It would be a dangerous thing. Dangerous in that it would convince me, perhaps convince others who might take me as an object lesson, that there’s nothing dangerous at all in loving yourself. Having something beyond a tender empathy for the innocence of your youth or a hopeful countenance for positive outcomes to decoupage the remainder of your days.
But an earnest, full-on, scalding of love? A takeover of acceptance, a giddy totality of self-regard, an unconditioned offer forever on the table to take what is and make joy of it? It would be so dangerous to the beasts and frightful spirits I’ve hallowed in my head. It would mean they are meant for pasture, their service at an end. All the sneering schoolgirls who mocked me, adored and haloed boys who ere forgot me, the conveyor belt that carried all the worries that I was not fit for purpose in this world made manifest between my temples would power down and go to sleep. Drunk on the codeine and tender affection I’m considering spoon-feeding them, they would be quiet.
And in the vacuum of that time and space, I don’t hesitate to presume some authentic, wordy self would step off the clamshell and spin into the room. Her eyes would glitter as they struck up the band. She would stride forth in the highest of high heels and the dance that follows would be loud, clacking, and tremendously fun. No strings, no bells, no tells to watch for. That girl would not lack for stars and flowers in her hair. She would know that if she made a mistake, she could unmake it. She would trust that if she disliked a suitor, she could leave him. Where she adored, she could warmly illuminate the visible universe like a Tiffany lamp. Where she promised, she would deliver. Where she was weak, she could ask for help and never be a drop diminished.
There were things she needed from the past that became like a Sphinx’s riddle, a looping if/then statement, an Elfin Knight’s carefully worded request. Designed to be unsolvable. They will never be and so must be forgiven. We can only go so far needing those things and sitting on the tension of understanding that moment is gone. You can’t turn around and sit with the girl with thistles in her hair and tell her all the days she is going to feel down in the intervening years and tell her not to be down about her mother being ill, about being left behind, about the strange and lumpy despair that will take her and leave her and take her again. She made her way, she grew up sometimes happy, sometimes sad, she ended up a woman with flaws and foibles, great skills and hopes and moments she will never forget.
We can only go back and watch our little Daylight and see what is so: she dances. She knows right from wrong. She sits with women on their stoop and reads their condolence cards to them. She has learned people will die. She loves the horse that is one chain link fence away from being hers called Sundance. She has no reason to be ashamed of herself. The sage little girl I’ve been staring at for days can’t take the judgment and history and woundedness that has happened to her and make it not happen. Her power is not in time travel. It is just being herself, open and loving and fresh footed upon the earth. She would be my dear friend if I gave her a drop of my attention. Making her – the manifestation of my inner self – happy is to make me happy. She pats my hand and is so overwhelmed that someone wants to hear her and not trail off to make room for someone else. She wants to go outside and feel the cold air under her parchment coat, Canadian geese splashing on the stream.
I have made myself unhappy lately. I have made myself a bit sick to obscure that calling cards have found their way from the girl who dreams in my head and I. I have avoided how willing she is to meet me, clutched victim’s pearls and presented myself for the Snake’s judgment and the High Bitch has lopped off my head for shifting too overtly in my skin.
This is the story, of course, that the cryptids and saboteurs that make up my defenses would read out as a manifesto. The girl within was caught off-guard by the cruelty of the world, so in they flew to build a cynical barrier between her innocence and what might come to hurt her. A sarcastic, succulent, lacy jade wall that admitted nothing and no one. They made it very difficult for her to trust herself, so instead, she trusted in the power of her self-judgment, her wit, her defenses. She was so vulnerable, so delicate, the water so secretly deadly, of course she had to be protected. Of course no one could idly find their way to her heart.
It was not about neurological pathways being formed by being so consistently negative, though that was happening beneath the psychological surface. It was about defending a kingdom of heaven, a princess’ innocent goodness, it had narrative satisfaction to disguise the fact that I was judging myself into oblivion.
It is so strange to think that if I didn’t do it anymore, it could change. If I did it differently, it would be different. We spoke about re-parenting. I wasn’t sure about the term, but I’ve met the girl. I know her. I know neither she nor the parents would mind. She has no gift for time travel yet so I must go to meet her and make the promises I would be able to keep. I hear your voice, little girl, and the call to play in the streams, in the magic of the world. For it all not to be so serious, so overwrought. So difficult and pickled and begged for. As your keeper, little sage, I don’t want you to have beg me for a moment.
Not every stream is the Strid. We can have joy in the observant, self-aware future we share, the Faithful Light, a brightly glowing hooded lantern on the end of our longship to ride the waters big and small.
Let’s just try it. Let’s just see.
