The Embrace Of Light And Dark

Through My Mother's Eyes

tw// mentions of blood and slaughter (not graphically described) Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder what she truly sees? Does she see me or the sight of a little girl who once was free? A girl that soon was forced to clumsily grow up under the weight of familial expectations beyond extreme. Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder, I truly wonder what my mother sees when she looks at me.

Am I still her precious little girl? One created from the most delicate of flower petals, the warmth of the first rays of dawn, the patience of a familiar ordinary thing—a World's Best Mom mug. Maybe. Or does she perhaps see me as an accommodation? One I know her heart made room in a tight life; a difficult space to receive. Another burden. Maybe she sees a silly little girl handed not one, nor two, nor three…but six toddlers to take care of. Of course, still not yet counting all the other little children playing in oversized adult suits.

Sometimes, I look into my mother's eyes and I wonder what she truly sees? Perhaps I was being too soft, too idealistic with my words before. Maybe she sees me as the inconvenience I know I am to her somewhere deep down. A culmination of early regrets, a dozen of 'too soons', a handful of 'not readys', a pinch of resentment and a drink of guilt induced apologies to wash it all down.

What should I feel guilty for this time, mother? Your husband's indifference, your mother's relentless disappointment, the dreams you had to give up, the weight of the world you have been insistent on carrying? Perhaps I should apologize for being your only daughter.

What should I feel guilty for today mother? Just let me know. Because everytime I look in your eyes, I see the sweetest little girl who would serve her heart on a platter if it means another person could have one more moment to feel the comforting beating. I see a little body trembling but oh so filled with determination–to get this right; to bring everyone along even if it means pushing a boulder uphill. She wants to get this right. She needs to get this right.

But do you know mother, that when I look into your eyes I see nothing but a little girl deserving of tender love? A girl I would sacrifice my own heart for if it means she would get another moment to stay her curious and wonderful self. So what should I feel guilty for this time mother? Just let me know. Because although in your eyes, I may be a sacrificial lamb upon an altar of shame and guilt that was never yours to carry, I would still allow you to slaughter me upon that altar. Maybe the warmth of my blood would comfort you—maybe that warmth would finally reach you. Or perhaps it would touch the hands of all the women prior, who suffered the same fate as you.

To be fair, I indeed do not know; I am pondering after all. This can be full of assumptions, illusions or maybe some truths. One thing I do know is I would continuously extend my hand of unconditional love towards that little girl even in death for she deserves the world. If only you'd finally let her see it too.

~Elunara W.

Grief is the love we no longer know where to place. It is proof that something mattered, that something touched you so deeply it still lingers even in its absence. And that’s the cruel beauty of it: grief only exists where love once did.

The Magic, the Wand and the Wielder

What if we have been the magicians of our own lives all along~? Think about it. When a magician performs magic, a wave of a hand or wand seems to make something appear from seemingly "nowhere". We all have this ability within us. We conjure up all these ideas, thoughts, concepts from this astral space and are able to ground these ideas from the ethers to the 3D. That's our magic. We perform this magic act in many ways whether we choose to compose a song, write a story, design or craft something...we are the magic. Our vessel and talents are the magic wand through which we channel and carry out these spells. The action oriented vehicle for that magic. And overall...? We are the wielders of our personal magic, we get to decide how we wield our power. We are limitless; we have access to infinite potential within the very calluses of our hands or the abstract space of our minds. I think that's personally very inspiring...you are the magician of your life...a creator.

~Elunara W.

'The Record Keepers' | 26/03/25

Weekly Artsy Post inspired by the wise spirit of dragonflies~ ~whimsicweaver

if you can pray. if you can love. if you can create. if you can share. you are blessed.

"To be loved is up to you. Read that again" ~Elunara W.

We can be surrounded by love but not be open to receiving it. Sometimes we close out or block that love from entering because of various valid circumstances, however it is up to us to open ourselves up to receiving that love again. Even if we do it slowly. It's important that we preserve that sensitivity to receiving love in all its different forms and that can be beyond difficult after experiencing the harsher faces of love...but it's not impossible and this sentiment is enough for me to keep embracing love and its many faces.

"Mother of Fertility" | 18/03/25

Weekly Artsy Post~ ~whimsicweaver

The Wisps of Life

We sat, it was both of us alone in there. I asked, “Do you regret it, do you regret any of it at all?” She stared at me with an almost unreadable smile As if—as if I already knew the answers to that. As if we both knew the answer to that question.

“Not really,” she laughed with this carefree spirit. Head tilted back with uncontained mirth and all. I wondered briefly if the shadows of life had ever truly graced her, Or had the upturns of her lips tasted the weight of the world exponentially. Perhaps one too many times—one too many.

Our eyes locked and for a split second, I saw it. The intricately woven tapestry of life—threads of gold beyond the void. Clumsy fingers red and sore from the unexpected thorns and pricks. I understood it all. I smiled in return, of course she had, I’d know that more than anyone, wouldn’t I?

“Do you regret any of it at all?” there’s a knowing glint in her kind eyes. Brief memories of cold eyes, wet pillows, sleepless nights, homesickness. Suffocating silence, tearful letters, words—so many words left unsaid. Tremors of an empty stomach, deepening shadows, the complete isolation. That dreadful feeling of being too different, the unforeseen weight of generations prior.

Yet—I’ve always known something else. Something more, something warmer.

There’s a faint but steady pulse against where my hand lays on my chest. Tearful laughter, wind in my hair, dirt under my feet, chirping of birds every dawn, Clammy hands in mine, a comforting shoulder, broken facades, the gentle whisper of weary but hopeful hearts connecting, the glimmers of hope—gold amongst the dark. I breathed in, then out and suddenly as our eyes met again, I knew. I was alive.

Reaching out, cold meeting warm, our palms connected for a moment in time, “No, not really,” I echoed with a giggle, pulling away a second later. I got up, facing away, sore hands reaching out towards the cold doorknob now. As the cold surface thawed against the heat of my palms, I took one glance back. A foggy handprint, the only remnant of our brief moment shared together. ~Elunara W.

Somewhere between the weight of what’s been, the exhaustion of what is, and the fear of what might come next, remind yourself that you have survived every version of yourself before this one; and will survive this too.