Hard to grief when there is no safe space

 I'm ashamed and sneak in to the blog space like a dog that has stolen some chicken from the kitchen table. When was the last post? Am I caring for the project? Am I watering it? No. Well, I'm trying. Coming into Grief space is not an easy task here, HERE, here as: in Georgia, in Tbilisi, with my living family ... . Grief needs a safe space. A safe holding. A container. Tbilisi is no container. Or a container of dark smoke... I've fallen back in time. Or time is frozen in me and tries to knock itself into existence in passing moments of now's. Without a safe space it is though unbearably hard to let it speak, to hear it. A barrier, like a distant high wall of foamy fear and pure emotions, pushes me away from them- them the children frozen in time. 

On the more tangible level of life, in the factual realm of happenings- there is not happening much. I'm stuck in my project. It has been revealed to me that the profession of the "lamentor in voice" is not in extinction: it is already extinct, has extincted. I need to manoeuvre the boat. But it's foggy here, don't know which direction to go. Time is ticking. My master thesis has to be handed over on the twelfth July. Oddly enough I'm not panicking. I guess panicking needs some degree of clarity. 

I made it my priority to figure out how I can move into a safer space. Here, fallen back in times of chaotic childhood, and weird-wired-bonds of motherhood I can't go further. Too entangled in cold webs I can't see. SO, I look out for spaces. In the hope that I'll be able to breathe and align with the ongoing time that is passing. 

Necessity drives wonders it has been said. 

Well, let's see.

Wish you bony nights. 

Warm breaths,

Anaixes