The Field Wasn't Green Yet

Some stories need to be told slowly, with breath and presence, because they come from a place that’s still tender. This is one of those stories. It’s the story of how my grief shaped Pachamama—and how, in return, Pachamama gives meaning to my grief.

When my mother passed away, she left one request: that we cremate her body and scatter her ashes in a green field. She didn’t ask for anything more elaborate than that—just nature, simplicity, and space. And yet, what that meant in practice became something I carried with me for a long time.

I couldn’t return to Argentina immediately. It was a year and a half before my brothers and I were able to be together and fulfill her wish. During that time, something began to take shape in me. I kept wondering: How does one do this? Not just emotionally, but practically.

Do we use our hands?
Do we turn the urn upside down?
What words do we say?
What do we do with the silence that follows?

It was in asking myself those questions that Pachamama was born. I had never scattered ashes before. I had never prepared a final goodbye for someone I loved. I knew I didn’t want families to feel lost in that moment the way I felt. I wanted to create something that could hold them, gently, so that they could focus on what matters most: the ceremony, the memory, the embrace, the words, the love.

And so I created a kit. With care. With attention. With a sense of reverence—for the person who had passed, and for the people left holding that love.

The Day We Let Her Go

When the time came, we used one of the Pachamama urns to transport my mom’s ashes. We didn’t use it for burial, because her wish was different—she wanted to be released into the open air, into a field.

We drove to a place called la puerta del abra, a winding road where the highway meets the sierras just outside of Mar del Plata, the city where my mom lived and where my siblings and I were born.

We stood there—my brothers and I—in a quiet, open space. We scattered her ashes just as she had asked. We said goodbye. And while she had requested a green field, what we found wasn’t quite that.

It looked like a squash field—tiny plants with green leaves. It wasn’t lush, or wildly in bloom, but it met her request just enough for my heart to feel at peace. The green was there, even if modest. And we had honored her wish.

I returned feeling light. Not healed, because grief isn’t something you finish—but connected, aligned.

The Field Turned Into Something More

A few months ago, my brother and sister-in-law traveled the same road by motorcycle. They stopped in the same area and sent me a photo. What we had once thought was a squash field had transformed.

It was a field of sunflowers.

Bright yellow. Tall. Radiant. A sea of petals looking up toward the sky.

My eyes filled with tears the moment I saw it. Not just because of the beauty, but because of what it meant. We had released her into a place we thought was “green enough”—but life had other plans. That field had become green, and yellow, and full of light.

It was a message. A gift. For her. For us. For me.

Why Pachamama Matters Even More Now

That moment reminded me why I do this. Why I create these kits with such love and intention. Why each rose petal, each piece of handmade paper, each playlist, each biodegradable urn matters.

Because I know what it feels like to be standing in a place filled with emotion, wondering how to say goodbye.
Because I know the power of preparing that moment with presence and care.
Because I’ve been there.

Pachamama was born during the wait to fulfill my mom’s last wish. It became the way I turned grief into something useful, something loving, something that could hold others in the same way I wished to be held.

Every time someone chooses a Pachamama kit to honor their loved one, I feel the full circle of that journey. I feel the sunflowers in that field. I feel my mom.

And I feel, deeply, that love continues. That our paths are guided. That when we walk through loss with intention, beauty can still bloom.

Thank you for letting me be a part of your farewells. I carry each one with respect, with tenderness, and with the hope that something gentle and sacred can rise from grief.

With all my love,
Virginia