapar.

Ahora, desde la distancia que dan los días difíciles, entiendo que aquella tertulia no fue solo un evento social, sino un acto de resistencia. Fue la prueba de que podemos crear pequeños espacios de luz con la poesía, la amistad y la palabra compartida bajo un árbol. Todo eso era luz y no lo sabíamos bien.

Por eso, hoy más que nunca, me aferro a la idea de que hay que hacer lo que dicen: mientras haya luz, hay que abrazarla fuerte, porque no sabemos hasta cuándo la tendremos. No se trata de una frase trillada de positivismo barato, se trata de una estrategia de supervivencia emocional. Cuando la salud de un ser querido flaquea, cuando el país parece desmoronarse, cuando el hogar se vuelve un campo de batalla, la única salida es buscar esos destellos y aferrarse a ellos con todas las fuerzas.

En el crecimiento personal, a menudo hablamos de resiliencia y de fortaleza mental, pero a veces olvidamos que la verdadera fortaleza no está en aguantar el golpe sin quejarse, sino en tener la valentía de buscar la belleza en medio del caos.

Así que este post es un recordatorio para mí, y quizás para los que me leen, para que no dejen pasar esos momentos de luz. Si tienen la oportunidad de sentarse con alguien a hablar de poesía, de reír sin motivo, de abrazar a quien aman aunque su cuerpo esté frágil, háganlo. No esperen a que las condiciones sean perfectas, pues la luz no espera y, cuando la tengan delante, no la analicen demasiado, no le pidan explicaciones, simplemente abrácena fuerte.

La vida es una sucesión de días difíciles y días luminosos y, aunque hoy las sombras parezcan largas, sé que en algún lugar, bajo unos árboles imaginarios, la poesía y la amistad me esperan para recordarme que el alma puede volver a hincharse de luz.

✨ ✨

_{✨¡𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒓! ✨
𝑺𝒊 𝒂ú𝒏 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒔: 𝒔𝒐𝒚 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓ó𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂 𝒚 𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒄𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒂, 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒓𝒆, 𝒎𝒖𝒋𝒆𝒓 𝒚 𝒔𝒐ñ𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓ó 𝒆𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒖𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒐 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒗𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓.
𝑬𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒐 𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒎á𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒊 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒓í𝒂, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒔 (𝒔𝒊𝒏 𝑰𝑨).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒆ñ𝒂𝒅𝒐 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
¿𝑻𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒕ó 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂 𝒑𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒄𝒊ó𝒏? 𝑽𝒐𝒕𝒂, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂 𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒂𝒚𝒖𝒅𝒂𝒓 𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒔.💛}

ENGLISH VERSION

Embracing the light while we have it

Read the full post

Again to Allende's country [Eng/Esp]

neuropoeta — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 02:00:03 GMT

Returning to Allende is always returning to a house I know, even if its hallways change places. My invented country, more than a novel, is a memory, a settling of accounts with nostalgia and an attempt to explain to herself why Chile, that country that ceased to exist, still hurts and amuses in equal parts.

I read this book and had the feeling of listening to an older friend telling me her things over a coffee. Allende starts with a phrase that immediately caught me, where she admits she grew up in Santiago, where "any tendency toward self-contemplation is nipped in the bud." There I knew I was going to find humor, as when she describes that in Chile so much testosterone floats "that it is a miracle women do not grow hair on their faces." It is her way of loving, mocking what she loves, with a lucidity that sometimes makes one uncomfortable.

What touched me most was not the costumbrist portrait or the family anecdotes, but the honesty about uprooting. Allende writes that "the exile looks toward the past, licking his wounds, and the immigrant looks toward the future, ready to take advantage of opportunities." There is the key, and the fact is that she knows herself to be both things. She defines herself as an "eternal foreigner" and confesses that from saying goodbye so much "her roots dried up" and she had to generate them in memory, but memory is a labyrinth where minotaurs lurk. That phrase left me thinking. Do we not all invent a country so we can inhabit it when the real one no longer belongs to us?

There are passages where the book feels like a guide for foreigners, with notes on geography and national character that any Chilean will find familiar. When she returns to her grandparents' house, to the ceremonial nature of meals, to the spirits that have accompanied her since childhood, the prose becomes intimate and true. One understands why one has to return to reading Allende, and it is because her way of inventing Chile is the same one with which I invent my own past, selective, exaggerated and endearing.

My Invented Country is not her most polished book, and perhaps that is why I liked it. She allows herself to digress, to laugh at herself, to say that in California she practices meditation but "cheats because during meditation she invents stories." That is Allende in her pure state, the one who cannot stop narrating even when she tries to keep quiet.

I close the book with the feeling of having taken a trip to a place I never visited, but which in some way I recognize, and only someone who learned to build a homeland with words can achieve that.

📖 📖

_{✨ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! ✨
𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝑪𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒓.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏-𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 (𝒏𝒐 𝑨𝑰).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑼𝒑𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒚! 💛}

VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL

Otra vez al país de Allende

Volver a Allende siempre es volver a una casa que conozco, aunque sus pasillos cambien de lugar. Mi país inventado, más que una novela, es una memoria, un ajuste de cuentas con la nostalgia y un intento de explicarse a sí misma por qué Chile, ese país que dejó de existir, sigue doliendo y divirtiendo a partes iguales.

Read the full post

Exploring the surroundings (I)

neuropoeta — Wed, 21 Oct 2026 02:00:03 GMT

There is something that changes when one decides to truly look. I have spent a long time passing by the same plants, the same corners of my yard, the same nooks of the neighborhood, and yet today I set myself something different: to explore them with the eyes of an explorer. To discover, like someone lifting a stone for the first time, all the possible wonders that hide just a few steps from home, and I have decided to start with the flowers, because perhaps they are the ones that most silently accompany us without our paying them any attention.

I went out early, with that soft morning light that seems to give everything a different glow. I carried no more luggage than curiosity and the desire to stop where I normally hurry past. My yard, which I have walked through so many times automatically, suddenly presented itself as a small territory to discover, and it did not take long before I came across the first protagonists of this adventure.

There were the forget-me-nots, small and sky blue, grouped together as if telling each other secrets. Beautiful in a discreet way. I stayed watching them for a good while, thinking about how fitting their name is, for who could forget them after seeing them like that, so fragile and so tenacious at the same time.

A little further on, a yellow one awaited me that they call copetua. I do not know if that is its formal name or one of those affectionate nicknames that the local people give to plants, but I liked how it sounds. Its yellow was intense, cheerful, the kind that lifts your spirits without asking permission.

I kept walking and came across some violets that are sometimes called wax flower, and I understand perfectly why; their petals have a texture and a shine that seem made of another material, almost as if someone had varnished them with patience. There I stopped to think about how many different names we have for the same things, and how each one tells a small story about the person who uses it.

Then came the mystery, a yellow one with four petals that I do not know. I looked at it from every angle, as if that way it might reveal its name to me, but nothing, and I must confess that this not knowing, far from bothering me, excited me. There is something beautiful in knowing that there are still things to discover, even just a few meters from the door of home.

Finally, almost at the edge of the path, some very small white ones awaited me, belonging to a plant they call Manito prodigiosa. The name made me smile, I crouched down to look at them closely, and I understood that the prodigious is not always the enormous, and sometimes it is in the tiny, in those little flowers that one could step on without noticing and that, seen with attention, are an entire universe.

I returned home with dirty knees and the feeling of having traveled far without moving from the neighborhood. This first outing leaves me with the certainty that the surroundings of my house are full of wonders waiting for someone to deign to look at them, and I, apparently, have just become that someone.

This has only just begun. I promise to keep exploring, to keep crouching down, to keep asking names, because if I learned anything today, it is that wonder is not in great destinations, but in the disposition of the eyes that look.

💚 💚

Read the full post

Aprender sobre la sanación en un pasillo de colores [Esp/Eng]

neuropoeta — Tue, 20 Oct 2026 02:00:03 GMT

Hoy ha sido de esos días en los que el cuerpo te pide parar y el alma te susurra que aún queda batalla. Hoy salí del hospital después de una jornada interminable de ingresos, pases de visita y diagnósticos engorrosos. Salí agotada, con esa fatiga que no se cura durmiendo y que se instala en los huesos y en el pecho. Caminaba por el pasillo con la mirada perdida, deseando llegar a la puerta y que el aire de la calle me devolviera a la realidad, cuando de repente el suelo dejó de ser gris.

Levanté la vista y me encontré con un pasillo por donde paso todos los días completamente decorado. Las paredes estaban llenas de animalitos pintados a mano, figuras infantiles, colores vivos que parecían gritar en medio del silencio sanitario.

Había jirafas con sonrisas torcidas, elefantes de orejas enormes y un sol que asomaba entre nubes de algodón. También pavos reales, niños aviadores y entonces vi en una de las paredes que una niña pintada con coletas y una sonrisa enorme sostenía un cartel enorme que decía: "No estés triste".

Me detuve en seco y sentí que alguien me hubiera puesto la mano en el hombro. No sé si fue el cansancio, la tensión acumulada o la pureza de ese mensaje, pero se me humedecieron los ojos. Allí, en medio de un hospital, donde la vida y la muerte se cruzan a diario, una niña dibujada me recordaba lo más básico y lo más profundo: no estés triste. Y pensé en la cantidad de veces que nos olvidamos de decírnoslo a nosotros mismos. Pensé también en la cantidad de veces que el mundo adulto nos exige estar fuertes, productivos, impecables, y nos prohíbe el descanso o la queja. Y de repente, un pasillo decorado para los niños me devolvía la humanidad que a veces se me escapa entre las prisas.

Soy médico neuróloga y sanadora de niños, y lo digo con orgullo y con una responsabilidad que pesa como una piedra, porque no es solo recetar jarabes o interpretar análisis, sino sostener la mirada de una madre asustada y explicar lo inexplicable con palabras que un niño pueda entender. En definitiva, es recordar que detrás de cada bata hay un corazón que también se cansa.

Ese pasillo me lo recordó y pensé que vale la pena todo el esfuerzo. Vale la pena las guardias interminables, los cafés fríos, las noches sin dormir y las conversaciones difíciles, porque en algún momento alguien encuentra un poco de consuelo en lo que haces y eso, aunque suene a tópico, es lo que te devuelve el alma al cuerpo.

Salí del hospital con el cansancio intacto pero con el corazón un poco más lleno, porque la sanación no viene en forma de medicina, sino de un dibujo en la pared. Y hoy, que escribo esto, quiero recordarles algo, y es que si están agotados, si sienten que no pueden más y el mundo adulto les ha robado la sonrisa, busquen su propio pasillo de colores. Puede ser una canción, una conversación, un recuerdo o un cartel que diga "No estés triste". Y es que sanar también es permitirse sentir, parar y mirar alrededor.

Gracias a esos niños para los que se pintan esperanza en las paredes.

✨ ✨

ENGLISH VERSION

Learning about healing in a hallway of colors

Read the full post

De verde a podrido: el adulto que nunca maduró

camelia28 — Mon, 19 Oct 2026 00:33:00 GMT

Publicado en Español, Inglés y Portugués.

Editado en PhotoCollage

Buenas noches y dulces sueños.

Amigos, hagan un bosquejo en su memoria o repasen sus vecinos y familiares, estoy segura que hay alguien de los que pasaron de verde a podrido sin madurar. Ah que sí.
Esto se aplica a ese señor de sesenta que sigue haciendo berrinches, a esa mujer que a los cincuenta aún culpa a su madre de todo o al jefe que alguna vez tuvimos que confundía autoridad con gritos. Personas que envejecieron, sí, pero que nunca maduraron. Y conviene decirlo sin anestesia, la adultez cronológica no es un certificado de madurez, es solo el paso del tiempo.

Yo lo he visto de cerca y también lo he sido. Escribir desde la primera persona no es un adorno, estoy siendo honesta. He conocido adultos que a los veinticinco ya sabían pedir perdón y otros que a los setenta todavía no han aprendido a escuchar un "no". La edad no educa, solo expone. Y lo que expone, cuando no hubo trabajo interior, es un fruto que se quedó verde y que, en lugar de madurar, se echó a perder.

La madurez, en cambio, no es un destino ni una medalla. Es más bien un proceso incómodo que implica reconocer los propios límites, sostener el duelo de no ser el centro, aceptar que el otro no está obligado a complacernos, gestionar la frustración sin romper vínculos. Nada de eso ocurre solo, no, mis amigos, esto exige mirarse, revisar patrones heredados, pedir ayuda, cambiar. Y hay quienes simplemente no lo hacen, no crean que es por maldad necesariamente, sino porque nadie les exigió crecer, porque el entorno les premió la queja, o porque el miedo a mirarse fue más fuerte que el deseo de evolucionar.

Y bueno aquí vanos con la parte incómoda, y la digo sin rodeos, la inmadurez prolongada tiene consecuencias porque produce padres que compiten con sus hijos, parejas que negocian como niños, líderes que castigan la diferencia. También genera familias que repiten heridas durante generaciones. No es un rasgo pintoresco del carácter, es un costo relacional y social y hay que nombrarlo, hacerlo no es crueldad, yo lo veo como higiene emocional, por decirlo de alguna manera.

Pero conviene evitar dos trampas. La primera es la soberbia, creer que uno ya maduró del todo. La madurez verdadera se reconoce, precisamente, en la conciencia de que siempre falta camino. La segunda es la falta de compasión y cuidado ahí, detrás de muchas inmadurez persistente hay heridas tempranas, miedos no elaborados, entornos que nunca ofrecieron condiciones para crecer. Señalarlo no exime de responsabilidad, pero ayuda a entender que un fruto verde no eligió ser verde.

Queda entonces, colegas, la pregunta que sí importa ¿qué hago yo con esto? Porque el tema no es señalar a los demás, sino revisar el propio huerto. ¿Estoy madurando o solo envejeciendo? ¿Pido perdón con facilidad? ¿Sostengo un "no" sin venganza? ¿Escucho sin preparar la réplica? ¿Asumo mis errores sin buscar culpables? La adultez biológica llega sola pero la madurez, en cambio, es una elección diaria y un trabajo sostenido. Quien no la hace, efectivamente, no envejece, solo se deteriora.

Y quizá esa sea la reflexión final, la vida nos da tiempo a todos, pero no nos garantiza sazón. Madurar es aprovechar ese tiempo, mientras que podrirse es dejarlo pasar. La diferencia no está en los años vividos, sino en la disposición a mirarse, a cambiar y a crecer incluso cuando duele. Porque de verde a podrido hay un solo paso, no hacer nada.

ENGLISH

Good evening and sweet dreams.

Friends, make a sketch in your memory or review your neighbors and relatives—I'm sure there's someone among those who went from green to rotten without ever ripening. Oh yes.

This applies to that sixty-year-old man who still throws tantrums, to that woman who at fifty still blames her mother for everything, or to that boss we all once had who confused authority with shouting. People who aged, yes, but who never matured. And it's worth saying without anesthesia: chronological adulthood is not a certificate of maturity, it's just the passage of time.

I've seen it up close and I've been it too. Writing in the first person isn't a decoration—I'm being honest. I've known adults who at twenty-five already knew how to ask for forgiveness and others who at seventy still haven't learned to hear a "no." Age doesn't educate, it only exposes. And what it exposes, when there was no inner work, is a fruit that stayed green and that, instead of ripening, spoiled.

Read the full post

Losing oneself completely through Maya and her notebook [Eng/Esp]

neuropoeta — Mon, 19 Oct 2026 02:00:06 GMT

Isabel Allende won the Premio Planeta just a few days ago, and I, like so many readers, felt that inevitable curiosity to return to her pages. I chose El cuaderno de Maya, a book I had pending and that called to me with the promise of a different story within her bibliography.

I finished it last night. And I am still thinking about that girl. Maya Vidal is not an easy character to love at first. She is a nineteen-year-old teenager who has hit rock bottom in the most brutal way: addicted to drugs, pursued by the FBI, with a list of mistakes so long it makes you dizzy.

Allende does not excuse her or beautify her but shows her raw, self-destructive, almost unbearable in her fall, yet there is something in her voice that forces you to keep reading.

What captivated me was not the redemption plot, which in a certain way one senses from the first pages, but the journey, since Maya goes from Las Vegas, that artifice of lights and excess, to Chiloé, a southern island where time is measured differently and where silence becomes almost unbearable. Allende achieves something that she rarely accomplishes with such effectiveness, and that is that the landscape is not a backdrop but a character that heals. The rain, the cold sea, the simple rituals of the island people become a kind of slow medicine.

I am not going to lie, and it is that in this novel there are moments when the novel feels a little didactic. Allende wants us to understand the pain of addiction, the fragility of family ties, the always open possibility of starting again, and sometimes she says it so directly that it borders on a self-help manual, but when the story stays on the island, when Maya learns to milk a cow or to stay silent while looking at the horizon, the book breathes and becomes genuinely moving.

There is a detail that I loved, and it is Maya's grandmother, Nini, a woman who is nothing like the traditional grandmother; she sends her to the end of the world not as punishment but as a desperate and loving gesture at the same time, and Allende writes it without underlining.

El cuaderno de Maya is not Isabel Allende's best novel because it has visible seams, and its pedagogical intention sometimes weighs more than it should, but it also has something to be grateful for, and that is a protagonist who does not ask forgiveness for having been broken, and an author who continues writing about second chances as if she truly believed in them.

I want to believe too, and that is why I closed the book and stayed silent for a while, thinking about Maya, about Chiloé, and about that idea so simple and so difficult that sometimes one has to lose oneself completely to find the way back.

📖 📖

VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL

Perderse del todo a través de Maya y su cuaderno

Isabel Allende ganó el Premio Planeta hace apenas unos días, y yo, como tantos lectores, sentí esa curiosidad inevitable de volver a sus páginas. Elegí El cuaderno de Maya, un libro que tenía pendiente y que me llamaba con la promesa de una historia distinta dentro de su bibliografía.

Read the full post

The little giant of my collection with pompoms [Eng/Esp]

neuropoeta — Sun, 18 Oct 2026 02:00:03 GMT

You who read me often already know that I am a lover of plants. I could spend hours watching how a new leaf unfolds or how a bud decides, at last, to open itself to the sun, but if I have to confess a weakness, just one, that is, without a doubt, for cacti. That mixture of strength and vulnerability, of spines and flowers, has me completely captivated.

Within my collection, which grows a little more each spring, there is one that makes me overflow with passion and that is the silent protagonist of my favorite corner. It is not one of those grandiloquent cacti with strange shapes or enormous flowers. He is small, humble, almost discreet. I only know that it is a Mammillaria, although I ignore the exact species. But, you know what? I don't care because what drives me crazy is not its scientific name, but its appearance.

Among its prominences, that army of small protuberances that covers everything, it has some kinds of pompoms of white little hairs. They are like tiny snowflakes or newly formed little cotton balls that rest on its green body. That texture, that contrast between the bristly and the soft, makes it look adorable. Sometimes I find myself passing my finger through the air, tracing the outline of those pompoms, without daring to touch them completely for fear of breaking the magic.

The good news, the one that has me jumping with joy, is that it already has some pups. A few days ago, while I was checking it with my plant magnifying glass, I realized that next to the base of the mother plant some small green balls were peeking out, tiny, but full of life. Those pups are the proof that my little one is happy, that he likes the place I have given him and not only that, but they make my garden much more beautiful. Soon, when they grow a little more, I will be able to separate them and give them away, or create new pots, thus expanding this small family of pompoms.

But here comes the part that makes me a little ashamed to confess and it is that despite all the love I have for him, the passion he awakens in me and how much I enjoy watching him grow, I still have him planted in an old little yogurt pot. A recycled plastic container, one of those that come with the packs of four, and it is not pretty, it is not elegant, and of course it does not do justice to the beauty of my cactus.

However, and here is the curious thing, it seems that he has loved it. Although the space is small, its roots have adapted, and its pups have sprouted with a joy that I had not seen in other more "dignified" pots. I wonder if it will be that this humble container reminds him of his origins, of those nurseries where everything starts in plastic trays or perhaps, simply, it is that he does not understand appearances and only needs soil, light and a little water to be happy.

That is a lesson I take with me every time I look at him and it is that my Mammillaria with pompoms teaches me that beauty is not at odds with simplicity, that sometimes the small is what shines the most, and that a big container is not needed to have a big heart. So, for now, I leave him in his little yogurt pot while I look at him, I admire him, and I thank him for brightening my days with his little cotton hairs and his small shoots.

💚 💚

Read the full post

El remedio más poderoso no viene en frascos ~ Bitácora de una Neuróloga [Esp/Eng]

neuropoeta — Sat, 17 Oct 2026 02:00:03 GMT

Llegó el viernes y para muchos, el final de la semana representa el ansiado descanso, la desconexión de las pantallas y el reencuentro con el sofá. Para mí, como neuróloga pediatra, el viernes suele llegar con una mochila cargada de cansancio profundo que se acumula en los hombros después de días de diagnósticos complejos, de explicar a padres angustiados que todo estará bien, de estudiar cada detalle de un sistema nervioso que a veces parece un laberinto indescifrable. Es un cansancio físico, pero sobre todo mental y emocional.

Sin embargo, hoy he aprendido una lección de crecimiento personal que quiero compartir con ustedes. A veces buscamos la sanación en grandes gestos, en retiros espirituales o en frases motivacionales complejas, cuando la respuesta está en lo más simple y puro que existe: la sonrisa de un niño.

Hoy, al terminar mi jornada, una de mis pequeñas pacientes hospitalizadas me pidió una foto. Tenía esa chispa en los ojos que solo los niños tienen cuando están emocionados. Mientras posábamos, noté que miraba insistentemente hacia abajo, hacia nuestros pies. De repente, soltó una risita y dijo: "¡Mira! ¡Nuestros zapatos se parecen!".

Me quedé mirando nuestros zapatos. Los míos, unos plásticos rosas prácticos para las largas jornadas de hospital, y los suyos, igual rosas y pequeños, con un diseño similar, probablemente elegidos por ella misma esa mañana. En ese instante, algo se movió dentro de mí. Sentí que toda la carga del día, la fatiga acumulada de la semana, se desvanecía. No fue un proceso gradual, fue instantáneo. Un abrazo suyo, espontáneo y sincero, terminó de curar lo que ningún café o siesta podría haber reparado.

Ese momento me hizo reflexionar profundamente sobre el verdadero significado de la conexión humana y el crecimiento personal. Como médica, mi enfoque está en el cerebro, en las conexiones neuronales y en los tratamientos, pero como ser humano, me doy cuenta de que la verdadera conexión va más allá de la ciencia; se trata de la empatía, de la capacidad de ver al otro y de validar sus pequeñas alegrías, y de permitirnos ser tocados por ellas.

En mi profesión, a menudo me concentro en lo que está "mal" para poder arreglarlo y busco los déficits, las anomalías y los problemas a resolver porque es mi trabajo, pero a veces, en esa búsqueda incesante de soluciones, corro el riesgo de olvidar ver lo que está "bien", que es la resiliencia de mis pacientes, su valentía y su capacidad de encontrar alegría en medio de la adversidad. Esa niña no se veía a sí misma como una paciente, sino como una niña con una doctora que, por casualidad, tenía zapatos parecidos a los suyos, y eso, para ella, era motivo de orgullo y conexión.

Esta experiencia me ha recordado una verdad fundamental para cualquiera que transite un camino de crecimiento personal, y es que la sanación no siempre viene de arriba hacia abajo, sino de corazón a corazón.

A menudo pensamos que somos nosotros quienes tenemos que enseñar, guiar y curar; sin embargo, fui yo la que recibió la lección. La niña me enseñó que la verdadera grandeza está en los detalles, en la capacidad de sorprenderse por una coincidencia y en la sencillez de un gesto de cariño.

Si algo me ha enseñado la vida al lado de estos pequeños gigantes es que el cansancio, el estrés y las preocupaciones son reales, pero también son temporales. En cambio, el amor, la conexión y la alegría son fuerzas imparables que pueden renovarnos por completo.

Así que hoy, en lugar de quejarme por el cansancio acumulado, elijo agradecer a esa pequeña por su abrazo, por su sonrisa y por recordarme por qué elegí este camino. Agradezco a mis zapatos por servir de puente para una conexión tan pura.

A veces, todo lo que necesitamos es bajar la mirada, ver nuestros zapatos y darnos cuenta de que alguien más está caminando a nuestro lado, y ese es el postre más dulce de la vida.

¡Hasta la próxima bitácora!

🧠 🧠

Read the full post

My reading of Autobiography in Red, by Anne Carson [Eng/Esp]

neuropoeta — Fri, 16 Oct 2026 02:00:00 GMT

Honestly, before Anne Carson won the Nobel a few days ago, I had not decided to read her. Some time ago I read a few pages of Autobiography in Red and they seemed to me to be verses that were too fragmented, and I left it. Until a few days ago, when the Swedish Academy gave her the prize, I did not rescue it, and this time I read it almost in one sitting.

Carson is a classicist who has spent more than thirty years teaching Greek, but her way of writing resembles nothing of an academic, for she becomes obsessed with a fragment by the Greek lyric poet Stesichorus, in which a character named Geryon appears: a red-skinned monster with wings whom Heracles kills in order to steal his herd of red cattle. Carson points out something key from the beginning, and that is that Stesichorus was the first to write Geryon as a victim and not as a monster. She clings to that point of view and, with the language of two thousand five hundred years later, turns it into the story of a boy's growth.

Geryon, in this book, is contemporary, is a sensitive and cowardly child, with a brutal brother, who prefers to hide behind the camera in order to look at the world, and later he meets Heracles, who is a carefree, blond, and free young vagabond. That relationship is written as adolescent infatuation, the pain of abandonment, and the indefinable ember of reunion years later. Carson does not use a single unnecessary adjective to manipulate, she only cuts the images, aligns them verse by verse, and lets the reader feel the weight.

What truly moved me is how red circulates throughout the whole book. Geryon is red, the volcano is red, the destruction that Heracles brings is also red. Carson quotes that poem by Emily Dickinson about a volcano and then turns the entire book into that volcano with a cold surface and lava beneath. Geryon's autobiography, at bottom, is about how someone learns to recognize his own existence, which consists of being someone who has wings, is red, and loves Heracles.

The structure is also peculiar. There are around 47 poetic chapters where translations and notes on the fragments of Stesichorus are interspersed, as well as scattered quotations. Some will see it as an academic display, but upon reading it I felt that those fragments are the heart of the book. Geryon's autobiography is incomplete, for he begins writing it at the age of five and abandons it at some point, and the rest is completed by the reader.

Upon closing the book I remembered a phrase that Carson repeats in almost all the interviews she gives, and that is that she says her enemy is boredom, and with this book she defeats it and turns a Greek monster into a boy who hurts, and a broken fragment into a living volcano.

The Nobel recognizes in her the playful dialogue between classical tradition and contemporary literature, but for me this book is not only a dialogue, it is something like a heart cut into verses and sewn back together.

📖 📖

VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL

Mi lectura de Autobiografía de rojo, de Anne Carson

Read the full post