I meant to write about Mexico, having just returned from a few weeks of sun, sand, and cerveza (I was working, really). But what I returned to was a deep joy at deep winter. Maybe it’s because I grew up in Montana. Maybe it’s because, to the best of my knowledge, most of my ancestors roamed northern climes. Or maybe it’s because there is something about owning the cold and bare and dark seasons. About not running from them but burrowing into them and learning how to warm and clothe oneself and how to seek the light. I mean coats and scarves. I mean joy and love.
Around the time I turned forty, I was talking with a friend about love and how we so often wait and want for someone to love us. We want to say “he loves me” or “she loves me.” At one point in the conversation, I laughed and surprised myself by blurting out, “I love me!” I used to teach English; I know it should be “I love myself.” But I think wanted to hear aloud the words I thought were only true if they started with someone else.
In an interview, Michael Bernard Beckwith said: “And when you can fall in love with yourself and like yourself when you’re by yourself…you can be with others.” If not, we’re essentially relying on others for our joy. No bueno.
I think I love this particular winter because it’s the first one that’s found me, myself, and I completely content with ourselves and therefore far more able to be content with others. Of course, contentment isn’t a synonym for complacency. As my wise mom says: we can be content while contending.
From this new place of contentment, I’d like to contend for loving ourselves—just because but also because we will better love each other.
May winter clouds be filled with hidden blessings for you.
Love,
Anna
Anna
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