Saturday's Child
Saturday night. Fun. Excitement. Going out. Being with friends. Socializing. Maybe dancing. Maybe a movie. Meeting people. Maybe someone special. Maybe Mr or Miss Wright or maybe just Mr or Miss Right for Now. Saturday night.
In the old poem, Saturday's child works hard for a living. That child keeps his or her nose to the grindstone, does everything that is expected of them and still, on a given Saturday night, finds themselves alone watching old movies or bad TV eating ice cream. And when nine o'clock rolls around, Saturday's child goes to bed.
What is the expectation here? And why is it accepted as the norm? Being alone is not so bad. The state of being single is not worse than death and death, as we know, is really an unknown quantity. Sometimes our best company is truly our own. If we do not know ourselves well, accept ourselves as we are, how on earth can we ever know or accept anyone else? And if we do not love ourselves, well, it is impossible to truly love another.
Saturday night. It is what you make it. You can go out and chase the illusions. You can stay home and wallow in self pity. The better choice, I expect, is to give up the expectations and just rest in the state of being. Acceptance of what is, is the most comforting and lasting thing one can do...especially on a cold Saturday night.
In the old poem, Saturday's child works hard for a living. That child keeps his or her nose to the grindstone, does everything that is expected of them and still, on a given Saturday night, finds themselves alone watching old movies or bad TV eating ice cream. And when nine o'clock rolls around, Saturday's child goes to bed.
What is the expectation here? And why is it accepted as the norm? Being alone is not so bad. The state of being single is not worse than death and death, as we know, is really an unknown quantity. Sometimes our best company is truly our own. If we do not know ourselves well, accept ourselves as we are, how on earth can we ever know or accept anyone else? And if we do not love ourselves, well, it is impossible to truly love another.
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