I want to talk about it.

I miss Isaac. 

I consider that I might have been welcoming him home after his first year of college, shortly. I think of how happy the whole fam would be about it. And it almost takes my breath away, again, for the 10th time already today.

But I don’t want to talk about sadness.

I want to talk about solace.

I want to talk about how the sun shining on my face on this last day of April along the shoreline that I call home, warms my spirit.

I want to talk about how a dog slumber party that stinks up the house makes me giggle.
I want to talk about how the love of a strong man has made my life better.
I want to talk about how sisters and sistas sending me messages just to share their deep affection for who I am makes me stand a little taller.
I want to talk about how the tasks of keeping a home that is a sanctuary keeps the wolves of angst at bay.
I want to talk about how work that nourishes others sustains me.
I want to talk about how a strong back and sturdy legs, good food and enough to share with others keeps me going when the weight of grief presses down.
I want to talk about how good I feel.
About how resilient I have become.
About how much has changed inside of me that needed to.
I miss Isaac, and I would give everything that is good in my life away to hold him close.
I can’t help but think that all of these other gifts that are so accessible to me are consolation prizes for losing a child, said to be the greatest pain one can endure.
But here is the thing. The one true thing. Nothing will bring him back. And I know that I could easily surrender to the gravity of this; it would not be a stretch for me to lay down and never get back up. 
Have you ever forgotten to water your garden plants? Found them droopy and wilted and yellowing? And then have you taken water and hope and waited as it comes back, tougher than before, bursting with green, reaching toward the light? Defying all that you know of decay?
This is an approximation… This is what my heart has become. It isn’t what I wanted– I wanted my seed to keep growing. Beside me, within me.
But to say that my life cannot be as good as possible, and that possibility cannot ripen to full glory, would be so much more sadness than has already come.
I want to talk about and live about this. I want to love without fear of loss. I want to believe that all the love that I ever gave to and received from my beautiful child is all still right here. This is what my faith looks like. This is what keeps me in bloom.
This is my comfort in sorrow, misfortune and distress; my solace. At once perplexing and of great relief; life carries onward.

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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.

3 Comments

3 thoughts on “I want to talk about it.”

  1. yes, all the love that you ever gave and continue to give to Isaac is still there, and I believe he is still close to you, and will always be. I send you love and gratitude, Christina, for your resilience and for your sharing. Your writing is beautiful and gives me faith in th soul’s ability to heal and the creative spirit that sustains us. xxx love, audrie

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  2. My largest and most immediate fear was that you would not rise again. But you did, over and over again. That is nothing short of miraculous. And such a tribute. Isaac is alive in each and every ‘life ripening to its full glory’ that was blessed by having known him. The dude abides.

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  3. Christina- thank you for your words. I am reminded of the awful leap of faith required, when looking at the possibility of healing from across the chasm made by shattering trauma and loss. It is only by centering as deeply as possible in the very this moment, that somehow life itself begins to assert it’s continuity within us. I’m very sorry for your loss. Please accept my best wishes as you seek understanding and healing.

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