Debt of Love

My current mission in life is to do less. I am slowing down, I am letting things wait. I have boarded up the factory that once manufactured a permanent urgency for every item on every to-do list. I am savoring the holiday break, sleeping in, taking long baths in the afternoon. It’s not hedonism. I have a debt to repay.

Self-loathing is a terrible way to live. It exacts a deep toll on body and spirit. Years of tension and silent, simmering hate have left their mark in scars, bad dreams and worn-down molars. I intend to repair all that.

I have found a tenderness towards myself previously unknown. I handle my body gently; I complete tasks without panicking or forcing it. There is a subtle, graceful way to live, in which one does not create enemies.

I owe the most to my body, that faithful servant, sustaining me, surviving everything. For years and years I despised it, and I gave it the blame for all that I endured and wished to escape. Yet my body remains pure and perfectly innocent. No resentment. Just movement, steady and constant, the metabolic miracle that carries me through this realm of time and space.

I had a vision of myself naked and glorious, encircled by flames. Reflecting later: my body appeared just as it is, atypical, transsexual, scarred, but in the image I had no glasses. As if to say, in the higher realm are we made perfect, with perfect vision, and a hermaphroditic form needs no correction.

So I have issued myself a blank check for enjoyment. For now, I will take every excuse, no matter how small, to nourish, honor and indulge my body. I take long, deep breaths and slow sips of wine. In this way I praise the Lord’s creation, and bit by bit pay back my debt of love. I will love my body faithfully, persistently, until I have removed every brick of the border wall in my heart, and unleashed the well of love imprisoned there. Then no more intention will need propel my acts of kindness, for love has found love, the same love.

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