Today is the eve of mother’s day, on an Aries moon, the same as my own mother’s natal lunar placement. My mother’s a 30 minute drive away but I won’t be seeing her tomorrow. As I have mentioned on my posts on Instagram before, it’s been since August since I’ve seen my family. Besides one very healing conversation with my brother this spring, I haven’t been in communication with any of them since December. Me breaking off from them was the catalyst to so many death experiences I have been moving through over the last year. I have died countless times since I began my soul mentorship with my teacher Michelle Sinnette last March. The death of the me that embodies the name Walston has been the most deep and life changing.
I’ve been through many of the phases of mourning of the passing of my relationship with my mother as she and I know it. Grief is not linear. And my mother took up a lot of space in my world, both emotionally and energetically. I rarely questioned her role and power; it wasn’t until just a few years ago that the realization that our dynamic might not be healthy slowly unfolded in me, creeping about at a snail’s pace. And then, last year it ripped open in a series of bright, blinding lights as reflected through the powerful and sacred mirror that is my mentor.
When I think of all that I have learned about the nature of relationships and the soul through the deep internal work of reflecting on the pain of my relationship with my mother, I am in awe. My mother has been such an incredible, potent, powerful teacher. But on an emotional level, I feel betrayed still. And when I dig deeper into that feeling of betrayal (and that’s all it is, just a feeling), I see myself bare. I see that I am angry at myself for wanting to be loved. I am learning how to open myself up to love.
It may feel unfair to hold mothers to such a different standard than our fathers. We expect so much from womxn. We expect the world. And it’s because womxn carry the burden of the world, in the ecstatic and in the pain, and all that is in between. When we feel stifled or denied by our mothers, it’s almost like she’s not allowing us to be born. And yet here we are, as we live and breathe. So what the fuck are we even doing? we might say. Who are we? What are we?
I am learning how to forgive my mother. She loved the way she knew how and the way she was taught. I agreed to the way she loved me. I asked her for it. This is not victim-blaming; this is taking responsibility for the wonder of what we have created together, this harrowing dance towards enlightenment. Me not forgiving her is me not forgiving my own confusion surrounding what love is. It’s me not forgiving me for the way I have judged myself and hurt myself.
My mother was my whole world, warts and all. When I don’t forgive her, I am saying, How dare I love her blindly? How can I forgive myself for feeling like a fool? A fool? For loving my mother? For being a child in awe of she who birthed me into existence? The absurdity of feeling is revealed so perfectly in this understanding. Why did I allow myself to let another dictate the boundaries of my world? Because that is the lesson and nature of being human.
How do I allow myself to truly be willing to receive love?
Love is availability, vulnerability, a willingness to learn and evolve through both hurt and happiness. So I am taking the time to learn it. I bow to my mother and all mothers. I lean in to hear the whispers of their hurt. I hope to find the happiness there too.
I am currently moving through the medicine of my monthly cycle. It’s a painful one this time, and while I know part of that is related to diet choices over the last few days (so hard for me to resist fried foods when this time comes around), in general I actually really like having my period. When I separate myself from the narrative of PMS-driven bitchiness, I actually find joy and peace. I like the pain, I like the weirdness, I love the excuse to be really really human, messiness and all. When I find myself complaining about it, it is a good opportunity to for me to practice and appreciate several modes of understanding:
This morning I had a utopian vision of a world in which we all honor this sacred part of our life cycles. In which we all acknowledge that there are men who bleed, and women who cannot. A world in which those who do bleed, can let it happen freely. we would let our blood flow and stain our clothing and sheets and seats and chairs and instead of feeling shame or embarrassment in this moment, we would stop in wonder and awe, and divine our truths from the blood patterns that emerge.
I’m a Scorpio, I can’t help myself.
I’m excited to share a recipe for a soothing and delicious tea to help with the pain and irritability that comes with blood flow, but also keeps you moving because we have jobs and lives to tend to! You might have some of these herbs sitting in your kitchen already. Many health food stores carry bulk herbs as well. If you're feeling serious pain, don't be ashamed to use medicine like ibuprofen too! It's great to use folk and pharmaceutical medicine in tandem with each other. They both provide great assistance.
Tea for soothing menstrual symptoms:
Combine all ingredients in tea infuser, french press, reusable tea bag, etc, whatever you have available. Pour just boiling waiter over herbs. Let steep for 20-30 minutes. Strain and drink. Enjoy several cups throughout the day as needed.
I’m thinking about Chikesia Clemons and trauma, and where we go from here. I’ve seen a glimpse of the video of her being attacked by the police but have avoided watching it otherwise. there’s research and articles that confirm that black folks in America are living through PTSD collectively. then what does it mean to have to our trauma broadcast over and over again?
the stories are pretty much unavoidable. for the most part, I have chosen to not watch the videos anymore. I made this decision in July 2016 when the back to back murders of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling were broadcast. they made me think back to 2014 and watching the video of Tamir Rice’s execution. I remember I was sitting in the back seat of my dad’s car as he, my mom, and I were going grocery shopping for Thanksgiving. while my parents chatted about the state of black folks in America in the front, I quietly pulled up the video for the first time. I watched it over and over again; the time between the officers pulling up to this little boy among the snow and the moment of his execution was so brief, that I had a hard time processing what I saw. something truly broke in me then. I had for such a long time been inclined to cynicism and pessimism, but I don’t think I was really ready for something like that, a 12 year old shot dead in an instant. as my parents paused in their conversation, I said to my mother, “I just watched the video just now. do not watch it. I do not recommend looking at it.”
and yet through this despair, I naively felt certain that something would be done, justice would have to be served for this child. not because I believe in the American justice system (I did not then and I do not now), but because this was a baby. and it was so blatant. as the months and years passed, I kept watching other videos, more examples of state-sanctioned murder, thinking that I had to stay informed, that I had to keep up, or else. or else what? I don’t even know. I had to feel like people saw it and recognized the injustice and the terror of it. this was real, this was happening, and if I take it on and absorb it, and scream and cry and protest about it, then….
it’s been almost four years since Tamir Rice left this plane of existence. what has changed?
when we share videos of black folks brutalized by the police, we publicize them because the public must know. they are pleas for help, for recognition, for humanity, for justice. but sometimes I imagine the other side of that, and wonder who else is watching? is this entertainment for them? does it reinforce the worldview that black folks are property to be put down when they are too much trouble? does Trump and his ilk jerk off to this shit? indeed, sometimes I feel like the videos are only masturbatory for our society, a way for our oppressors to get off with their rage, defensiveness, and racism, before they then get off legally, time after time.
I no longer watch videos of my people being murdered and abused. I’m not talking about being ignorant, escapist, or putting the blinders on when it comes to acknowledging these disgusting blatant injustices. I’m talking about redefining our understanding of ourselves for the sake of our liberation. so I feel compelled to question, what are we really inviting into our energies, hell, into our DNA, when we as a collective watch state sanctioned murder happen to the marginalized, over and over and over again? what comes next?
I can’t plead for my humanity anymore. I can’t make myself feel like I have to actively absorb the pain of others so that we can be saved. there has to be another choice, another way to live. I have to focus on providing folks the tools to not only survive this seemingly endless onslaught of torture but ways for us to thrive through it all. so I wanted to post this to make it clear that if you don’t see me posting about Chikesia Clemons and Brennan Walker and Stephon Clark, embodied souls and those no longer with us, it’s not because I don’t care. it’s not because I don’t mourn. it’s because the only way I know to be whole is to help other people navigate this fucked up world we created. the only way through this is to heal. I have to help call in another way to live.
please read the original post, linked below, on my cat before you comment! I am not looking for advice or tips on how to train my cat. I am looking to find him a loving new home. please respect that!