Dear Me

Dear Me,

Last year was rough on your body and your soul—you wearily stumbled up the mountain to the vantage point of mid-life. The excess fat, nicotine, and caffeine slowed your steps—but you arrived wiser and thinner--gallbladder intact. As a reward; relax--soak in the beauty of your past travels from a higher perspective. Take the time to survey the terrain; and choose a meandering path back down. You deserve a fabulous 2007!

This year, turn and acknowledge the friend who sits silently beside you at the summit. She has been your loyal Sherpa for 34 years…she breezes in at the perfect moment to pull you to your feet, she suggests the shorter path…and she shoulders your pack when the trail is too steep. She is your co-conspirator, your wordsmith, your secretary, your inspiration. Have you ever thanked her? Do you remember the lessons she has taught? Look back at the path and you will see her footprints.

She arrived in second grade, at about the same time that you and Joyce, the poorest kids in the class, clung together in an alien land of themed birthday parties and Barbie bikes. She helped you plot revenge on your classmates between the construction paper covers of The Haunted House. You turned giddy circles through the forest, to hide your manuscript for eternity in a Folgers can beneath an enchanted oak. Wouldn’t it be fun to read that childish script and relive the excitement? Save all your finished work—even if you hate it. You may find a magic bean to plant elsewhere, but if not, you can measure your changing taste.

You left your invisible friend behind during your first crush; sneaking out after dinner for awkward kisses under the basketball net. When weeks later love ended in heartache—she returned to hold the cramped hand that scribbled sappy lyrics. Twenty-six years is a nice time capsule, so, open that shoebox of secret embarrassment and read the simple rhymes with new eyes. Sink into an innocent teen’s honest, raw emotion. She can still inspire you if you give her a chance.

You probably could not see her through the purple haze, but the wordsmith showed up for every class in college. In fact, you rarely noticed her at all until you were in love…or in pain. She had the thankless task of handing you statistics as well as metaphors. Did you really think the 36-page essay on “Human Rights Abuses in Guatemala” wrote itself? Here is the proof you seek that your words are inexhaustible. You can combine them into endless phrases, and yet they remain available. Write every day: release the resentment, the anger, and the simple pleasures of your life to the page. Do you want toxic sludge clogging your gray matter, too?

Finally, when Ma died, you heard your friend’s sympathetic whisper of fantasy. The mother in law who could not only read the map of your dreams, but had actually danced inside it, had left you stranded at the crossroads of China and India. You drafted a path Djin had never walked; a life colored with shadow puppet schemes, the curried flow of prancing dragons, and crimson wedding mudras. Your imagination soared free, but your hands remained frozen in grief, the pictures unsketched. Do not forget your vow to honor an amazing matriarch. You need not research Indonesian marriage rites to tell her tale: describe the personality that you know, instead of a history imagined. Paint her generous and accepting spirit for her grandchild.

Is your mentor's face becoming clearer? She is your private secretary: she organizes the vocabulary given freely by faceless authors. These words have been the stepping stones of your life--an escape from boredom and mediocrity; an impetus to reach beyond the trailer toward the castle. When you carelessly discard them, she follows behind and collects them for future use. She gathers sexy adverbs in a folder marked “Romance”, and ancient symbols in a bulging “Archaeology” file. She correctly labeled the most treasured stanzas of an idealistic invalid: “Life Savers”. There is now an orderly stairway of filing cabinets at your disposal. The least you can do is clean up after yourself—and the most you can do is choose your words carefully.

Your muse has worked silently in the background, categorizing your words, and waiting for the day you will weave them into their own world. In 2007, acknowledge her dedication: listen to her advice, and use the resources she has so graciously offered. Most importantly, let her speak! While not an Emily Dickinson, a Marja Gimbutas, or even a Nora Roberts—the writer inside has earned the respect of her own name. She is one creative, loyal, and determined little woman!

On the way down, ask her what she thinks about the name “Djin”.

In gratitude and encouragement,
Me