The Story We Tell Ourselves
My little sister (who is 52) is still in contact with a childhood friend of mine from when we all lived on the former Army post in Frankfurt Germany.
This friend recently sent me a shoebox full of letters I had written to her between the ages of 15 and 18. I have yet to reread them, dreading the insipidness, the obsession with the trite and the mind-numbing detail of my self-limited life.
I’m sure I’ll read about my hair, my skin, boys I liked…so what is my hesitancy?
Perhaps I don’t want to admit to myself that I have not always been the “sage soul” I am now, or, maybe because I am still holding on to pain from that era. I was not one of the popular crowd and lived much of that time in my head and in my heart.
I was full of dreams and of procrastination fueled by fear.
It’s actually the perfect time to receive such a gift of remembrance, as I am currently undergoing integrative bodywork once a week. The emotional freedom from the release of tissues is a tandem of overwhelming and exhilarating .
Perhaps I should read these letters right before a bodywork session so that the emotional angst is closer to the surface. Would this make any difference?
I lose touch with people…it’s what I do. I imagine, I do still carry them around with me. Do these letters carry unfinished business… my unfinished business?
How many people (other than those who write and actually keep journals) have direct access to their younger selves? Why am I quite sure that these are not going to be the literary masterpieces of John and Abigail Quincy Adams?
I picked up a few of my letters…one is a front and back of me having written, “No!” What was that all about? What was I so vehement about?
Maybe I have lost contact with myself, just like I have lost contact with everyone else in my 54 (almost 55) years? What if reading those letters, brings me back to myself? What power would that release?
I’m doing it again…I am pondering in writing, which for me is procrastination. Maybe I do still have my youthful spirit after all.