Middle Class Homelessness
“The value is not in the receiving, nor the giving, although opposed charges, they are the same. Yet, it is the energy of transference in-between that must be kept alive. Keep it going in both directions, simultaneously. This is the ‘god-it’ transaction.” – Vanessa Wishstar
We are middle class homeless people. The potential of possibilities still exists in a comfy landing but where we are suspended, tied up in fury, helplessness, hopelessness, is a cold sore at best.
Trauma just starting to unravel itself, to be witnessed with educated empathy, yet still lies in that elderly unchanged human code that wants it all to not be what it is. The feelings are mud. The weight of confusion and covered vision is stupendous, in the meaning of being impressively stupid. Being middle class we have the privilege of being able to complain. Maybe all inside our heads.
Are we not grateful for the bounty of being middle class, eyes and ears sympathetically leaning inward and asking how we can be helped?
What did I do to deserve your attention?
The guilt of feeling… anything, everything. I am no longer what I once was. I have lost my identity that fateful day, but what is survival? There are no pieces to pick up, except what is washed up on shore of those memories of those we lost.
This is where I go back to. This is where my gratitude is huge. This is the ‘will of God’ as insurance talks about, denying the existence of our tragedy. Dead or alive. No one can take that away, for my deep gratitude is that no matter the earthly suffering, we’re in-body and get the opportunity to look into each other’s eyes physically. That holds weight. The good kind.
But what about everything else? What do we do with that? Moving on, in what direction and how? Our entire structure of our Universe has been snuffed. A cross between wearing/having clothes and household items from your neighbor, yet not being able to wear your own clothes (if retrieved). Yearning to sink into your own down comforter because you can’t bear the weight of what was. Who am I and will I ever know?
Stripped to the bone yet too uncomfortable to wear an identity. Are we in a bouncy house? How many times have you moved? In the last 4 months? Nomads or no-mad? Why not? Are we allowed to be? Or is this the middle class privilege too? “Aren’t we grateful?” Why haven’t we been asked to be at the seat of the table in our future forward? Do victims hurt so bad that their words cut into reality, exposing the deeper wounds in which we must doctor to heal, yet no one wants to hear?
Where are we?
This is our awakening from the dream, grateful to be awake but questioning… who shook us?
Vanessa Wishstar, Intuitive Medium & Spirit Guide