Love song for Isarelli

(This was my view enroute to counseling yesterday, Isaacs birthday. Good morning Son Shine)

A song came through my pain yesterday, Isaac’s birthday. 2 years in heaven. He could’ve been 20. I had a toothache so deep into my jaw that only Lamaze like breathing helped me through. Irony not lost on me. My therapist is in Glen Arbor, after session I felt a pull to see The Mama Bear Dunes. It was rainy and foggy and felt appropriate. The song came as I steadied myself for the day. I don’t write songs. But Imagonna find a way to bring this to life with an orchestra. Life goals, right?!?!

Sleeping Bear.
I’ve been

Lookin outside of me

For what I need

I’ve been

Scared that I 

Can’t trust myself

Anymore

I try

Every single day

To find a way

That leads

Anywhere but here

Away

Far away

From knowing what I know
Waking up

Tensile and Taciturn

 I can smell

The water

crave it

In my bones

A thirst

For

Deep blue

Dreams

Hovering just outside of me
Mishe mokwa 

Called our names

Called to me

Her sweet promise of forever love

Devotion

And faith

Steadfast and boundless

Reminding me

My own mama bear ways

Softly

And tenderly

With the ferocity 

We know as mamas
I will wait

At the shoreline

Of hope

Until

We

Meet Again….
Let the 

healing water

Cleanse 

renew 

And wash away

My pain

My beautiful mum had this photo made to honor Isaac’s birthday. It simultaneously gutted me and anchored me to her, to my family, to this spinning world. Again and again I find I need to be reclaimed by love and am, unwaveringly.


Life is brutal & beautiful–“brutiful”

don’t ya know….
Happy Birthday in Heaven, my Beautiful Beautiful Boy.

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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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