The Mexican Picasso

Last weekend, I attended a memorial service for a sacredphrenic man who made an indelible mark on the world, even in the midst of his great suffering.

Hundreds gathered to pay tribute to a remarkable human being, known by many as the “Mexican Picasso.” Through his paintings, he seemed to express concepts that were just outside the bounds of most people’s accepted definitions of reality. A cubist, hallucinogenic world, rich with symbol.

These are the stories you don’t hear about. This is sacredphrenia at its most precious. ❤️

I've been to memorial services and let me tell you, this was no ordinary memorial service. This was a philosophical gathering. You could feel it in the air, people grappling with the significance of a challenging life lived intentionally.

You could hear it in the stories people told, in their laughter and in their tears, in our collective eulogy as, all together, we yelled his name into the sky.

You could see it in the hawks circling overhead, as though Jesse Nash Valdez was somehow paying us a visit.

By the beach, we honored this man. And although I did not know of him until after his passing, I wept at the celebration of his meaningful and, in many ways, misunderstood life.

The more I step into this work, the greater synchrony I feel with my sacredphrenic brothers and sisters, both those who are here and those who have passed into the next world. I’m reminded that we never really go anywhere.

This one's for you, Jesse. 😇✨