The world I inhabit

Rise and shine.

Breakfast and lunch packed for my mister.

Altar time with Isaac.

Feed the chickens and the dog.

Walk around the gardens.

Sit and consider the day.

15 minutes on my patio Gazelle I got from the neighbors yard sale.

State off into space.

Pick raspberries for my smoothie.

Fold sheets for massages.

Look at a painting I’m trying to finish.

Pick a bouquet for a friend who is sad.

Check emails.

Check the mailbox.

Deliver the flowers and then the dog to my mister at work and pick up supplies for outcall sessions.

Massage my favorite summer client family.

Help their granddaughter put on her dress to go out to dinner.

Drive home. Check the mail again. Find a card from a friend amongst the bills.


Slice a tomato. Eat it.

Pour a glass of wine.

Play fetch with the dog.

Check Facebook.

Wander around the yard.

Consider the day.

Watch two cardinals chase each other. Say “hi buddy, thanks for the visit.”

Think about my folks and my sisters.

Place a load of sheets into the washing machine.

Write myself a reminder for tomorrow.

Lay down on the grass and let myself cry a few minutes.

Pick myself up. Dust my butt off. 

Consider life.

Remember my clients comment that I “sure have packed a lot of life into 40 years”.

Work a little on The Book I’m Trying to Write.

State off into space.

Listen to the sounds around the neighborhood.

Think real hard about exercising and what I’m doing with my life.

Sit on the patio.

Give thanks for time to think, breathe, heal, pause.

Keep wondering what– and when– I will begin to feel “normal” or consistently capable or determined, about anything.

Think about how full life used to feel.

Think about how tired I feel.

Think about a funny story I want to tell Isaac.

Remember that he is gone.

Think about how often that happens.

Go into the house and look him in the eyes in a large photo. Tell him the funny story. Giggle then cry then giggle again.

Wonder how his dad is doing.

Wonder when Josh gets home.

Think about making dinner.

Nothing sounds tasty.

Consider the day.

Sit down and write it out.

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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