Remembering dreams of childhood

I have a piano in my living room that I have moved with me for at least three decades. It sits there, waiting. 

I used to dream of playing the piano when I was a child. It called to me. People would tell me that I had “piano hands”, long fingers that could span an octave. 

My father thought it would be a much better choice for me to learn to play the accordion. The days of Lawrence Welk. He thought an accordion would help me bring joy to parties, given that I could by shy at times. Different times, different ideas, different values. He meant well. To him, music was music, no matter which instrument it came from.

I went to the accordion teacher. I asked, secretly, would it be easier to learn the piano later in life if I studied the accordion? He responded that he thought that it would be. So, accordion lessons it was.

I truly never fell in love with that instrument. My father would have me play it for company that came over, accompanying me on his guitar. He would laugh when I told him to change the chord during a song. He could not really hear music, was pretty tone deaf. So, I performed. And hated it. 

I don’t mean to be ungrateful for the lessons and the chance to even take music lessons. My parents were immigrants and never had such a chance. 

But, our inner dreams and longings are ours. And the piano was mine. Not the accordion.

I went to college. I finally gave myself permission to let go of this instrument, this accordion that never became a part of me, completely. I sold the one that I had. It was a relief. It was freeing. 

Life took over. College, relationships, moves, jobs, marriage, divorce, trying to find my balance again as a divorced woman, parents dying, my advancing years. 

I tried taking piano lessons once, but the teacher was more into jazz, which I have not up to this day ever really connected with. And my mother had moved in with me at that point, so things were challenging. We had some difficult dynamics between us. So I stopped the lessons. 

Here I am now, this morning, looking at this piano. I find an ache in my heart about this. This piano was a gift to me, a loving parting gift from my ex-husband as we were divorcing. A lovely gesture and a nod to understanding some of the pain of my childhood. I have been divorced 33 years now. That’s a long time for a piano to be sitting there not making the music for which it was intended. 

I may try and take lessons again. I have some beginner books that I can follow on my own. I may begin with that first.

It makes me think about our lives, our dreams unfulfilled, the directions we take and the distractions that we follow. 

I have let myself get lost in relationships and become focused on the other, to the exclusion of myself. It’s a behavior that I learned early on helped me to feel safer in the world. But it came with a cost. 

I focused on whatever job I was doing and would let myself be consumed by that. It seemed to be the right thing to do. I don’t regret my career and feel good about the work that I did (social worker, therapist). But focusing exclusively on that and whatever relationship that I was in at the time also came with a cost.

I am retired now. And intentionally not in a relationship. And I live alone. And, I can breathe. And stop. And think, feel, and be.

I have taken up painting. Drawing was also something that I loved as a child, but felt the focus had to be on what I would do to make a living. And during the times that I was in college, you could not enroll in an art course unless that was your major. So now I paint. I lose hours doing this. It is meditative.

I am writing now, which I have always loved to do. Primarily I would journal, and keep the writing to myself. Now I write here, and I am grateful. I actually feel an ache inside at times when I feel the need to write about something that has bubbled up. Like this morning. 

So, I am slowly coming back to who I was as a child. What I dreamed of and naturally gravitated to. 

Will I learn piano? Time will tell. 

I can say this, however. There is time to be who you were originally drawn to be. There is time to play your own music. There is time to paint your own canvas. There is time to write your own story.

 We are still alive. We are still here. And we have parts of ourselves that we can still reconnect with. 

There is time to come home to yourself. 

Stop, Breathe, See the Whole Picture

I was working on a painting yesterday. 

I seem to reach a point with every painting where I get discouraged, frustrated, and want to cover the whole canvas with black paint and just start over on a fresh canvas. I talk myself down from this ledge every time, as experience tells me things will look differently in a bit.

So I step away and leave the canvas for a while . A few hours. A day. A few days. And lo and behold, it doesn’t look so bad when I come back to it. In fact, I can see where I can pick up the brushes again and carry on. And I complete the painting, satisfied with being able to do so and usually pleased enough with the result. This would not have been the case had I not stepped back from it for a while.

I also find that I need to step back from the canvas during the actual process of painting. It is too easy to get lost in a detail of the painting when up close to it and lose a sense of the big picture and the whole scene. I used to laugh at cartoons of artists, with their French berets tilted just so on their head, thumbs held up, standing back and surveying their paintings in progress. 

These caricatures of artists were onto something. 

Stepping back during the process is necessary to keep sight of what you are working on, where you are going, and if you are going in the direction that you intended or want. 

Ah, the metaphors for life are everywhere, yes? 

Sometimes I get so caught up in the day to day details of life so much that I can lose sight of the bigger picture of my life. Paying attention to details is important. Getting lost in them is dangerous. So, I remind myself to step back, pause, look. Walk away for a bit. Come back later with a fresh mind and rested spirit and renewed vision. Stop. Breathe. 

I can look back at different times in my life from my older, and sometimes wiser, perspective now. What seemed like huge tragedies do not seem so anymore. And what were challenges, I somehow managed to get through, and to carry on. To get to where I am now. 

I can look at old photos of myself and see so much more than I could see at the time. All I focused on were what I saw as deficiencies and faults. Now I see a l young woman who was doing the best that she could. Who deserved compassion and not relentless criticism. 

I look at photos of myself now and remind myself of this. Stop, breathe, take in the whole picture. Imagine what my future self might feel while looking at these photos. The whole canvas of my life.

I see paintings that I have completed, articles that I have written. I see possible improvements in them all. 

I see friends that I have unintentionally hurt. Relationships that I could have done and been better with. I observe habits that may not be so healthy for me that I could have worked harder on to change. 

Yes, there are flaws. Yes, there could be improvement. Of course. 

I work on what I can, without having to destroy and tear everything down in the process. If I can forgive others and step back, then maybe it’s time to really do that for myself. 

As time grows short, which aging seems to remind me of more and more, I see the importance of stopping, stepping back, seeing the whole and not just the parts. 

The canvas is still unfinished. We are still alive. There is more color to add, more to experience, more of the painting to fill in. Stop. Breathe. You don’t need to rush through. Enjoy the process and the journey. Step back. See the beauty, the possibility still there. Pausing is part of the process of completing your painting. Stopping to breathe, notice, observe, change direction if necessary, is all part of your life. Your canvas is not done yet. 

The gift of of genuine human contact can happen anywhere

I received such a tender gift this morning. At the grocery store.

Not exactly where one expects to get a lovely moment in time. On the other hand, if we are open to it, these moments can happen in the most interesting of places.

In a world that has been traumatized by pandemic, social unrest, divisiveness, suspicion, masks covering our faces but not our fears. In this world there are human beings who are hungry for genuine contact, even for a brief moment. If real and genuine enough, these moments can nourish and help sustain us. They can touch our hearts and fill them, at least for a while. 

I am a woman of solitude, yet realize I also need human contact and a tribe that I can feel a part of. The tribe of my friends, the tribe of my neighborhood. the tribe of fellow writers, fellow artists. 

I usually go to the same grocery store, as it is conveniently located fairly close to my home. I have been going there for years, so faces become familiar and greetings are exchanged. To a woman living alone with no family nearby, these greetings can feel like a lifeline at times. Those times when I may simply need the acknowledgment from another human being on this earth at this moment. To share that moment with someone.

This morning, I had just finished checking out with my cart ready to go to my car. There had been smiles from some of the staff, and I felt included. Seen. There is one particular clerk, whose name if I knew it at one point, I do not remember. But I remember this friendly outgoing young man. This young man who had at one point shared some photos of his new puppy. 

There he was, coming to help at the checkout line. He smiled, said a big hello. I asked how his puppy was doing. He made eye contact, sighed, and told me that he no longer had this sweet young dog. The puppy had exhibited some medical issues, and after taking him to the emergency vet, this poor young man realized that he could not afford the huge bill that they quoted him that it would take to help his beloved pet. He had to give the puppy up, hoping someone else would be able to give it a home and the care that it needed. 

I felt so badly for him. He talked about how much he had come to love this dog, how painful it was to let him go. And he began to cry. And then he apologized for crying. I asked him to please never apologize for crying, to please let himself express those feelings and let them out, that I understood how this kind of loss can tear a part of your heart out, having lost several pets myself within the last several years. He continued to cry, and I began to shed a few tears myself. 

He continued to talk about this sweet companion. 

We shared our frustrations with some of the experiences that we have had at various vet emergency clinics during this pandemic. Waiting in our cars all night long, not able to hold or see our pets while we waited for them to be examined, sometimes for many hours. 

We talked a bit more. I gently touched his shoulder, told him how very sorry that I was, and that I understood what that kind of pain feels like. That these sweet beings come into our hearts and become our families. 

He nodded, said that he had to go to the break room for a while then, to compose himself for work. I again told him how very sorry that I was, and told him to please take extra good care of himself. 

We parted. 

I came home.

I feel such empathy for him and for myself, remembering my own losses, my own sweet furry companions. Gone too soon. Holes in my heart. Lump in my throat. Grief that is not soothed, but must be honored as it takes the time that it needs. 

And I felt like this gentle man and I had connected in such a genuine, heartfelt way. In a way that is a sacred gift. A gift that we humans can give to each other. And it can happen at the most random moments. In the most random of places. 

It simply took slowing down and noticing what is around me. The stopping to see someone else at a moment in time, ask them how they are, and really listen. And be there with them. 

As I listen to their pain, I also validate my own. And I connect. 

And I left the store this morning, feeling a bit more open, nourished, grateful, and a little less alone in this world. 

Learning from the seasons of a tree

I love a tree that shares the land with me, a giant sequoia. It is majestic, calming, powerful, steadfast, a solace and comfort to me. I touch it frequently, making contact with this incredible life form. I feel its roots that reach deeply into the earth, as I feel my own connection to this troubled, beautiful earth. 

This tree has a condition. Some type of issue that causes it to have dead brown leaves on it, more than usually are seen. The arborist and I are working together on it. Special treatments twice a year, and trying to give it enough water to quench and satisfy and sustain it. And standing near it, touching it, sending it love and gratitude. 

It’s August, the time we usually see brown leaves on our sequoias and redwoods here in California. I watch the leaves. I feel the stages of life, and of letting go. I worry each August, and each August the arborist reminds me that I contact them every year at this time with my concerns.

 So far this precious tree is doing ok. Its condition is not one that can be cured, but can be maintained. Pretty much like life, yes?

I seem to be at the stage in life where everything becomes a metaphor for something deeper, yet another life lesson. I am so grateful to be able to write about these. That is such a gift, to be able to put words to some of these lessons. For myself. Maybe also for some others who may resonate with some of my words. 

This tree lets go of many of its leaves/ needles every year this time. Each time I pray that we get through this and that we see growth again and more green again. 

I think about my own life and its stages. I shed layers as well. Layers that involve letting go of youth, of all that youth promises and seduces us with. Letting go of trying to meet the expectations of others. Time grows short so I don’t have enough time to worry about that as much as I have in my life. Letting go of the illusion of immortality. Having to accept, if not embrace, the reality of mortality. Letting go of the illusion that there is enough time to do it all, have it all, be it all. 

I shed these parts of me, albeit reluctantly at times. And I wait to see if there is growth that happens. Will there be new growth? 

When will be the time that this tree, and I, finally have to let go completely and return to the earth? When will an August be the final one? When will my breath be the final one? 

And so we carry on. We do what we can, arborists and doctors, and this tree and me. Until it is time.

Until then, I celebrate and enjoy this sacred being that shares life with me, that towers above me, gives me shade, brings me comfort and some peace. 

 I celebrate this life of mine. That fills me with emotions. All emotions, both happy and sad, bitter and sweet. All poignant. All part of me, of this life, of this gift of whatever time we have on this earth. Whatever time I may be blessed enough to have left. 

So I stand with this sacred being, this tree. We stand together, holding on, shedding what we need to, surviving and thriving where we can. Living and being who and what we are in this brief, precious, wonderful moment in time. 

Reclaiming the gems of our history and story 

I had an idea recently. My mother has been dead for 12 years, my father for 27. I have kept their wedding rings stored in a safe place. I could not wear either ring, my mother’s being way too small, my father’s being way too big. I am a different size, a different person than either of them. 

Off to the jewelry store I went. I brought out both rings, placed them on the counter, talked about them, what they meant, how I wanted to be able to wear them in some fashion.

So, the jeweler and I thought about ideas. Why not combine them into one ring? Yes, this seemed like the perfect solution.

I also had a delicate gold necklace that belonged to my father’s mother repaired, as the clasp was loose and I didn’t wear it for risk of losing it. I never met her, as she died when my father was 7. I was named after her, so there was a deep connection that I always felt. I wanted to acknowledge that more, claim that more.

I picked up the items yesterday.

The necklace is repaired. I wear it around my neck and feel the presence of the grandmother that I never met, but whose namesake I was. It’s interesting to note that I find some comfort in that, some connection to my roots.

The ring is on my finger. My parents loved each other deeply, so it is right that the rings are melded into one. After my mother died, I remember asking for some sign in my grief. At that moment, a beam of sunlight came through the window and landed directly on their wedding photo. A message that they were together again. 

The diamonds sparkle. I remember playing with that ring on my mother’s hand to see the lights and sparkles reflected on the wall. I remember my father wearing his ring on special occasions, as his work of being a plasterer and bricklayer was labor that would be damaging to a ring. 

I look at the ring now. I see my own aging hands, and also then remember seeing the aging hands of my parents that I noticed as the years went by. Aging, worn, loving hands that wore these jewels. Father’s hands that worked so hard to give his family all that he could. Mother’s hands that cooked and sewed and soothed and comforted. 

 I see this symbol of the bond and love between them, and feel gratitude for that, and for them as my parents. Of course we had issues. Who doesn’t? They worked hard to give me what they didn’t have, being immigrants from Sicily. But, we all have some pain that we carry from our past. 

I do not minimize any of the suffering that childhood can bring, being that we are human and are raised by humans. Fallible. Vulnerable. Fragile at times, strong at others. Human. Some suffer terribly at the hands of very wounded parents. Some are graced with loving homes that build foundations for life. 

As I continue on this aging journey, I find the desire to connect back to my past, to my parents, to my ancestors, to my family’s history. To try and make more sense of the story, of my story. To blend into and with that story while still continuing to work on my own unique chapter. 

I am simply one of a long line of people before me. I am connected to them. I am part of that group, that family. For an only child with no relatives that I am close to or that are nearby, this feels important. To feel somehow a part of something bigger than me feels important. To appreciate all who came before me. To appreciate their gems, their gifts, their presence in my life and their presence inside me. 

To appreciate my own gems, my own value, my own self. Connected to my ancestors, and yet my own unique being. Linked yet apart. Together yet alone. Still here on this earth, for however long. Still alive. Carrying on the line. Carrying on and continuting to write my chapter of the story, here, now, in each moment. 

Inviting sadness in for yet another conversation

I had a visitor in a dream last night. A very dear old friend who died several years ago. He was in my dreams, but as a much younger version of himself. A version that I had never known, since I met him later in his life. 

And during the dream, I realized that this friend was someone who had already died, so I thought I must be dreaming. Interesting to have a dream within a dream. And I felt so very sad. Grief. Loss. An ache that is like no other, the ache of grief for those lost to us. 

Sadness and grief are frequent companions to me now in my life. I suppose that comes with aging, as the losses mount up. I have lost family, friends, past lovers, and dear furry companions. That particular form of grief, for me, is like no other. The unconditional acceptance and love that I felt from my pets that I had not really felt before. Beings that I could be myself with, even with them right there beside me. Otherwise I can only be completely myself in solitude. Perhaps this is part of being an only child, I don’t know. 

How to deal with this pervasive sadness. It is not that this is all that I feel. Clinical depression, I believe, is a different issue and sometimes requires medical intervention. 

This sadness that I feel, to me, feels like the sadness that is part of life. The bitter that comes with the sweet. The ache of both loss and joy, different sides of the same coin. 

I can sometimes feel immobilized by this. And I do my best to sit with it and allow the feelings to come. I must admit that I am not always completely successful with this and will medicate at times with chocolate, carbs, and TV. I have more work to do on this. 

And it’s all ok. It’s ok to sometimes have to get away from the intensity of the feelings, as long as it is not in a self destructive way or in a way that then becomes a way of life. I want to feel it all. Even when it is so hard and painful to go into and through the feelings.

So I am sad today. Feeling the ache of all those that I have lost. I miss them all. I feel the place in my heart where they still live. But sometimes I want to be able to reach out and touch them, feel them close to me, hear their voice and breath, sit beside them and talk. Or simply sit beside them and be. 

I feel the ache of years gone by. My youth. Some of my dreams and hopes. My younger body, my younger face, my younger self with what felt like limitless dreams. I see photos of myself from the past and wish that I could have appreciated more of who I was back then. So many years spent in harsh self judgment. In trying to please others, which is impossible to maintain. The cost of trying to do that is beyond measure.

I feel the ache for this earth and its creatures that we have destroyed to the point of extinction. I feel the ache of the trees that we cut down. I feel the ache of the natural cycle of life. The need for the hunter to survive. The ache for the prey that will help to maintain that hunter for a bit longer. The earth that seems to be hurtling toward its end, with severe climate change and all the consequences of that.

I feel the ache of those in poverty, hunger, and war. 

I feel the ache of people misguided in their attempts to feel some sense of control in this world, not realizing the cost of their actions or beliefs. 

As my skin grows thinner, so does my boundary with all that is around me. It is as if I can literally feel the pain of the changes outside of me, as I struggle to accept the changes within me. 

So today I am trying my best to sit with my sadness. I am grateful to be able to write about it. I will begin another sketch for another painting. I will try to create space for the feelings to be and to come out where they will. 

I sat outside this morning, sipping coffee and simply being with the trees and birds around me, with the quiet of a Sunday morning. I am grateful to be able to do that, to be here now, to feel it all. 

I realize that as I continue to age, all these things become so much more precious to me. Partly because I realize that I, too, will someday be gone. That it is all temporary, and a gift to be cherished while we can, while we are still alive, breathing and feeling it all. Sadness and joy. Bitterness and sweetness. Love and loss. Life in all of its exquisitely poignant glory. 

So hello sadness, my old friend. I’m listening. 

Technophobia. It’s Real.

Here I sit, humbled at the foot of my laptop. 

I have an irrational reaction to tech. I have, in my life, deferred to partners who spoke this language easily and fluently. I am embarrassed to admit that I let them take this over, waited for them to just set the damn thing up for me so that I could do whatever it was that I needed to do.

Not anymore.

So, my laptop was going to need to be replaced soon, anyway. It uses Microsoft 8.1, which I am told that Microsoft will no longer support in a few months. This laptop is old, has served me well. I have trusted it with secrets, passwords kept, bills easily paid with a click. I meander through things intuitively and somehow manage to be somewhat functional on this device. But, the truth is, I don’t understand how it works nor have I ever cared to delve into this. That I have left for those whose brains seems to resonate with this language. That is not me. 

However, I am not partnered now, by choice. And it is time to face this anxiety and sometimes paralyzing fear. This morning I was able to adjust the screen just enough that I can write and see what I am writing. (The latest new issue of this tired laptop is a coming apart of the keyboard seams a bit, with the result being that it can be more difficult to see the screen.) 

I am grateful that the minor adjustment worked this morning. But, the warning has been given and hospice has been called for this brave little device that has worked so diligently. And I can no longer be in denial. 

Yesterday I froze with the anxiety of being overwhelmed with not knowing what to do or who to turn to. Today, I have some energy. A friend recommended someone that might be able to help, who is reasonable with his fees and whom she trusts. I also have Best Buy and the Geek Squad in my mind as another option. There is help to be hired. 

It’s interesting to me that one of the things about my own aging journey is that I begin to feel less confident at times in my competence to deal with situations. I freeze. Yesterday I did nothing, except feel the anxiety around this issue. I literally froze in place. 

I watch this with great interest. I seem to have made it this far in life and handled all the various things that life throws at all of us. So why do I doubt myself? Why does this freeze and paralyze me? 

So, I am having conversations with myself, reminding myself that I am a functional, competent woman who has dealt with much in her life. A small laptop is really not capable of defeating me. It can scare me temporarily, but not defeat me. I can ask for help, be vulnerable in expressing what I do not know or understand, and reach out. Which I have begun to do and will continue to do. Until this is resolved. 

With fear and trepidation, I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. I wonder, as I observe myself, if this is one of the challenges of aging. To keep believing in oneself, to keep trying to learn, to keep participating in life even with all the self doubts, to keep engaging. To admit weaknesses but not take that as a definition of who we are or what we have become. 

My strengths have never been in the technical direction. But I can talk about feelings with you. I can listen. I can do my best to write those and express them and perhaps touch some others and help them feel less alone. I can engage with others and help them feel seen and heard. I can be a friend. I can love animals and nature and find peace there. I can feel their presence, indeed feel the presence of the earth beneath my feet, the trees breathing around me. I can love.

So, onward today. Onward to call those of the tech country who speak that language, praying that they are bilingual in the language of tech anxiety and vulnerability. 

I am so grateful to be able to write this today. This recent challenge has further validated how important it is for me to write, to connect with you all this way. To have my words read, and to touch those who may resonate with what I write about. Writing is a lifeline for me. So I will wander into the scary land of technology, as an appreciative tourist, and find a translator to help me appreciate all the beauty and connection around me. And to be able to keep connecting.

Aging is a challenge. Facing each new fear and doubt to the best of my ability is important. It is too easy to fall victim to the siren call of “I can’t handle this. I can’t do this. I give up.” Rather, the challenge is to respond with the war cry of “I can do this. I don’t have to do it perfectly or even know exactly what I am doing. I am still capable, can still learn, can reach out for help, can keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep embracing what life offers. I am strong in my weaknesses. I am competent in my challenges. I am alive, with all my changes and aging issues.” I can freeze momentarily, and I can start moving again. It’s ok. I am ok. Technophobia and all. 

  I am here. I am still so very much here. 

Nothing left to hide. And it was ok.

I went to the Dermatologist today for my annual mole check. It had been several years, due to the pandemic, so I thought it was time. 

I have gone to this particular doctor for several years, have watched the family photos change on his wall showing how quickly his children were growing up. We have aged together, acknowledging this in our brief annual contact.

There I stood, ready to have my entire body examined for any possible signs of things to worry about, such as skin cancer. I get other check ups too, and more as I age it seems. Older models seem to need more maintenance as we go along. 

 But this exam is different. This one is where I stand naked, in front of someone. These days the only one who sees me naked is me. And my mirror. And I have to work hard enough to quiet all the judgments there. Yet here I am, voluntarily standing in front of a doctor. And in this case, a male doctor. 

I was referred to him years ago, felt immediately comfortable with him and trusted his expertise. But, here I stood naked. And that pushes limits and touches vulnerabilities in a way that not much else can.

Interestingly enough, because I have been seeing him for years, we usually talk a bit about various topics during the appointments, as much as his hectic schedule will allow. Today, before he began the exam, he seemed to want to talk a bit more. I reflected on how his children have grown, how quickly time passes, as evidenced by the changing photos on his wall.

This seemed to open him up. He talked about where his children were in their lives, two of them graduating from college already. And then he stopped for a moment, looked at me and began talking about how surprised he was at the grief that he felt about that, how he had not expected that. I listened and reflected that back, how yes, there really is grief associated with aging, with changes that occur. I empathized and validated that of course he felt that grief, that the losses were real. I talked a little about how I write about grief and aging. How retirement has brought some of this home to me, the losses that we face, the changes that occur. He resonated, talking about that he would turn 60 soon and could begin to feel more of what I was talking about. He said he sometimes thinks about writing about these things as well. 

And then it was time for the exam. 

I am happy to report that all looks well, that he saw nothing that looked worrisome to him. I am grateful.

He left, wished me well. We both said it was nice to see each other again (although he saw much more than I did!) 

And I realized that this was a wonderful connection today. In the brief time that we had (and I could feel the pressure that he was under to get to the next patient), he opened up and shared a bit of who he was at that moment in time and in his life and about some of the things that he was struggling and working with. And that was a gift to me. And, I also realized, this made it much easier for me to stand there so completely exposed in front of him. 

Because I had seen some of his nakedness too. And we both were together in that moment in our vulnerability. And it was a human connection. In the space of a few minutes, there was a deep connection and understanding, before we each once again went our separate ways. Each to deal with our own grief, each knowing that others share this human bitter-sweet experience of life.

We each stand naked in front of each other in our deepest grief, in our losses, in our fears, in our journeys of aging. And having the courage to share that with each other can bring the sweetness to the bittersweet. We can offer each other some comfort and understanding along the way. We can see each other, truly see each other. See beyond the faces, the roles, the masks. See, honor, and cherish the beautiful nakedness of the humanity in us all. 

How did I not see you back then?

Going through some old photos the other day, I found a photo of myself from decades ago, actually about 45 years ago. (Where did all those years go?)

One of my issues in my life has been that of being harsh on myself and lacking in confidence. I have always managed to find things about myself to criticize, to hold against myself in the tally of self worth, to pay more attention to what I thought were deductions to that value of myself rather than seeing any additions. 

How sad. Such a waste of precious time. 

I look at the photo now and see a young woman who was trying to navigate her way in the world, who was doing her best, who was beautiful in her own way and with her own style. I am drawn to this photo. I am drawn to her. I am drawn to that version of me. Young, learning, making mistakes, persevering. Innocent. Anxious but trying to hide that and act as if all was ok. Feeling like an imposter in the young adult world. Feeling like I had no clue what I was doing, yet doing my best. 

I look back on you, my younger self, and this is what I would like to tell you.

You are just fine. You are a beautiful, sensitive woman and you want the best for yourself and those around you. You are not what others may have told you that you are. You are not less than anyone else. You have a right to be here. You have a right to claim your space on this earth and in this life. You deserve to be here, as you are. There is no need to earn that right to your life. You already have that. It is your birthright.

 You don’t have to earn anyone’s love. You don’t have to measure yourself by anyone else’s opinion. You are a precious human being, with a life to live. And live it you must. The time goes by quickly, trust me. More quickly than you can ever imagine. 

Don’t forget to play. Yes, work hard, and play hard. Enjoy the moments of laughter and joy. They are more precious than you can realize right now. They will be your memories of gold and help sustain you through more difficult times.

You will have pain. That is part of life. That does not define you or your life. It simply is part of being human. It does not mean that you are a failure.

Yes, you have and will continue to make mistakes. You will regret some things. Don’t drown in your regret. Learn from it. And carry on. And do better, when you can. 

You are kind. Never ever underestimate the power of that trait. Treasure it. It helps define who you are, and that is beautiful.

Love passionately. Even if you have pain and disappointments in love. Even if relationships don’t last. They will add to the fabric of who you are and the rich tapestry of your life that you can look back on and smile. And know that you loved. And were loved. Even if it doesn’t last in the same form with everyone, it lasts in some measure. It lasts in the piece of you that knows how to love.

Treasure your love of art and writing. It will come back when you are ready to pay attention to it. It will help you save your soul as you approach the end of your path.

Treasure your love of animals. They will teach you about life, love, and loss. The pain will be deep, as deep as the love that you learned from them.

Treasure your body. Try to stop the incessant judgment of it. It is beautiful, just the way that it is. It will change as the years go by. And it will still be beautiful, albeit in a different way. It will reflect the years and your life. It will reflect your journey. It will always be a sacred vessel that carries your soul.

Treasure your spirituality. That will sustain you more than you can ever imagine right now. It will be your guide and your direction. 

Treasure your innocence and what can be your childlike qualities. They are wonderful and add joy and delight. Keep them close to you as you continue your journey into the years.

You have never really heard these words from me …“I love you, completely, as you are. You are perfect, with all your imperfections and flaws. You are so much more. You are alive, and you have a right to embrace that life fully, to be exactly who you are fully. There is no one exactly like you. Embrace that. Hold that close. It is a gift like no other, one that grows with time and with aging.”

I am glad to be able to write this letter to you now. I am glad to meet you again.

 And, as I think about this, perhaps this is also a letter to where I am now from my future self. Maybe I should read this again. And listen to the message. 

To live, fully, passionately, as my exquisite self. To fully inhabit where I am and who I am right now, still alive, still here. 

Measuring our value by numbers

We are often measured by various counts and numbers. Our height, our weight, our age, our income, our IQ, level of education, where we may have gone to school, the zip code where we live. The list goes on. 

To name those things is not harmful in and of itself, but have you noticed the value that may get assigned to each number?

If a man is 6’0, that’s in the plus category. If he is 5’0, not so much.

If a woman weighs 125, that’s seen as pretty good. 190? Not so much.

If someone is 25 years old, there is value seen. 75? Maybe not so much.

If an income is 6 figure, positive. $20,000 or even less? Not so much.

If a woman measures 36–24–36, positive. 45–45–45? Not so much.

 If a woman has C or D cups bra size, positive. A cups? Not so much. 

Insert measurements of men’s penises here. You know the drill.

I agree that structuring and categorizing things helps us bring some order and less chaos to our perception of the world. But, when it comes to human worth, that’s where the line is crossed. We are not numbers. Our worth cannot be measured quantitatively. We are so much more than that.

We are human beings, with such a variety and richness to us. And each of us has something unique to bring to the table. 

If we are constantly trying to measure up to some ideal of perfection, then we cannot appreciate who we are and all that we have to offer. We lose the beauty of each of our imperfections and how we can understand each other’s pain and struggles. We can get lost in our comparisons and forget to touch and connect more with each other along the way. We measure ourselves as less than, as not good enough, and we can then quietly isolate ourselves out of sight so as to try and reduce the judgments (not realizing the most painful of these comes from ourselves and the standards that we have internalized). 

I have done this in my life. And I tire of it. I have had enough. And I am enough, just the way that I am. That does not mean that I do not work on trying to be the best that I can be, but that is not a condition for self love and self acceptance. It is not a prerequisite to be able to live the fullest life possible, to love to the utmost, to inhabit our bodies fully and our lives passionately and completely. To be 100% alive. That is the number to live by. That is measurement enough.