Last night was beautiful. And painful.
I sat alone on my porch in the dark, listening to the last crickets singing in the trees and watching Mars rise over the eastern ridge, glimmering red.
It was warm enough to be outside with a sweater and a scarf. The woods cradled me as always, and my warm, clean house awaited me.
I felt the intimacy of being with my Self.
I liked it.
I hated it.
Falling in love, or back in love as is often the case, with oneself is a mixed bag.
There’s an adage that goes something like, “before the seed sprouts it must first push up the dirt”.
Falling in love with your Self is a lot of dirt at first.
The “dirt” is: there’s no one to share this with, I’m not enough, this would be better with a companion. Why am I doing this alone?
This dirt is Mermaid medicine, and the medicine that can come with the first season of the dark half of the year.
It’s what the self-help magazines that encourage you to “take yourself on a date” and “buy yourself flowers” forget to mention.
And what Prince was getting at when he wrote (and Sinead O’Connor sang), I can do whatever I want; I can see whomever I choose; I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant.
Those are all great ideas, but it’s a bitter pill at first.
It’s the dirt.
And you gotta be ready for it. That dirt’s gotta come up and get outta the way before the sprout emerges.
So, falling in love with your Self requires patience and courage.
Courage is also Mermaid medicine.
The deep faith that your Self and your Self alone is good company is Mermaid medicine.
So, when I sat on the porch last night with all of that beauty and quiet, what I first felt was dirt.
But I persevered. I took some deep breaths. I waited.
Then slowly, the dirt pushed away and I sensed the magnificence of what was surfacing.
A profound calm. A deep sense of confidence that I have my Self. And that my Self is cool, lovable, and a great date.
Knowing that I am a woman who wants to know her Self, who can be with my Self without an other witnessing it, tending it, adoring it, appreciating it, defining it, or approving of it.
I’m learning what this Self, my Self, likes: sitting in the dark listening to crickets and the creek rush, and watching a pain-in-the-ass (astrologers know what I mean) but glorious planet rise in the east.
A Self that listens to music while doing the dishes before bed so that a clean kitchen greets her in the morning.
A Self that likes to roar with laughter at Pen 15 (Hulu) while eating her lunch alone.
A Self that hauls in firewood under the golden canopy of changing leaves while the wind brings in a cold rain, who pauses when she finds a big blacksnake in the woodpile so it can unfurl it’s slow, cold body and find a better place to wait out my chores; apologizing to it for the inconvenience.
A Self who can endure, but not easily, not knowing what to do with myself sometimes. Like when I took my Self on a solo trip to the beach and felt utterly lost when realized I didn’t have a clue how I “did” the beach.
I love this Self.
I am falling in love with her.
I’m making time to fall in love with her without the distractions, definitions, and reflections of an other.
This isn’t just a battle cry for single folks.
If you’re partnered, falling in love with your own self is even more crucial.
It’s why the mirror is The Mermaid’s magical tool.
This season is all about what you see in the mirror about your Self.
Who is she? What does she like, apart from what “everyone else” likes?
What’s lovable about your Self, in your opinion?
This is true independence.
A real love affair.
This season, you’ll see marketers issuing cheeky autumnal invitations to “fall” in love (get it?).
The Mermaid archetype wants you to “fall” in love with your Self.
In the dark half, we’re diving; falling.
So do it. Fall in love.
With your own damn Self.
It’s the love of your life.
love & first fires,