Self-Compassion, Not Love

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In the end, I think it’s less about self-love than it is about self-compassion. “Love”‘s tricky. Sometime we confuse love for admiration, infatuation for love, acceptance for love, love for friendship, love for a whole host of things. But self-compassion is being kind, or compassionate, to yourself when you’ve messed up or you’re suffering. It’s not about how you think you’re the shit all the time, which ‘self-love’ might imply. I think of it from a third party perspective. This third party’s a compassionate figure, like–like Buddha or Jesus or, if that’s not your cup of tea, your kind forgiving grandmother. When you make a mistake, these figures don’t shit on you for it. They don’t say that you’re stupid so that’s why you failed the test or you’re actually fundamentally terrible so that’s why things ended. They say things like oh, it’s okay, it was just this one test, or you’re still altogether a lovable person despite what you’re going through. Except, instead of a separate third party telling you this, it’s you telling yourself this.

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when we were younger

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“you know what i thought of the other day?
our childhoods are for our parents
they remember our first steps
they remember what we liked and what we didn’t like
they remember what we ate, what we didn’t eat
our childhoods
they’re their memories to have,
not oursas you grow older
your life becomes yours
but when we were younger
it was once theirs.”

 

– april 23rd, 2015 | 4:08 pm

Something my best friend said to me a few years ago.

Displacement

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we drive home
bound with the windows
down carrying bags of tea that smell like

Christmas, flecked with
ginger, decked in lights
pass by billboards for

fidget spinners &
a bridge that reminds me of beyond two
souls & a school with the sign that reads “meet the Teachers night”

lo que sera, sera means what will be
will be, fate that’s putty in the
hands of what we can’t see

Falling Slowly

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Weather’s been doing its usual tango-merengue between hot and cold.

I tell myself that time goes by faster around this time of year, end of October. November zips by, solid block of cold, fades around the middle. December’s usually quick, submerged in work, two weeks of wrapping things up in cold tired bows of maybe-nostalgia.

Then the feeling of surprised triumph that things are done, that it’s been yet another half of a half (of a half of half) that’s passed.

Sleeplessness

harukami play

From last night’s play. Turns out it wasn’t just based on Haruki Murakami (one of my favorite authors who writes trippy dreamy stories that almost always feature some character dissociating from herself) but Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina as well. Coincidentally, I invited the friend who I’d befriended in a class on Anna Karenina exactly three years ago. Synchronicity, anyone?

The play itself was good. Strange, a little creepy, but intentionally so. Murakami’s work always leave me feeling weird, like I’m straddling some in-between of reality and a bad dream.