I realize that the steam train rolling over my wagon in the dream is grief. It can really hit you. The grief of life rolls over and busts you up like a steam train crushing your wagon, dragging you beneath. The spirit will always survive, my little dog escaping, but you do have to deal with the grief. It is heavy, dark, crushing. Unfathomable but deserving to be recognized in its own right. That's what it wants - to be recognized and taken care of and then you will be free. A lot like Ereshkigal crying and her sister Inanna coming to hear her in her grief over the death of her husband, the bull. And Inanna was reborn as a result.
I think about my husband committing suicide over the fact that his business went bankrupt. That he had no finances left. I think about him making that choice. I look at my children. I think about if I were in the same situation, and it can always be possible. Would I kill myself over money? It seems to be the American past time these days, if not globally. I was looking out the kitchen window, where on the sill a crystal vase held a giant fuchsia peony from the garden that my daughter brought in yesterday. It is next to a white candle and cobalt blue bottle and a tile from an ancestral house from 17th century Holland. The flood of light came in through the window. Could I abandon my children? There is a Native American saying that a culture is not down until its women are down, because the women always stick around for their children.
I thought of all this as I looked over at my daughter near the stove. We were making macaroni and cheese. I taught her how to open the cheese powder package and I told her, "This is your father speaking. He drove me nuts with his neatness, but I can tell you this. If you don't make a mess, you don't have more to clean up later. This is true. You can have a house that looks like Opa's, or you can make life easier on yourself and be efficient." So I channeled her father for her, because she was 2 1/2 when he died. And I looked into her eyes and we stirred the milk and butter in and I thought, this is one fucked up country to be so focused on economics and not focused on life. How can you kill yourself when there is so much beauty and life in the world? You just have to learn some myths for your grief.
My lawyer is on vacation. Justin is wheeling and dealing as usual. Foreclosure, who knows? Will I ever be paid? I have no idea. It rained all weekend and instead of rejoicing in the green that is usually brown Colorado, I worried if Speer was flooding. Miguel called. Yes it did get a little bit wet inside near his bed. They took care of it. Tom was unavailable to deal because his son was graduating from high school. But the big issue was parking. No parking for them. So I had to call around and assign parking and that's all I can deal with right now because I want to focus on the beautiful - my beautiful grief that is a story line of tragedy for the Gods to enjoy. Like the words on this computer and my heart releasing little by little all its broken arrows lodged in its flesh.
I think about my husband committing suicide over the fact that his business went bankrupt. That he had no finances left. I think about him making that choice. I look at my children. I think about if I were in the same situation, and it can always be possible. Would I kill myself over money? It seems to be the American past time these days, if not globally. I was looking out the kitchen window, where on the sill a crystal vase held a giant fuchsia peony from the garden that my daughter brought in yesterday. It is next to a white candle and cobalt blue bottle and a tile from an ancestral house from 17th century Holland. The flood of light came in through the window. Could I abandon my children? There is a Native American saying that a culture is not down until its women are down, because the women always stick around for their children.
I thought of all this as I looked over at my daughter near the stove. We were making macaroni and cheese. I taught her how to open the cheese powder package and I told her, "This is your father speaking. He drove me nuts with his neatness, but I can tell you this. If you don't make a mess, you don't have more to clean up later. This is true. You can have a house that looks like Opa's, or you can make life easier on yourself and be efficient." So I channeled her father for her, because she was 2 1/2 when he died. And I looked into her eyes and we stirred the milk and butter in and I thought, this is one fucked up country to be so focused on economics and not focused on life. How can you kill yourself when there is so much beauty and life in the world? You just have to learn some myths for your grief.
My lawyer is on vacation. Justin is wheeling and dealing as usual. Foreclosure, who knows? Will I ever be paid? I have no idea. It rained all weekend and instead of rejoicing in the green that is usually brown Colorado, I worried if Speer was flooding. Miguel called. Yes it did get a little bit wet inside near his bed. They took care of it. Tom was unavailable to deal because his son was graduating from high school. But the big issue was parking. No parking for them. So I had to call around and assign parking and that's all I can deal with right now because I want to focus on the beautiful - my beautiful grief that is a story line of tragedy for the Gods to enjoy. Like the words on this computer and my heart releasing little by little all its broken arrows lodged in its flesh.
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