This morning I had one of my little fits. They come on me this time of year, as I enter Hades–Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then the winter solstice and boxing day. I emerge in January, and sometimes all the lights come on at once. It’s beautiful, then, my own early spring.
So, back to the fit. This particular fit holds the title of, “You don’t love me.” It’s really amazing how I can apply that title to so many situations. My partner said to me this morning that if I didn’t know how much she loves me after all the work she’s put in trying to show up or learn to show up she didn’t know what else she could do. I was like, “Accept me for who I am.”
And therein, as the man says, lies the rub.
Every fall, we come to this. We both know I will turn into Persephone; and she, boy-girl that she is, will ravage the earth like Demeter, demanding my return. We grow into our imperfections so deeply at this time. I suppose every couple has this–their impasse issues, the place they return to, again and again, trying to learn how to grow.
My little trip to Hades will happen no matter what. I am broken as well as strong. And here’s the thing–it’s the trip and what I do with it that makes me. I wrote a blog a couple days ago about the fault in our stars, and this is the true making or unmaking of every human being–not how the stars aligned, but how you relate to that alignment.
I am, as we all are, ashamed of my imperfections and the places and ways I am broken. But in my most secret view of myself, I am proud of how I relate to that trip to Hades. Every year, I lean into it more, and I let darkness be my teacher. My goal is to end up like Ged in the Wizard of Earthsea, a woman who owns herself completely because she has chased and mastered her own darkness.
Of course, if I am to do this, I have to let go of the title, “You don’t love me.” My partner inevitably disappoints me this time of year, because what I really want is for her to be the one who turns the lights on, and not in January, but in October, November and December. She doesn’t much enjoy being asked to do the Herculean tasks of my dharma, and resists with all her might. Much as, one might add, I do when she asks me to turn the lights on for her.
And get this, there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t give to be able to turn the lights on for both of us. Only I can’t. I can only turn them on for me. She can only turn them on for her. And then, in the light, there is the possibility of communion.
So, I throw my little fit (little, defined as short in duration and imperfectly owned fairly soon). And she tells me how much she wants to be the comfort she can’t be. And there we are, so imperfect we’re imperfect at being imperfect.
I want to lean into my fits, my failures, my darkness. I want to be in them and know them. I don’t want to pretend I’m more than I am, because then I end up being less. I want to turn the lights on, one by one. Because the first person I’ll see, when the lights are on, is not my partner. It’s me. The imperfect, fully loving and lovable one that I am. So I can turn to her whole, and broken. So I can see her, broken and whole.
I didn’t know, when I was younger, that this was what life is, or could be. I thought it was all aim for the prize and prove you’re worth it.
I was so wrong.