learning from previous selves

A little more than six years ago, I wrote this (lightly edited) meditation on Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body:

And so here is the humbling bit, for the narrator and for every reader who identifies with the narrator: for Louise (and any and all of our beloveds), it might not be worth it to be saved if the salvation does not include the beloved. Can we ever believe that we might be valued so highly by the one we love? Is it selfish when we want to so believe, or if we want to be so loved?

We are not to love the beloved more than God—that is blasphemy. We are not to love the beloved more than ourselves—that is antiquated and un-feminist. We are not to love the beloved more than our career, our children, our friends, our lives. What, then, is so beloved about the beloved?

We are supposed to love properly, efficiently, moderately—no blistering-hot, full-to-the-neck baths for us, but tepid 5-minute, water-saver showers. Turn off the water when you soap and when you shave. 

No longer may we lavishly love: it is wartime and to ration our passion is a virtue. We must be economical. The heart is too precious for everyday consumption, we must enjoy our diet of corn flakes, graham flour, and winter savory.

No more blistering inferno, gone the dazzling sun; we've left the chemist's lab, we dare not even glance at the crucible wherein our hearts could fuse (and alchemy is so out of style). Sunglasses are our most popular accessory—can I get SPF 3000 for my heart?

I'd forgotten I used to write like this sometimes. I still remember the physical and emotional sensations of writing this: the focus and single-mindedness; the high, thin, thrumming thread of energy stretching from my self to the page. I wonder if I can do this again—think and write for just the joy of it.