We were at war for thousands of years. Some would say, we still are.
For centuries, families were slaughtered, men went to war and never returned home.
This is in our blood, the trauma remains.
We can run from it, deny it, act it out, push it down…
The question is… how do we heal from these ancestral wounds?
This year I have felt the grief, cried the grief, written poetry about the grief.
This week the pain reverberates through me. Laying in bed one night, I mysteriously pulled a muscle in my back. I first felt the intense energy, and then it manifested into intense pain. All I can do is be with it.
In this place lies the memory of bearing witness to pain and brutality, but not being able to protect, to support. How many men would this run through? How many men went to battle and never came home? This memory sits in my body, along side the memory of the suffering and suppression of woman.
This winter I have really had to focus on my own healing. It has being such a blessing. My greatest healing medium has been poetry and writing… well, when I think about it… it has been in all that I give. The nurture of giving massage, the depth of connection in brining people together for ceremony.
How do we heal?…
These days I think healing is walking each other home. Unravelling in our own healing, and sharing that, holding space for that. I don’t really seek spiritual healing these days… because I realised something… I realised that my own soul and ancestors are crying out for me to listen… that country is crying out for me to listen… and so that is my practice now… is to listen. To unravel from my stoicism and deep need to nurture and be nurtured… take heed and listen. Pain is a beautiful thing… because it is our body speaking to us. How do we heal… we listen.