Does Self-Love Equal Safety?

I woke up this morning, aware of a deep, unexplored cavern of self-hatred. It felt dark and erotic and electrified as if I was so satisfyingly hideous that I might be able to hide from omnipresent Love. (Please don’t worry about me; I know this is not me and merely something that needs to be cleared.)

I read some very nice poetry and spent too long shaming myself for my (apparent, but fictional) lack of commitment to my art.

Now, I am wearing a sweater made of some (probably) flammable, (probably) plastic material as I stand by the open flame of the stove, frying eggs and boiling water for tea, thinking dark thoughts, and being careful. Hopefully, careful enough. Though who knows? Aren’t we taught that accidents just happen? That bad things can happen even to good people? Out of the blue?

Once, I wore a gown that emerged straight from the fairy tales of my childhood. Silver with a burgundy bodice. It swirled around and caressed my eager body, then brushed against our potbelly stove and caught fire. I was not hurt--other than the death of the fairy tale. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was dancing and loving myself.

I am not kidding. One clear morning, I slipped on the ice. My head was in the clouds, as they say, admiring the beauty which shows itself to me as trees and the un-namable blue of the sky. My feet went out from under me, and before I hit the ground, some repellent force bounced me upright--my body and the pavement acting like magnets, fighting each other off.

I hope there is some lesson here. Some awareness of the continuum that spans Life from self-loathing, all the way to appreciation and wonder. And where we find ourselves on that spectrum determines our fate in each dawning millisecond; that our level of self-love is what ensures our safety.

If so, that adds another reason to find love inside myself, to clear any darkness that remains. If so, I am grateful for the opportunity to find such darkness and love it to death. If so, I must have found something of value in myself this morning; my sweater did not catch on fire. I did not burn the eggs or toast. I did not spill my breakfast all over the book I was reading. And thinking of all this has moved me on the loathing-loving continuum towards the loving end.

Where are you?