the nature of love

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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?

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​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. ​