Poor Old Michael Finnegan….(begin again)

Who can remember the premise in Groundhog’s Day (the movie)? He ‘gets caught in a blizzard that he didn’t predict and finds himself trapped in a time warp, doomed to relive the same day over and over again until he gets it right’…[from the IMDb website]

Each post in my blog is probably, overall, so far, not that different from the others. But I’m finding that grief is like that. You don’t suddenly arrive at a moment of lasting peace any more than you stand every second in the fire. Each day, and each post, is an exploration.

I’ve been writing since I was a little girl in some form or fashion, mostly journals and letters, poetry when I’m really dialed in. My ‘writing process’ has always been pretty private as well as akin to ‘bingeing and purging’– I have no discipline but I also therefore suffer no ‘writers block’. When something comes to my mind’s eye, I have to put it down, or it will leave as quickly as it came. Sometimes this has meant pulling over on the side of the road, or abruptly ending a phone call, or using lipstick for a pen. I have found, with this blog, I have to take a break after a post of 2, from the organization of thoughts into a cohesive monologue. Though there is a spark of aliveness in exporting thoughts into the portal of social media, I do not box myself into any corners here~ I am simply writing for my personal resolution. And yet, that becomes symbiotic as I share my experience, whether you participate by reading, sharing, commenting or by finding something useful for your own experience. There is a rawness to the immediacy this medium provides which is, at times a little scary, but mostly, lends itself to an incredible opportunity for release.

There is probably a parable on detachment here, I can’t shake the feeling that my posts are like single use coffee cups. Maybe I could wrap it all up under one umbrella post saying “this sucks and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’m determined to figure it out most of the time”. Or how about “The epitome of hope and futility”. Anywho…. the point, really, is, it’s a crap shoot. If I arrive at a feeling of believing beauty remains in the world, I feel an urge to share it. That is still who I am, despite everything.

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(Isaac wrote this on our family message board and it lived there for about 6 months last year. I remember taking this photo because I was fascinated by what had inspired him to write it. We had a great discussion. That kid was the coolest….)

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Published by: christinaryanstoltz

I write to touch the supple center of unguarded ache~ To release myself from the pressure of not knowing how to move forward from the unfathomable loss of my beloved son, my beautiful boy Isaac, to suicide, of not knowing how to release my grip on of the past, both the worshipping of it as well as the beating myself up for it, and letting go of the need to know what I could’ve done or what on earth I will do now. I write to heal.

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