There was a time when I mistook stillness for peace, when I smothered the sparks within me for fear they might set fire to something sacred. But desire, as Jung might describe it, rises from the collective unconscious—a deep well of symbols and instincts that echo through our dreams. In the majesty of the Teshima Art Museum, I met my own flame. Not a wildfire, but a steady, pulsing heat that reminded me of the voice I’d silenced for too long. It was there, among unfamiliar signs and familiar silences, that I first articulated my ikigai—the reason, not for breathing, but to live the life I wanted.
The journey back was not a return but a rebirth. Passion became compass. The world that once seemed scattered in fragments now danced with sacred geometry. I knew I needed to make changes—deep, uncomfortable ones. The kind that strip you bare before they let you bloom. I made the decision to face my fears, to stop negotiating with doubt, and leap into the unknown. Desire became a thread I chose to trust. It pulled me forward, not with certainty, but with clarity. Not toward perfection, but toward truth. And in that moment of surrender, I understood: creation only begins when you’re willing to walk through fire for what ignites your soul.
Desire, I learned, is not always loud. Sometimes, it is a hum in the bones. And the body knows. Somatic psychology teaches us this: that trauma lodges in tissue, but so does truth. My creative pulse was lodged in my skin, aching to be used. So I followed it—not toward noise, but toward knowing. I began to name what truly moved me: design, fashion, creation. I began to unfold the truths that were true only to me—and how important it became to fuel that flame.
And Awka was that answer. A container for the combustion. A space for the sensual, the real, the truth. Fuego is not about frenzy. It’s about fire as focus. It's about burning the scripts we inherited to write ones we believe in. I began again with flame—not to destroy, but to begin the alchemy. Fuego was the first element.
