Lughnasadh has passed, and Summer is unraveling. It's still hot outside, still too much, still exhausting.
This Summer has been a death/rebirth/death/rebirth kind of Summer. I left home, came home, left and came home again. I fought, made-up, fought, made-up, and fought made-up with my partner, again.
I've been personally digging into some anti-racism work. Dismantling inner white supremacy, and it has not made light work of my closest relationships, either.
Hot, heavy, hot heavy hot heavy.
I've been taking time for making art by the lake. I've made time for popsicles, and giving of my time. I've made time to move my body, even if only for a little bit. I've made time to meditate.
I've had to. I've had to come crawling at these practices in desperation, which, as my Ancestors and Guides would tell me, doesn't have to be the case. I can practice... all the time. In sickness and in health.
I've been taking solace in The Many Moons Workbook by Modern Women, designed by Sarah Gottesdiener. I've taken solace in my Cards. I've read Octavia Butlers' Parable of the Sower. I've been reading Jardana Peacock's Practice Showing Up: A Guidebook for White People Working for Racial Justice, alongside The Psychedelic Explorer's Guide: Safe, Therapeutic, and Sacred Journeys by James Fadiman. There's something to bridge there, for me anyway.
During my last psychedelic experience, I came up against a difficult truth: my threshold for joy and pain are in direct correlation. This might be the case for others, I'm not sure. But I liken this to when we cry; tears of laughter happen. Tears of grief, and of anger happen. So, cracking open is really in my best interest. But that doesn't make it easier in the moment. The well of grief can go on forever. I might never find the bottom. I'm not trying to find the bottom. I'm trying to swim deeper, hold my breath longer, and surface, fly higher, inhale, expand my lungs further, each time I make the pass. It's a back and forth journey, but also spiraling. Kind of like a growing ball of yarn.
That's a comfortable image. Waxing moon, growing ball of yarn, diver fish with wings.
It is my path to live a fierce life of joy. I have been named Bliss, after all. It is also my path to feel, everything, d e e p l y . D e e p l y.
Our culture, (here in the US, anyway) is caught in a trauma loop.
Something is a-stirring. Reckoning for healing.
And I don't know how to close this out... this journal entry. It doesn't have an end right now. So many things don't know how to end right now.