A collective memory

Travel with Adela in Guatemala

It is with sadness that I write this note in memory of Adela. My life has long been shaped by displacement—I arrived in the United States as a refugee in the 1980s, surrounded by advocates fighting to address the mass ex

Refinishing and holding the floor

Adela was an unbeknownst master interior floor refinisher. When she saw a flawed floor, she knew it had to be refinished and fixed. It was a metaphor for her life and the issues that she dealt with on a regular basis.

Adela and the Colo. Trail

I remember meeting Adela in the early '90's, when I lived in San Diego and would come see friends in LA who were working on immigrant and human rights issues. She was a "force to be reckoned with," and I was glad to meet

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Adela was the person with whom I truly enjoyed talking. Conversations always flowed: they shifted from fun and light-hearted to serious and profound, and back. She was incredibly present and engaging in every moment of

Today was Adela’s birthday. I know because she, our friend Tania and I shared the same birthday. We were lucky to celebrate together when we all worked in Bogota. I remember us talking for hours. Some serious issues (Col

Out of all the memories I have of Adela, this might not be the biggest but it is one that hold fondly. During my time staying in Iceland , conducting my research on whales, Adela along with family and friends came to vi

I didn’t know Adela well, but there was an exuberance and warmth about her that was contagious. So many people want to talk about themselves; Adela was genuinely interested in the other. So saddened she is no longer with

(I shared the following on Facebook last week when I learned of Adela's death, so some of you may already have read it. I know Adela wouldn't mind me quoting/plagiarizing myself, and I also know we would have mocked me a

Adela was the kind of friend who becomes family.

Here is a more polished version that keeps the warmth, humor, and intimacy of your original memory: Adela and I met at a social club in Bogotá, Colombia, a place that, ironically, neither of us ever really attended ag

Healers' afternoon

With gratitude and nostalgia, I remember that magical afternoon preparing k+dobe and noterau, as the wise old man called the plants in his language. By the stove, our hands stained with plant juices, we laughed and fe