Read Space Between the Stars Online
Authors: Deborah Santana
Space Between the Stars
For Carlos,
Salvador,
Stella, and
Angelica,
who hold my heart
Truth burns up error.
—
Sojourner Truth
1.
Skin
10.
Winterland
11.
The Pendulum
12.
Like a God
13.
London
16.
Surrender
17.
Let Go
18.
Marathon
19.
Trust Life
20.
Daughters
22.
Vision Fire
When I was in the third grade, my teacher stood in front of the blackboard and asked each one of us what we wanted “to do.” I answered, “Write.” And I began then—with poems, short stories, and a diary. Simple. Unpretentious. Through adolescence, through my first heartbreak, while traveling on trains, and after childbirth—I wrote about it all. It was my way of taking my stuffed-down yearnings and releasing them like butterflies in the sky.
I married at twenty-two, and in the thirty-three extraordinary years of my union with Carlos Santana, I have moved tur-bulently between two images: the feminist culture of the 1970s that told me I did not need a man to make me whole, and the provincial Christian teachings of my youth that said woman is helpmeet to her husband. While Carlos played music around the world believing that his art could transform human consciousness with positive energy and molecules of light, I studied
Spanish and creative writing, managed a vegetarian restaurant, answered fan mail, and taught meditation.
When our children dropped like flowers from my womb, I became guide, healer, and teacher, their lives giving me true meaning along the way. I stayed home to raise the lives that had come through us: volunteering in the children's schools; raising money for music and sports programs; surviving field trips; and watching our three children interact with a young version of humanity. I purchased real estate; took over our corporation, managing twenty employees; sat on the board of a nonprofit before we developed our own Milagro Foundation; and, with Carlos, decided on his career choices and direction.
Many people see me only in the context of Carlos's life. This concept of being known through my connection with someone famous contradicts all that I value about people. I am Carlos's wife, but I am first myself—a body of cells, emotions, beliefs, perspectives, and intelligence. Together, Carlos and I are sure-footed visionaries united by our devotion to spiritual truths, our family, and the betterment of the human condition.
Space Between the Stars
explains who I am and how I have struggled to maintain my identity. I hope that what I have learned in finding and defining myself can give voice and hope to others. My memoir exposes the rugged, uneven terrain of my discoveries and glories, as well as the impact of society's racism on my growth. Each sentient being has a story, a fascinating journey with family and friends, of awakenings and disappointments. My story represents the power of every life. I wrote my memoir because I am interested in this sacred unfolding, and I have
learned to value myself through introspection and hard work. My goal is to give others encouragement and stamina to soar.
My parents were legally denied the right to marry in 1947 because they were not the same “race” (human race did not count). They were vilified and hated for loving each other, yet they chose to stand in their love. Society evolves by people risking to live what they believe is right for them. Slowly, so slowly, acceptance dawns in our culture because a group of rebels fights for their rights. I still find my parents' convictions and courage remarkable, and tell their story, with mine, as a symbol of thousands of people who willingly fight to liberate us all. My mother's amazing acceptance and love of people taught me that each person is unique and special in the eyes of God. She was never impressed by fame. Mom's interest in someone was sparked if they were kind, had faith in God, or said something that allowed her to glimpse their character.
Looking back, I have gathered the beauty and completeness of these years—the strength of my parents and the exquisite-ness of my life with Carlos. I have been to Paris, London, Tokyo, Osaka, Barcelona, Madrid, Sydney, Melbourne, Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, Puerto Rico, Kingston, Tobago, Geneva, Zurich, Moscow, New York, and Taos. I have visited El Prado, the Duomo, Britain's Natural History Museum, and Zen temples—learning sacred history and cultural customs. I have met famous people and people working in anonymity with great humility and power. Carlos's musical mission was always our focus, and our experiences have been sublime.
If I had designed my own existence, I may have lit on a
course of study, seeking a depth of knowledge in one area, or I may have served as a hospice worker helping children and adults come to terms with the power of their transition from this life to the next. I definitely would have chosen to be seen as an individual.
In writing this memoir, I have followed a labyrinth to my heart and have become aware that the wholeness I saw in others existed in the struggles and triumphs of my life and my marriage, in the loving-kindness of years survived and cherished. The words in this book are my remembrance of what I have lived on my journey, a prayer to my amplified life, nuggets of truth from my soul. May each reader see their own life as sacred, every experience as holy.
he summer I was nine I climbed to the top of our hill, grabbing handfuls of dry sweet grass to pull me over jagged rocks. I stood looking out at San Francisco unfurled before me, a mix of winding streets that trailed into the sky, or tipped into the soft, blue bay. Sunlight strained to warm me through the fog, and people drifted like watercolors on a page, hues of dark and light, diverse as the world. We lived on Majestic Avenue, a cul-de-sac whose name fit perfectly with our family surname, King. Feeling crystalline and ever so shaky in the gusting wind, I stood at the top of our street and waved my arms to the city, queen of it all.
My sister, Kitsaun, almost two years older than me, thought
she
was queen. She climbed ahead of me to the top of the bluff, holding stalks of anise toward the sky, the scent of licorice sifting down to me. Sitting on a ledge, I could see our little house with red stairs that led to the front door, a mean cactus century plant with two-inch thorns growing near the driveway. Once, Kitsaun
had fallen off the porch onto the spiny arms and I thought she was dead. She had long scratches and cuts that bled, and Mom laid her on the couch so I could touch her face and bring her food. “She's a fainter,” Mom said. “She'll be fine.” The next day she was back on the hill, waving her royal stems.
