Mallor C.
On tiny pieces of paper
I’ve written my intentions for the year
All rolled up in a bowl
I pick one each day to burn
Until the last
Then on January 1
I read the final intention
Aloud
And keep it
It’s an ancient Wiccan ritual
That I learned about on Instagram
Each morning I watch the little flame
Flare up
And extinguish
My words hidden and then burned
I watch the smoke dissipate into air
And breathe in their faint their essence
Willing them to be true
While all the while I know they are not
“I am kind to myself.”
“I treat myself with the love and respect I know I deserve.”
“I show myself the same compassion I show others.”
And the like
And I wonder why
Even though I love myself so very much
It is so very hard to love myself
Oh how beautiful, a cry in the dark. I feel the earnestness of the ritual, and can see that tiny flame. I am moved by the writer’s fervent wish for things to change, drilling down to what is at the core of all her desires, to love herself.