It’s Valentines day. a day to celebrate love. and you are the beloved. so it’s time to give real love. to yourself. it’s called deep self-care. because if you can’t love yourself. well you know this. this is the first thing. before anything else.
Sometimes this is hard. really hard. maybe you weren’t loved as you should have been. or cared for attentively. it’s a sad thing to not be held. valued. loved. to feel unlovable in any way. inside yourself. deep down. you might feel undeserving. so you try to be more. all the while feeling you are not good enough. or thin enough. or interesting enough. or gorgeous enough. or successful enough. or whatever enough. your intellect tells you this isn’t true. or fair. or right. but deep inside you is that thing. the script that says you are not enough.
This is a Christmas Story. it might turn out to be one long rambling sentence. or take a more poetic shape. more likely it is snippets of something. pieces of a life that are gathered into a nonlinear narrative. think of it as a bit like the experience of watching a french movie. hopefully it’ll make sense in the end.
I plan to cast a net into the minor pleasures of a single morning. yet it is a particular morning.
An ordinary Christmas morning.
Stranger things are happening. To me. Literally. A Ms It’s Ageing Time Stranger Thing Person has turned up in my bathroom mirror. Seriously. I’ve freaked out a bit. I don’t know her. And she won’t leave. No matter what I do. It’s all rather startling. A bit of a brutal blow. You know what. Ms It’s Ageing Time Stranger Thing Person. You can f*#k off out of my life. I don’t have time for this. Not now.You see I’ve finally made a sort of peace with myself. Well with my younger self. I’ve gotten a lot of stuff sorted. Patched up the bruised and broken bits. I know myself. More clearly. I’m ready to get on with it. With full on living. Then I’m asked to age. Get old. Gracefully. WTF.
It wasn’t my fault that my childhood was a bit screwed up and I had to become a doctor and study psychiatry to sort it all out. I needed time for all that. Get me the latest anti-aging potions. I’ve got shit to do. Important shit. Really important stuff. So I don’t have time for this gracefully aging nonsense.
Proust warned me. I didn’t listen. I was younger. I just liked the idea of sitting somewhere by the Seine with his books. It was a romantic notion. Searching for lost time. Contemplating tea and Madeleine’s. Of wasting time. In Paris if possible.
Recently I’ve been reading him again. I’m older now. He is making more sense. About the lost time. And the remembrance of things past. The questions of how to find time. And of how not to waste it.
After all how we spend our moments is in the end how we spend our lives.
I think Proust was talking mindfulness. Only they didn’t call it that back then. There wasn’t a fashion for it.