I’ve been trying to write this blog on love for days. On Monday, I was feeling so lovey-dovey. I think I was ovulating. Tuesday, not so much. Today? I’m really loving kettle corn. Love, it seems, is complicated.
I went to Mass this past Sunday. I wasn’t really feeling up to it, but much like you have to do when you don’t feel like exercising, I made myself go. The homily, based on the Book of Luke, was on love. The message was essentially that we need to love one another. That Sunday, however, I was actively hating on people. Like the woman who wouldn’t let me get up and step outside the pew but insisted on crawling over me to get into the pew. Or the man behind me who decided to kneel and pray right into the back of my neck. I was not feeling the love, but it got me to thinking: where is the love in my life?
Lately, it’s been coming up everywhere.
Love of Self
This past Friday night I was out on the town and a man, a photographer, presumably trying to get me to go out with him, started up conversation. He asked me why I didn’t like having my picture taken. I said, “Probably because growing up I rarely had my picture taken and it just isn’t anything that I am used to, blah, blah, blah.” I didn’t really say “blah, blah, blah.” I can’t remember now exactly what I said, but I sure remember his response.
He proceeded to tell me that the reason I didn’t like my picture being taken was because I didn’t love and accept myself. Mind you, this was a first meeting and we were in a bar. Really, not appropriate bar banter and not a way to this girl’s heart.
Still, I had to ask, do I love myself? Truth be told, I haven’t always been sure what that means. I have come to recognize that part of loving yourself is essentially having a sense of self-worth. What is that? Respecting your feelings and wants enough to make them known and expect that they will be respected. To wit: setting boundaries.
