The Stubborn Skin

Yesterday's writing seeded some powerful self-reflection that feels raw today.

I'm still captured by the image of the snake shedding her skin and the irritation that compels her to begin to rub up against rocks to loosen the skin and pull herself out of it. 

A poem in my collection called The Stubborn Skin comes to mind. I wrote it in July about six years ago while going through divorce, shortly after I moved out of the house I shared with my family. There's nothing like being alone for the first time in your life at age 50 to set the stage for plumbing the depths of your existence.

I'm still plumbing. It can be a slow process. Or maybe it's a process that comes back around like points on a spiral. You go wider or deeper with it. 

Yes, that's it. I got curious about how often a snake sheds its skin and looked it up. If the snake is growing rapidly, she may shed her skin every two weeks. If she's an older snake, she might shed her skin only twice a year. Snakes are fierce. And such wonderful teachers. When we're in a cycle of rapid transformation the need for shedding is frequent, but nevertheless, it is a regular process. 


I think that feels comforting to me.

There can be a lot of interesting self-talk when one is shedding what no longer serves and I find that it's a good idea to ignore most of it. This evening I had to get out of the house and go for a ride and look at the river. I needed something that felt nourishing. The river is high right now because we've had so much rain. Another big one and she will be overflowing her banks. 

Another teacher. Another mirror.

The beautiful thing about overflowing her banks is the land around the river is watered and the growth becomes lush. Normally this time of year we are in drought, so there is something wonderful about being outside these days and in so much that is green and growing. 

The final teacher from nature that comes to mind today is the cycles of light and dark. Sunset today was at 8:17 pm, about twenty-five minutes earlier than it was at the Solstice. The daylight is diminishing and darkness is beginning to fall again. It happens very quickly. There's something about this that affects me deeply. I much prefer the rising light. A month ago when I wrote at this time, I watched the slowly diminishing light and the play of light and shadow with the clouds and the tops of the trees I can see from my kitchen window. Now, it's full dark.

That does not feel comforting to me. It unsettles me.

My mother and I were talking today about aging and what it is like for a woman alone who has raised a family, how difficult it is to fund the energy to do for oneself. How much more natural it feels to do for others. How she must learn to love herself and to give herself what she once gave to others. And with as much lavish attention, grace, and generosity.   

I'm going to need to work hard over the next month to begin to do this. But I am heartened that it took only two months for me to actually name it.   






The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.