Less than 3

Si was flummoxed by the ‘<3’ sign appearing repeatedly in the chat box on a zoom call with friends. Sometimes all by itself, without context, without a before or after. It took him a while to realise what it was. I suppose you know already. Don’t you?

“Love thy neighbour as thyself” implies that respect for one’s own uniqueness and integrity is inseparable from the understanding of anothers. Yet, it is widely believed that it is virtuous to love others. But to offer that same love to yourself is somewhat indulgent. In fact, this misconception goes as far as to say that the degree to which I love myself, I do not love others. Self-love is commonly understood to be synonymous with selfishness or narcissism. The French theologian, John Calvin speaks of self-love as ‘a pest’. Self-love bad, hence, unselfishness good.

Selfishness and self-love are opposites. When selfish, one is incapable of loving others and incapable of loving oneself.  

Only recently have I come to know this to be the truth – I am deserving of my love. In fact, I cannot fully love and respect another, until I love and respect myself a hundred percent. I don’t need to buy expensive gifts for me to experience it. Sitting quietly with myself is an act of love. It does not need evidence. It is free of all obligatory burdens. It is freedom itself.

On this day, I hope you can be your own Valentine. Happy Valentine’s day! Today and every day.  

 “If you love yourself, you love everybody else as you do yourself. As long as you love another person less than you love yourself, you will not really succeed in loving yourself, but if you love all alike, including yourself, you will love them as one person and that person is both God and man. Thus, he is a great and righteous person, who, loving himself, loves all others equally.”  

Storyless

The spring knows not.

I need my story.

Who am I without it?

It’s a habitual place.

A refuge.

Something I can lean on and hide behind.

This is my story. This is me.

Is it? Really?

Am I not more than the way I have been taught to respond and speak and act?

More than the stories they told me and I tell myself?

Am I not a mysterious, wondrous creation of the galaxies?

Am I not more than a feelings-crunching machine?

An events-processing factory?

Like all other life forms, am I not designed to evolve through challenges.

Adapt. Learn. Grow?

Processing kills it. My creativity.

Thinking locks me up. In familiar prison cells.

Who I am

flies, flows, dances, melds and reaches out with all its arms.

It knows not what it is.  

Like the ocean knows not how deep it dives.

Like the sky does not care how far above the planets it stretches.

Like the day knows not the secrets that will unfold as it extends into time.

Like the stars twinkle on, oblivious of how many eons pass them by,

Which telescope catches them, which doesn’t.

Like the spring knows not where its flowers will grow.

Like the river sings along, not knowing who will drink from it or

The apple tree that offers all to friends and strangers and

Stands. Story-less.

Who am I?

I am. I am. I am.