Marie Antionette had a son.
I think of him. This French prince lost to time.
This ten-year-old boy died of neglect in a prison, after his parents’ beheadings and after being separated from his older sister.
“The son of a tyrant.”
That is what he was called. And this must have been engrained in their righteous minds so they could look at a child and not see him.
I see him.
I hear him.
We are multi-dimensional beings and healing occurs backwards and forwards and sideways in time. This is why my healing is my great-grandmother’s liberation as well as my sisters and the women who will come after me, too.
So I hear you, little prince.
And I see you, little prince.
And I go to him, this little prince.
Just like my wise and well ancestors come to visit me, or how my older self, the Crone, comes when I am seized by panic at 2am on a Friday morning.
The spirits who travel with me, or who sense my existence in this interconnectedness, whisper the chorus of counsel and guidance: “Practice Emotional Freedom Technique and get out of bed.”
Get out of bed to come write to the little boy in a prison centuries ago and also right here and now, and to express a deeper grief, the ones that can only be privately explored and truly seen in the penetrating quiet that comes after midnight.
15 to 0.
The vote that approves the covid-shots for the Childhood Vaccination Schedule.
15 to 0.
Approval for experimental technologies – synthetic spike proteins and lipo nanoparticles that can cross the blood-brain barrier – to be injected into the little bodies of babies and children.
There’s no benefit. Most children are not at risk for covid. Most children have naturally immunity. And these shots do not prevent infection and transmission, but instead are proving themselves to be the most ineffective, disastrous and lethal shot to ever be introduced to humanity.
15 to 0.
I write these 15 “independent” outsiders to the medical-industrial-complex an email that I do not send. I shift my focus on composing a well-written message to my state representatives, even to the Education Commissioner. I develop a correspondence. I am heard, my NO to NOT mandate this shot to attend public school is noted.
And the other message, the one I drafted in rage toward the 15 … it’s scathing in sarcasm, it’s witty with word-smacks, it’s hilarious and hostile.
I delete it. I could not send it. The 15 … those are 15 people. Those recipients are human beings.
This is my lesson of the year, of my lifetime, perhaps.
To have clear convictions and not be consumed by them.
Because the French who looked into that prison cell and saw a son of tyrant who should suffer and die, who failed to see the reality of a little human child … they were consumed by a merciless righteousness that ultimately condemned them. (The French revolution backfired. All the people who were cutting off heads, they got their own heads cut off. A warning sign for our times, if we are paying attention, if we dare to look at the messiness that is being human and not get afraid of our intensity and our shadow, we can stay in our light.)
Tonight I am with him. I go to the boy in the prison and I hold him.
I go to my own inner child and I hold her too. For the 2am panic contains a memory … I am a toddler screaming for my mother who has been pushed outside of the room, looking helplessly through a window while the good nurse pricks and pricks and pricks my bloody little finger.
This is my earliest memory, and it’s a memory that is the blueprint for my soul mission, for my destiny this round.
I can still feel her terror, my terror. I can also still feel my rage, my epic tantrum, my fuck-you-get-me-my-mother sobs and cries. I can feel the radiant power of my inner embodied knowing.
THIS isn’t right.
To separate a child from her mother, to prick her finger repeatedly for blood, to put that little body into so much fear will never, ever be “healthy,” will never ever be “right.”
As a child I was frightened all the time. Fear was a companion of mine. Fear of the body. Fear of pain. Fear of blood, thorns, splinters, stepping on glass … fear of imperfection because then I will not be loved. Fear of food … because the severe reaction to nuts comes early, too, and it takes time to discern why I get so violently ill.
It’s taken thirty years to finally feel the safety of existing in harmony with a befriended body.
This is every baby’s right. This is every human’s right – to be a soul embodied, to be alive in their experience of this human existence.
And I am grieving for a future that is now a bit more shadowed, and yet through the shadow there is the light.
I know who I am. I know the earth that I am standing on. I know how to mother – myself and my future children, and the children who are here now.
And what I am learning is to accept all that I am feeling. This is the medicine of acceptance that activates the aligned action forward.
Aww, such sensitivity, you’re included here.
Aww, little prince, you’re seen and loved and are love.
Aww, little one who was and is me, you’re safe here, because I am here.
And I am the woman I’ve waited my whole life to be. The woman who is passionate, who is the mystic, who is the mother. My intuitive powers go backward and forward and sideways in time, and I circle the little prince in light, and his mother arrives and there is peace. And I kiss the finger that was repeatedly pricked for blood, and I honor her rage. How rightful, how intelligent, how vocal and clear. I hear you. You’re important and I will speak this truth.
And now, I will eat a bowl of kefir and go to bed. Because I can be cradled now by the older woman who too is me, and this wise old woman is coming to hold me and ease me back to sleep.
Life is a circle, we can always go back to the darkest depths of our inner prisons and save who needs the saving, ourselves in our most innocent forms. And for the nights when we cannot sleep because the cruelty of the collective weighs on our precious and knowing hearts, then call out for the mother, call out for a guide. Who knows … someone from 18thcentury France or a 30-something spirit from Kentucky may arrive to whisper what you need to hear.
Go look at the stars and breathe.
Go stand barefoot on the earth, and she will meet you as you are.
Go write the letter. And maybe the letter that needs to be written is the one from you to you.
And perhaps slip into the kitchen and get something to eat and then see if you can then gently sleep.