Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the bug

Today I got splattered like a June bug on a summer night by a fast car.  

I feel like a pendulum swinging and sometimes my trajectory seems infinite in the direction of…light!?!? But the counter balance comes and I am like a wrecking ball. I pray for the day when I might just hang out in the middle and call it good.

Speaking of prayer, today my ‘come to Jesus moment’ was literal. I wasn’t sure what to do so I just got down on my knees. I didn’t know what to say so I just asked for help. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was not original and I couldn’t shake the shame of feeling inauthentic in my pleading and so I asked– begged– that I might find My Truth. I want change to come into my heart and stay. I want liberation from my worst thoughts. I want to stop one upping myself and my relentless drive to be better. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. My work is no where near done and that makes me tired. I’m fucking tired. But I have to keep going– so if I must keep going, I want it to be easier. Is that so much to ask?

And let’s be honest. All I really want is a rewind button. A do over. I want Isaac here and his senior year back and the life we had back. I want my boy to grow to be the man he wanted to become. I want to be a granny. I want to hold him close and smell him and hear his laugh.

Growing and healing is not all it’s cracked up to be, yo! 

On my knees this morning I prayed to have more compassion and patience. So of course, I was granted opportunities to experience my vast need for both. I served 150 women from a farm symposium in our tasting room. And let me be clear: farm women are strong women. A mob of them? Fierce. I was tested for 4 hours non stop. And I failed and tried again, failed and tried again.

I’ve never been on good terms with anger. You could call it a pathological aversion. I steer clear. But this is an illusion. I’ve learned that I suppress it. I’m well aware that anger is a natural human response to stimuli. It is what we do with this natural emotion that matters. And avoiding it is not the strength I spent my lifetime convincing myself it was. But awareness is not action. I have a lot of action to catch up to. So I will keep trying to face it. Sit with it. Listen to all it has to say from being stored up. And try really hard not to alienate everyone around me. 

The other night I laughed at something Josh said and then I almost screamed. I heard Isaacs laugh come out of me. I asked Josh if my laugh has ever sounded like Isaac before. He said, “ahhhhh, yeah! Hello!?!?” And I never knew that! And I couldn’t do it again. I mean I didn’t try but I couldn’t just do it to hear it. That’s a hard thing to explain but, I didn’t even want to try. I just wanted to hold on to that; that I have something inside of me that is like Isaac. He was so much like his daddy. And he was so much just his beautiful self. And, that’s all I have to say about this because it is agony and beauty all tangled up together.

All of this is.

And I guess I’m pissed off about it just as much as I am grateful and beholden. Pendulum swingin. I vacillate. Maybe tomorrow I will be the windshield because at the end of a crappy day, this was waiting for me….

Shine on, right?


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.

Leave a comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s