There must be a light of some kind….(reflections on the summer solstice)

I’ve been having really fucked up dreams lately about death and decay, as it relates to mothering, specifically my mothering. The central theme of most of my dreams lately seem to be that I cannot take care of the living things left in my hands, my body, my care. A stark contrast to my self perception and tortuous and traumatic tossing & turning during what should be calming & restorative. I don’t know what it says about me, if anything that I have tormented dreams sometimes. I don’t know if dreams are truth tellers or embellishers or projectors for our unresolved thoughts & influences from wakeful times. I’m looking forward to that answer, whenever I get to the next place.

After the heart wrenching losses (in my dreams) of; a full lush garden, an aquarium full of ancient & sacred kombucha SCOBY’s AND having a stillbirth, I am surrounded (in real time) by the barbaric nightmares unfolding around families being separated at the borders due to the callous disregard for humanity by our current administration’s manipulation of policies & use of propaganda.

As a mother who has been separated from her child for 3 years 7 months and 26 days, I feel nearly despondent for the anguish & trauma these children are facing alone and the helplessness their parents are experiencing. My body is wracked with that bitter combination of adrenaline and rage, which results in fatigue that feels like walking through muck but with the angsty stimulation of too much coffee– irritable, wild eyed, ferocious. Like a hungry junk yard dog on an old rusty chain with a bag of Cheetos (if ya catch my drift) just out of reach.

All I can say from inside the muck is: Watch. Out. Because I know I’m not alone; the muck feels like some kind of primal, placental, connective tissue, mycelium stew where Mama’s all over are cooking up a storm. We (I don’t think its just me?) may feel paralyzed at times by the non stop assault and gas lighting of our good senses for a solid 18 months now & the centuries of misogyny and sexual terrorism we have endured and inherited but have you seen when mama bear instinct activates in us? Our children–yes our children “because there is no such thing as other peoples children”– are killing themselves in epidemic proportions, they are being shot where they should be learning and still more are being pried from and deprived of their mamas arms as they scream for mercy–after these families have migrated toward the promise of hope our country was founded upon–often penniless, often leaving circumstances that warrant abandonment of their homeland by whatever means necessary with no means at all... Oh hell no. I tell you this: We are being called– many have already been mobilized and are bravely slaying the demons in their range–and Good Goddess I’m so grateful for their strong brave hearts who know their way in the dark!!!!!!!!!!Some of us (or maybe its just me?) are just waking up to the fact that there’s no fucking time to organize a plan, delegate tasks, and negotiate. I recently got to see Marianne Williamson, one of my Sheroes, speak in Traverse City and she said “You cannot wait for your trauma to be resolved before you get involved”.  Our sisters need us to do something bigger than what feels safe and “hopefully helpful!” For fucks sake. Grab those Cheetos by the handful…..

P.S. For now the only thing I for sure know how to do is to PAY ATTENTION and also to put my money where my mouth is. And to beg you to do the same.  TOGETHER RISING is an organization that everyone can support, even if all you have is $1 in your debit account. They love small donations and 100% goes to the efforts of the project you choose.

 

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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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