Unique

There are no reasons to convince you. I pretend nothing. Every day I realize to pretend is to stay away from Being: pure, calm.

The pressure of being unique generates stress. It is an invented idea to acquire something that we feel we lack.

Desires generate frustrations. I want love, to be listened to, a big house, a territory, a country, a continent, rule the world, etc., etc., etc. Everyone, absolutely everyone, come from attachment, fears and feeling incomplete.

There is, at the bottom of each one of us, an impure emotion, lacking and dysfunctional. And even deeper, an unconscious guilt that makes us believe we are evil, very evil, and we must hide all that evil where nobody finds it.

That is why the image of "being special" is a construction focuses to demonstrate we are beautiful, incredible, intelligent, altruistic, not poor at all and so forth travelers to places according to our projection.

We already know, and we know it well: our evil is not real, our image either, our lack less, and our ambitions, as we also know, make us unhappy.

The key to happiness is do not want anything. But how do we tell a society anchored to DESIRE that not to crave could free it from suffering? The most important thing underneath our unrealities is that our little desires are toys allowing us to have fun, just toys, and they acquire a real and excessive tone when we bet our life on them. We tend to change truth for the illusion, peace for conflict.

That is why, when I began to think about the concept of "unique", in this blog for "Ser CasaSandra ", I thought: How am I going to tell families and guests to come to our House because it is "unique"?

How to tell them to buy a room because we are "the best" of Holbox, of the world, of Mexico? How to ask them to come here because we are "great"? It reminds me of the Serpent of Adam and Eve: temptation, the bait to the trap.

If there is something undeniable about this project, on a blessed island, is that most of the things we integrate into are born of inspiration and, sometimes, when the "Sandra ego" is lost in the labyrinthine desire to be especial through CasaSandra, I spend a long time observing how insane they are.

Inspiration allows us to grow in an inspired team and support those who, some how, are seeking for a quiet place to find their own voice, sometimes asleep under layers and layers of stress, anxiety and fears.

When I started with this hotel residence I decided to recreate that life I had lived for fifteen years, hosted all over the world, including restaurants and airplanes.

I was supporting a band of poetic musicians led by Pablo Milanés: some kind of encyclopedia of the Cuban music and poetry, an incubator of the beat of a generation that, along with the Beatles, Serrat, Violeta Parra, Simon and Garfunkel, and many others decided to change the unusual melancholy of caked boleros and the utopia of love, to a more poetic and antiestablishment vocation, even though what they were objecting was not too clear.

From that effervescence were born the sounds that still lead the way of today music. The poetry of the sixties, that poetic world, was so powerful that humans polarized between absurd wars and evocative verses to calm the desire to kill. Although we already know: the only holy war is peace. Any resistance brings peace.

The world of the hotel entered my core little by little. In some of those I visited repeatedly, year after year, the smells, the touches, the sounds, the rhythms of the staff, the frequent visitors, began to be part of my natural environment. Bullfighters, artists, actors, writers, dissidents, politicians, architects, bankers, maids, waiters, etc., we were all at some point together in the elevators that smelled like the smoke of the fish soup of the Reina Victoria Hotel, for example, at the Plaza Santa Ana in Madrid.

My life in hotels began in 1989, and because of some kind of divine order, it continues to be an enlightened path in which I live.

There was something that was frequently lacking in the visited spots, something subtle and sublime, something indicating: house to rest. Soul. Light. Beauty. Care of the being. Something that was made by hand, inch by inch, without looking back, like embroidering an Indian tunic, memorizing mantras that sheltered the world of Yucatan, where I found my bread and my Tibet one day, after letting the band behind, ant the hotels, the tours, the husband and the country; and without shoes, I set out with an orchestra of Mayan builders to create what I felt could spread through me as a mission: find in everyone's love a space to expand it. The spirit creates. That is how it emerges, nothing more, understanding anything, just creating, and this home was born.

We are an all.