Cunfessions of the Mutha

There is incredible magic available right here, right now.  We are all gifted, special and unique.  When the sunsets and the violet-blues and fuchsia pink set you in awe, you are one and the same, elementally.  The mission, if you choose to accept it, (insert the music of the movie Mission Impossible) is to make it your focus in your life to find out what you are all about.  What magic have been borne with?  Can you allow the expression of all that you are or do you squash yourself down because you have been taught otherwise?

 

It was killing me.  My life, my choices.  The weight insulated the true expression of me until it hurt.  The weight on my chest made it hard to breathe.  I had no idea how I even got here.  I was doing all the “right” things.  I was following an ideal of my personal truth as far as I believed it could be expressed. I put myself on a railroad track with no adjoining course.  The cavernous guilt bore a whole through me, a so I ate.  I cooked elaborate meals and ate. I poured my love, my heart, into my food.  Soon that was getting to be a burden as well.

 

So I made skincare.  I couldn’t eat that.  I created beautiful products for my family and my friends.  I was reaching, searching for me.  Still, I was engulfed with the solitude of my existence. I hoped the creativity would lead me to the magic.  My heart yearned for a connection to something bigger.  Somedays I got close, when I woke with a dream about a new recipe, I would run downstairs to start the fire and let things come together as the dream inspired me to do.  It was a brush with the creative force of the universe, but really, only a brush.  A water color streak in the blank canvas of my life.  When I was not creating, could barely function doing the mundane.  I did not understand why my life had, seemingly all-of-the-sudden turned on me.  The simple joys of my family were no longer.

 

I was horrified to realize I could not enjoy my children like I used to.  I became impatient.    Endless hours of playing with dolls or Legos was a thing of the past.  I no longer put my energy into exploring their world.  I let them do their world.  I knew they would do well to explore without the despondency I carried.   They did as children do, continue on, finding their way, fearlessly.

 

The loneliness engulfed me.  I was suffocating.  A cloud of dense fog surrounded my senses making it difficult to even decipher how I felt.  My children reached out to me through the fog and I would resurface momentarily, until my eldest daughter became depressed.  I could not help her and I knew that it was because I could not get my shit together.  She was reaching puberty.  A time when the young woman needs a strong example to emulate. I really looked at myself and recoiled as I was not the woman I wanted to be, nor was I the woman she needed me to be to make this transition.

 

My whole being searched for something, anything to tell me the truth.  “Give me something to believe in again!”  my heart screamed out in desperation. I had glimpses of my effervescent childhood, full of joy and imagination. It haunted me.  Could I still be that same joyous being?  God held me in his embrace.  As a young bubbly girl, the security of His Love freed me from the worries of humanity.  Light and love poured from my eyes into the hearts of those around me. It effortlessly poured out of me.  In the complete acceptance of myself, I embraced all.

 

In that absolutely clear place of loving my daughter more that myself, I was lead to further my quest.  Watching her lie on the couch day after day, was all I could bare.  I felt her despair, her utter loneliness.  She, with an open and generous heart, tried to live here amongst all the pain and jealousy, mistrust and betrayal.   Her relationships began to fail her.  Her friends betrayed her trust, her parents distrusted her experience.  I could not show her it was worth it to continue, that there was a more glorious expression of life than the one I was portraying. She looked at me, she witnessed my pain and loneliness as I served and nurtured everyone around me, taking no heed to the calling of my soul.  A mother cannot hide from her children, nor them from me.  We have made the commitment to be partners this lifetime and I am eternally grateful.  They inspire me to remain in the flow of love so that they can remember they are never alone.

 

It is for them that I dug into those ugly dark places in my soul and worked so diligently to  recreate my life.  These memoirs are the events that lead me here. It is a surreal recount of the inner workings of my soul, unravelling.  The intimate whisperings of my heart are raw and unedited.  The journey is fierce and treacherous effuse with craggy outcroppings of unresolved pain.  As in the hearts of all who were born here, we hold untold misery and deceit from lifetimes of abuse.  At birth into these bodies, the abandonment from Source commences.  The ego manages to take the place of Source.   Acquiring financial stability, material items, or a plethora of degrees cry out for fulfillment and satiation.  Yet the insecurity remains like a child that is criticized by our parents, we bend over and work harder towards a fictitious end.  The criticism stems our own thoughts planted there by institutions and society mores that create fear and enforce the  separation we start to feel at birth.

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