Today I have not left bed, so I'm writing to you from this one in Virginia. The ceiling fan is peacefully humming, my friend's now two-year-old is squealing adorably downstairs, and Dan told me I'm not allowed to write a sentence about how cute he looks next to me.
The past two weeks I reemerged into the world and got to see old friends. Some in new settings, at a celebratory event for a small
restaurant one of them is opening in Charlottesville; others in familiar settings, at the college campus we went to; another in both a new and familiar setting, at the arena where I once worked and also met Dan, and where we had seen shows together before, but in a new configuration for a new
concert.
I also got to dress up and see new friends. I found myself thinking: who were you before all of this?
Now, as I prepare for an afternoon of moon bounces, cake pops, and birthday candles, on top of seeing friends from as far back as the sixth grade, I'm thinking about growing older. Do we spend our whole lives growing into ourselves or clawing our way back to who we were before the world changed us? At what point do we stop listening to the intuition we are born with; stop suppressing the urge to cry, scream, laugh, and smile? It feels harder and harder to be vulnerable; to wear our hearts on our sleeves. Why is that? (If you have any idea, please lmk.)
When I think about life, I see each of us as a compass. Our arrow is pointing in one way, then another, then it starts spinning around wildly, magnetized in all these different directions. These directions aren't always wrong, per se, but they aren't always ours.
A photo graphic telling you to “say no more” and “say yes more” are both right. But what's right for you?
Who were you before all of this? I never asked. But maybe next time, I will.
Thank you for reading
last week's letter. I am loving reconnecting with so many of you through your emails back to me. It truly is a bright spot in my day to have pen pals again! See you week after next.
