Poems. Because I have no words....

Original article on Substack: Poems. Because I have no words...

I thought I would write something else today.
I sat down with the intention to do so.

But the thoughts feel heavy. Exhausted.
With everything happening in this country, especially Minneapolis, I cannot bring myself to write another piece soaked in doom and despair. I’ve read so many of them lately. They matter. They must exist. We cannot turn away or numb ourselves to what is unfolding.

 
And yet… I don’t have it in me to add another one today.

Instead, something quieter asked for space.

As all of this is happening out there, something entirely unexpected has been happening in me. During my sabbatical, creative work began arriving without invitation. Painting first. Then sketching. Then poetry. Writing. And now, this Substack.

None of it was planned.

I never thought of myself as artistic. I hadn’t painted or written creatively since elementary school. The survival mode I learned early in life, the one shaped by trauma, pressed this part of me deep underground. For decades, I didn’t even know it existed.

But once the door cracked open, expression poured through.

Last week, it finally became clear: I wanted a place to hold it all. A home for what has been emerging. So I built one.

👉 https://dorotacastillostudio.com/

Everything I’ve created so far lives there.

In a strange and quiet way, this feels like resistance.

Art is always among the first things threatened under authoritarianism. Expression. Imagination. Education. Anything that allows people to feel, to think, to escape, to question. A disconnected, discouraged, uneducated population is easier to control. History has shown us this again and again.

So this, making art, sharing it, refusing to shut down, this is my small act of rebellion.

Today, instead of an essay, I want to share a poem.

I wrote it for my younger son, who came home from college yesterday for the weekend. He’s the only one in our family with thick, curly hair. For years, haircuts were a source of dread for him. He never liked how he looked afterward. He would retreat, unhappy, waiting weeks for it to grow out.

During his junior year of college, I offered to cut his hair myself.

I had never cut hair before. I am not a hairstylist. I watched YouTube videos, took a deep breath, and tried. He trusted me—because it couldn’t be worse than what he’d already endured.

And somehow, it worked.

He loved it. I did too.

For three years now, this has been our ritual. I used to pour myself a small drink beforehand to steady my nerves. But last night, something shifted. I didn’t need it. I just… did it. Calm. Present. Trusting my hands.

I believe the work I’ve done during this sabbatical, loosening my grip on control, outcomes, fear, made that possible. I no longer need everything to be predictable. I let things unfold.

At least, that’s what I choose to believe.

Here is the poem.

 
Haircut

He arrived with bags
Tired from the long drive
Walked in and hugged us with his big arms.

Towering over us,
Tucked us under his chin,
Then sigh with relief
And allowed himself to breathe.

His hair long but still coiled in curls,
Ready for seasonal trim to happen today.
I no longer hold the anxiety nor fear
When I move the shears to shorten his mane.

He sits patiently, playing his tunes
While I work on his hair to get it to curl.
Then he is up, checking the results,
And then smiles broadly, loving the style.

When my son comes home,
The house revives.
There is guitar music, laundry and steaks
And gentle loving with his warm embrace.

His hair now short again
Big brown eyes shin on display.
This is our ritual of trust,
Between mother’s hands and son who feels safe.