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Suzanna is a professional interpreter and translator certified by the Judicial Council of California. She is a published poet and writer. She became a bibliophile at the age of seven when resorted to reading to deal with severe asthma. In 2016 when her youngest son, Juan Manuel, aka, Spin, drowned during a fishing trip, Suzanna devoted herself to the study of human consciousness and its survival after physical death. Her findings and her conversations with her son brought her book, "This is your story, Spin," to fruition
Manuelita, the little turtle
Jan 14, 2022 2 years agoI sang to you, Spin. I sang using a megaphone while riding on the SUV with Ale, Tammy and Chelsea. I sang, "Manuelita, la tortuga, from Argentinian songwriter and writer, Maria Elena Walsh, (1963). It was one of your favorite's childhood songs about a turtle who traveled from Buenos Aires to Paris to have a makeover. In Paris they did a skin lift, put a pretty wig, a nice dress and shiny shoes, but by the time she had swum across the ocean back to her little town of Pehuajo, she was all undone and wrinkled again, her turtle lover faithfully waiting for her on the shores of Pehuajo. You loved that song, Spin, and I wondered if your love of turtles had to do with that song. A song that I had sung dozens of times to you and your siblings with my guitar at bedtime; a song I had sung to you while you were slowly growing in my womb. As our car kept going up, I continued singing, my voice echoing throughout the lake. I saw people fishing in the distance by the lake's shore and wondered for a moment if my singing was bothersome to them. I was sure though that the news about the young man who had gone missing, and who had probably drowned at the lake, had already reached them and the only feeling such news had elicited was compassion. Ale kept driving up while I continued singing. There were a few instances when the knot in my throat had almost seized me, but I managed to continue; I managed to continue because my singing was a tribute to you and all that you had meant to me and to so many others. I managed to continue because I knew, Spin, that you were listening. We continued driving up to the highest most accessible point. And once there, wow! The view was spectacular, Spin. A cove of emerald tones, a reflection of the white ash, Jeffrey pine and Colorado spruce trees embedded on the slopes of the mountains, and which seemed to be calling out to the pristine waters to embrace them. Was your soul already wandering free and in awe of such an arresting beauty, Spin? I am sure it was. Your artist's spirit having found the perfect canvas. I felt it was nature's unique and exquisite way of unveiling subtle messages of comfort amidst our tragedy. As one of the sheriff's deputies would later say, "your son chose a beautiful place from where to depart this earth. It had been nine days from the day you had gone into the lake until the moment your body had come to the surface. Nine days looking for you while retreating from the world to have moments of intimate reflection and communion with your spirit. Nine days cradled by the serenity of nature and the depth of the love you had left behind. Nine days to allow us to gather our strength to be able to face the world again. In the Upanishads, a part of the Vedas and The Bhagavad Gita, it is written that we plan our lives before conception; our souls choosing our parents beforehand as well as the people we will meet who will help us deal with the challenges we will encounter. People who will help us to learn whatever lessons we came here to learn. And you had selected us, all of us, the family you had chosen to love, to be there for you and for each other, Spin. You had chosen the place and the circumstances of your departure, but more than anything you had chosen us, all of us, to be there for you and for each other to walk side by side during your transition. We were at about five hundred feet high across from where you and your brothers had set camp. It didn't make sense to have gone there, but our restless minds forced to keep moving, to keep walking the lake grounds even around areas where the possibilities of you having ended up there were none. But hope, as they say, is the last thing to be lost, and in our minds and our hearts continuing the search kept us hoping for a miracle; continuing the search created the illusion that we were closer to you by imagining that we were tracing your steps while calling you out to our hearts. While the notes of Manuelita, la tortuga, still reverberated through the silent mountains and the stillness of the lake, we continued our search clinging to hope's last thread without knowing that in two days' time, the still, yet dark and cold waters of the lake would liberate your body from its final embrace.
