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Navigator Ring

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There are days when I lose direction. When that happens, it can take a long time for me to find my way back. Slowly I return to this: a tiny flicker, a spark that feels like yes: to food, to rest, to work or a walk.

That subtle recognition calms me: I’m no longer looking outside for answers or ways of being. I look within to honor my rhythm, my pace, my choices, because only I know what they feel like.

This ring is not a shield, but a compass. A reminder to look inside and align with what is true. That’s the way back home.

Navigator Ring.
Hand built with garnet and recycled sterling silver.

Ember Ring

Now that the rains are back in Mexico City and the sky stays gray, this little garnet glows like an ember on my hand.

A reminder that the sun is still here, even when we can’t see it. That warmth lives in us too, even when we forget.

Ember Ring.
Handbuilt with garnet and recycled sterling silver.

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Cicada

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I love this idea of going underground and then emerging when the time is right. We’ve been told everything must happen fast. That we must adjust quickly—to loss, to change, to new realities. That we should move on, get over it, find new things, better things. But sometimes the body doesn’t want that. It needs stillness. It needs time to re-accommodate inner paradigms. To adapt. To feel safe again.

Being happy again isn’t something I can force. Sitting with change, letting it move through me at its own pace, is not just valuable, it’s necessary and unavoidable.

I’m realizing, at this middle point in my life, that I’m not meant to cover a huge amount of ground. I’m not here to race through experiences. I’m meant to slow down. To take baby steps. To notice the tiny things. Because they are the most precious.

This is the opposite of a conquering heart. It’s an assimilating one. Life has to seep into me. And I must let it. I must pause long enough for it to reach all the parts of me that need tending. Only then can I truly carry it.

Cicada.
Handmade with amethyst and recycled sterling silver.
A piece to honor fertile silence, deep transformation, and the inner timing that can’t be rushed.

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Death in Five Reflections

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A few years ago, I made a small series of whimsical calavera pendants with smooth, polished surfaces. But something felt unfinished. They were missing a kind of weight, a truth. So I brought them back to the fire.

Now, the flame has left its mark, texturing their surface, softening their perfection, and adding depth where there was once only shine. Some necessary darkness to the light.

They’ve lived a little more now. And it shows.

All five will be available this Thursday at 6 pm (Mexico City time), in my online shop.

Death as Truth

In the Mexican tradition, we don’t banish death, we bring her to the table. We give her a face. A calavera. We decorate her and talk to her. We remember her, because the dead are not gone. They live on in memory and also in the shape of who we became because of them. In every person they touched. Every path they opened or closed. In the joy they gave, and the damage too. They are not absent. They are layered into us.

Death reveals the truth of life: nothing lasts, and that’s why it matters. She shows us that meaning isn’t found in clinging, but in continuity. In honoring. In creating something with what was left behind.

Without death, there would be no longing. No poetry. No temples. No art. Death gives depth to life. It sharpens love. It lays the foundation for every truth worth carrying.

And so, we give her a form. A calavera. A face to speak to. Not to fear her, but to remember who we are, and why we’re here.

Death as Reunion

As the strategies I once used to survive—within my family, my culture, my relationships—begin to loosen their grip, something unexpected happens. After the shame and guilt come and go, after the fear of being alone, of hurting or disappointing others begins to dissolve, I find that what’s left is peace. Not ease, exactly—but clarity. A quiet strength. A sense of alignment—not with what others want from me, but with my own nature, my own truth.

I no longer feel the need to adjust myself to fit. I used to flow around people like water, molding myself to the room, the mood, the unspoken expectations. Now I feel more like a container. Not rigid—but held. Contained. Whole.

It has taken enormous courage not to bend. My palms sweat. My nervous system still lights up in protest. But something in me is steady now. Some inner voice, clear and quiet, says: this is who I am. And I trust it enough to keep going.

The self I’ve returned to isn’t new. She’s been here, waiting, beneath the roles and the fear and the noise. And now, at last, we are back together.

Death as Guide

This wasn’t the kind of death anyone else could see. There was no dramatic moment, no funeral, no breaking point. Just a slow, quiet unraveling of the version of me that had held so much for so long—the good one, the loyal one, the one who stayed even when it hurt. I had been the dependable daughter, the accommodating partner. I knew how to give, how to keep the peace, how to disappear just enough to be acceptable. And then, without warning, she began to die.

It didn’t feel like freedom at first. It felt like emptiness. I wasn’t grieving the version of me I’d lost—I was afraid of what would be left without her. Who was I, if not the one who made everything work?

But death came gently. Not as punishment, but as a guide. She said: Let it go. All of it. You don’t need to carry this anymore. And for once, I listened.

What came after wasn’t clarity, it was space. A quieter place inside me, with fewer answers but more truth. I’m still learning who I am without that old armor. But I know this: I’m not lost. I’m just returning to myself.

Death as Continuity

They leave, and we stay, but not unchanged. At first it can feel like absence, like something essential has been taken. But over time, I realize that what they gave us doesn’t disappear, it becomes the ground beneath what we now grow.

Grief reshapes us. The love, the stories, the silent lessons don’t vanish. They settle into us. And somehow, through us, life keeps unfolding.

I used to think continuity meant holding on. Now I understand it’s more about allowing what was to become part of what is. It’s letting their absence become an opening.

That’s how life goes on. Not by erasing the ones who came before, but by carrying them, quietly, in what we choose to make and tend.

Death as Stillness

Everything is unraveling.

Democracy falters. Genocide is live-streamed. The climate collapses. Old systems: patriarchy, capitalism, even monogamy, crack open. There’s mass migration, rising waters, no clear way forward. And in the middle of all that, something in me has stopped trying to fix it. I no longer chase the illusion that it’s all supposed to be different.

What remains, what feels honest now, is stillness. Not the kind that comes from detachment or defeat, but the kind that feels like returning to the earth. To silence. To something much older than panic.

I used to think death was the end: dark, fearsome, final. But now I feel it more like a presence. A constant. A quiet voice that says: Look. This is what’s real. Everything else comes and goes.

And in that stillness, I can finally rest. Not because things are okay, but because I’ve stopped pretending I can outrun what is. Death doesn’t frighten me. She steadies me.

What Pride Month Means to Me

You don’t have to change. You never did.

We are each born unique—not by mistake, but by some deep design.

The real madness was ever believing there’s a “normal” way to be. There isn’t. There never was.

I celebrate Pride to honor existence as it really is: honest, layered, imperfect, radiant.


To those who were told they don’t belong—by family, by faith, by silence:

You do. You belong.


To those still hiding, still carrying shame, still trying to shrink or disappear:

I see you. I’ve been you. And I promise—there is nothing wrong with how you are.


To those who fought to live out loud—and carved space for others to follow:

Bravo. Thank you.


We were never broken.

52

Today I turn 52, and I’ve come a long way.

I’m learning to feel my pain—and the pain of those I love—without needing to fix it.
I can ask for what I need and stay steady, even when others want something else. I’ve stopped believing there’s only one right way to live. Moment by moment, I choose what a good life means to me. And I see myself thrive.

I listen to my body—and I trust it when it asks to rest, to move, or to step away. I’m on my side. I enjoy my own company and give myself the care I once longed for from others.

I listen closely to what I feel, because I experience everything intensely. I now offer myself the same compassion, warmth, and encouragement I used to give only outwardly.

I play again, like I did as a child.
I dance freely, without anyone watching.

I’m proud of the path I’ve walked to offer this friendship to the one who needed it most: me.

If any of this resonates, know you’re not alone.
It’s never too late to come home to yourself.

With love,

J

Inner Landscapes

The Inner Landscapes Series will be available this Wednesday at 1 PM (Mexico City time) in my online shop.

Five one-of-a-kind pieces, each forged from fire, memory, and hope.
Rings can be resized to fit sizes 6 to 10.5.

As always, every piece is made entirely by hand with recycled sterling silver.

May each one arrive where it’s needed.

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After the Burn

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This is a spatial eye, the kind that sees from above. Calm, discerning, a little strange. At its center, amber burns like fire. Above it, a silver rainbow flickers with mischief. It looks like a flying saucer, or a head lost in the clouds.

The piece is marked by fire, burnt at the edges, transformed. But like a rainbow after a storm, something clear and luminous emerges. This eye sees what comes after difficulty: the truth only fire can reveal.

On the back, two plaques are stamped with AMOR FATI—the love of fate—the freedom to embrace what comes. A quirky little relic, and a reminder: when life spins fast, meet it with humor, clarity, and a wide, knowing eye.

After the Burn.
Made by hand with recycled sterling silver and amber.
Offered soon in my online shop.

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Forged to See

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A strand of eyes, guarded by lines of raised silver dots. Medieval, fire-forged, almost punk. Chunky but close to the skin. Like armor. Like pearls. It rests at the throat, where truth waits to be seen and spoken.

This year, my prayer has been simple: I am willing to see the world as it is. It has shaken me and freed me. What remains is this: inner truth is the real freedom.

Forged to See.
Recycled sterling silver.
Coming soon to my online shop.

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Within the Fern

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I shaped a rectangle of silver, a small fortress of quiet strength. Inside it, a fern spirals upward, sensing change, leaning gently. It whispers: remain flexible. Move with the wind.

This ring is a reminder: I am my own ground. Sturdy. Whole. Rooted in myself. No storm can unmake me. I bend, but I do not break. I keep growing.

Within the Fern.
Forged with recycled silver.

Jenia

When Jenia wrote me this after receiving her necklace, I was moved to tears. With her permission, I’m sharing this passage that beautifully captures the moment:

As soon as I put my time amulet on, I felt such joy at the soothing sound and at how the pieces danced with every movement! You may smile, but a childhood memory came to mind…I was staying during the summers at the village where my grandparents lived, and there was always that time of the day when the last bits of light extinguish into the mystery of the dusk, when the streets would flood with the bell sounds of hundreds of herd animals: cows, sheep, donkeys, bulls and goats… all making their way back home from a day of pasture, back to safety and with their trusted person. It was so fascinating, the warmth of that sound,  but more so the wonder “How can the animals each tell their home?” After all, all we did was leave the door open… :)

Now I am that little Taurus returning home to myself guided by trust and instincts…and there’s something old but also something new in me, just like you wrote in your description, just like the old day and the new night in the song of the bells…

You really got onto something quite mysterious and unique with this peace and all I can say is: I accept it with utmost honor and humility, with gratitude for the love invested in it and the desire to extend what was given to me to those around me! The jewelry is the bridge, we are the shores on both ends. Let us sit and contemplate by the river of time.

Thank you Jennifer from the bottom of my heart! Thank you for everything you do!

Love,
Jenia

Inner Map

We are all wired differently, and that’s not a flaw, it’s a map. You don’t need to fix yourself. Just start noticing what lights you up. That’s the truest part of you. Nurture it, follow it, trust it. Comparison will blur your vision—but love will bring it into focus.

Inner Map Ring.
Handbuilt with imagination and recycled sterling silver.