Letter to myself

Remember when you were a child and you visited fantastic cities, countries and even planets? You went wherever you wanted to go. You did whatever you wanted to do. You were a princess or a queen or a famous artist. You had a black belt in Karate and saved people from evil criminals. You and your friends made entire households with chalk on your driveway.

Every flower was a fascination. You explored it in detail. You followed every vein in every leaf. Frost on your window in the winter was a fascinating study in fractals and crystals and swirls. You could spend hours making endless patterns on your etch-a-sketch. You had favorite books full of colors and rhyming words. You had the big box of crayola crayons. You and your friends played and skated and ran and climbed trees until exhaustion set in then you slept like newborns - deep, restful sleep.

Then you grew up and you had to do things. Things you didn’t enjoy. Sometimes you had to do things for hours on end also to the point of exhaustion but you didn’t sleep the same way after that. Frost on your window became a sign of the next day’s drive on icy roads. Traveling to another city turned into a calculation of how much money you would have to spend on gas. You really didn’t play much any more. You didn’t have time. You worried over the health and safety of your kids. You bought endless “stuff” trying to find enjoyment somehow in that new appliance or that new furniture or that new car. The enjoyment was short-lived every time.

You began to think you were consigned to a life of duty and drudgery and exhaustion. Financial difficulties and health issues and deaths of friends and relatives - continual irritation, disappointment and work conflict were the norm. You started to wonder why you were here and what was the point?

You must go back. You must remember the fun. You have to let in the sunshine. You have to be silly and laugh. You have to listen to the water lapping the shore. You have to look at that flower again. Really look. You have to make art and read books and enjoy things. Not appliances and cars and furniture - but your etch-a-sketch, your sketch books and your photo albums. You have to rest and relax and sleep well. Take your chalk and draw on the driveway.

You must go back. You left yourself back in that house where you grew up - on that street where you played with your friends. You must go back in time and find yourself. Keep the good stuff and discard the rest before you make the journey. Your true self is waiting for you. Go back now. Go find yourself.