letter to myself

August 16, 2009

Dear Sweet Self,

How are you? I imagine that you are well, thought in a wholly different space. It's winter and the days are short. But here, now, in this fairy and gnome spot, the clearest jade water, rippulous rings, singing waterfalls, sultry, lean fish and towering green trees that bask in the sunlight, all is well. It's been two days of best self land. I feel so peaceful and grounded, ready to accept and receive the unknown. Embrace new people with an open heart and mind, show them my flaws and fabulousness, my grace and grit. I take with me a sense of true balance, days spent eating pure, delicious food, moving my strong body, asanas in the sunshine, hearing my voice ring with wisdom and knowledge and understanding as I unfold and hold others. I've let my pen dance and remembered the wild abandon with which I love to write. I've eaten and laughed, washed and peeled. Simple, true acts of pleasure. Complete surrender to the moment.

What do I need to remember? What should I tell myself?

• the world is a wonder
• people too
• give your whole self
• love and embrace all you do
• encourage creativity in those around you
• encourage acceptance
• do not become complacent
• look closely
• sit still
  
• take time and focus
• never underestimate the importance of doing things for yourself
• spread it around, let it radiate and ripple
  
• make joy and acceptance contagious
• know how much you have to offer

So there you go, self, you wacky old friend you! Hope winter finds you filled up and content. Hope the journeys been gentle and without too much upset -- six months does feel terribly far from now,
these cool cascades,
rippulous dances,
huddled ferns,
these nursing logs,
glassy surfaces,
hues of green and yellow and silver
and us
such a tiny piece of it all!


This letter reminds me of waking up this Saturday morning. I slept seven hours straight. Everything about the guest bed in my mama's house is perfect and reminds me that I need to invest in a new mattress, mattress pad, high thread count sheets, perfect pillows. My mom hears me up and comes in to say hello. She then leaves to make me my favorite egg breakfast.

But none of that compares to when I open the shutters. Outside the sky is a crystal clear blue. The sun is bright. The flowers sing out in every, happy shade, "Good morning! Today you don't have to be a mama. Today you don't have to work! Today you will be taken care of. Follow our smiley lead! Embrace!"

After eating every last bite of my mama's delicious breakfast (and then not clearing the table or doing the dishes), I head out on foot to my favorite coffee place for my favorite vanilla latte. My girlfriend finds me at the curb, drinks in hand. We take our prego selves down to the reflexology place where for a mere $25 dollars a piece we received insane foot/neck/head/face rub love. And the day just gets more exciting and indulgent from there.

How does this Saturday connect to the letter I wrote in August? They both seem so far removed from my current daily life. And while I know that I'm not going to be able to stare into a crystal clear pool of water in February in Montana, while I know that I am in my last trimester of pregnancy and my body can't lead a yoga retreat as it did in August, while I know that the indulgence of waking up and being pampered in my mother's house in sunny Southern California is not a luxury I can often afford, there is substance to be grasped from my little connection.

Somehow I've gotten into the thick of it. Winter is long here. The sun does not shine the way it should. I can't get the fresh air I need. There are no flowers singing to me. Actually it's ice. And she sings some warbling, messy, muddy blues. The tune gets on my nerves. I can't take the time for long walks, meditative, indulgent steps examining the wonders of nature.

But I can try to modify.

Just like my yoga practice. Just like how Happy Sad chose to stand tonight while I read books, rather than shimmy around on my protruding, no longer comfy lap. I have got to not let life get so all or nothing. I look at that beautiful bulleted list from my letter to myself. Am I doing any of those things? Perhaps at work I encourage creativity and acceptance. Perhaps when Jeff and I table a challenging conversation to take a trip to the "beach" (aka, her bedroom), with our daughter, we're taking time to focus. It might not be as inward. It might not be as profound. In fact, the challenge seems to be staying focused just on that moment. On Eliana putting a sun hat on Lucy or writing her name in the sand before the waves wash it away. The way she loves having her parents, both of them, captive attention. The way her imagination is running, running, fast and free these days. It's a different kind of moment to be in.

The sun is not shining on our faces. The grass is not green. The "beach" is a small little bedroom with way too many things out of place for me to attend to at any given time. But why does it matter? The beach is alive for my daughter. She is thrilled to be there. With me. With her daddy. With her dog and Baby. She even put a special hat on my belly for her brother.

It's so cliche, but our children do teach us so much. My goal for this next little time, this next trimester, this last phase, is to try to stay as present as possible. Not let the huge picture freak me out. The will I have time to clean out the closets and will we actually be able to all fit in this little space? Will I ever learn how to keep up on the mail? Because I know it is all such a teeny tiny piece of this picture. That said, it's certainly hard to be calm when you feel surrounded by moment to moment chaos. And now I feel trapped thinking that I'll actually be able to be zen when there is so much to do and never enough energy do take care of it all.

I do know that it was excellent for me to allow myself that time away over the weekend. That I love where I come from and I cherish time with the family and friends who have known me the longest. That traveling alone has become extremely novel, especially as I come into another phase of extreme attachment to another little being. That my husband and my daughter were the two most beautiful things I've seen in a long time standing there waiting for me at the airport. That there will be other adventures in the wilderness, pen and yoga mat in hand. That I am made up of many beautiful pieces that are continually learning from each other, growing apart, and then discovering themselves again.