The 8th of August has rolled around again, as it is thankfully wont to do, and I am rolling my feelings around in my palms like the smooth sphere of pink rose quartz I meditate with β holding them gently, turning them this way and that, and just trying to sit with it all. As usual, it feels like a lot.
This day holds so much for me, as death anniversaries tend to do. Where am I at? I feel: quiet, contemplative, heavy, grieving. My heart is full of longing and determination and love and sadness. In the readings I give, I explain often about how lightworkers and healers have always known that pain is passed down through ancestral memory β but that only fairly recently, has it been acknowledged by the scientific community that trauma is passed down epigenetically, through our DNA.
We came here to love, and to be loved. This is the place I come to every year, to put all my grief, and all my love. Thank you for coming to visit this place with me. The more you loved someone, the more you grieve. All of that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes and in that part of your chest that gets empty and hollow feeling.
The happiness of love turns to sadness when unspent. Grief is just love with no place to go. She was so proud of that car. The steel bodies of those old cars loom like the fossilized shells of massive prehistoric armadillos that used to roam over the Hill Country, paint jobs flaking away into dust, backseats and wheel wells now home to snakes and scorpions.
When I look at the photograph above mom waving goodbye, forever. If only she could have driven Gertie over the rainbow, through the clouds, into the land beyond. Or had a Viking funeral in that car she loved so much, instead of leaving it behind to sag and atrophy, the finned and rusted hulk reminding us how we failed her. No one had the money, the capacity, or the wherewithal to do anything with that legacy.
