Monday, August 04, 2014

A Letter to Myself (and Anyone Else Who Needs to Hear This)


Dear You,
You're in your thirties. Your life is pretty much nothing like you expected it to be when you were in your twenties or especially your teens. That's really okay. Great even. Because in your twenties, you were what is not commonly called (but should be) delusional. And when you were a teenager, you were just a dumb ass. You knew only a tiny little bit about yourself, and not a very useful bit at that. Like your BMI and your GPA. Not even your SSN. You're really much better informed now. Trust me.

So you're not where you thought you'd be or doing what you thought you'd be doing. And you're actually pretty happy about that. You have frequently thought that you'd never have met many parts of yourself if not for the life you live now. Like the part that loves dusting. Just kidding. You know you're not disappointed not to be a high profile insert career here in insert city here. You're glad to have discovered a love you never knew about of insert interest here. So what is the problem?

The problem is that the one delusional and dumbed ideal of your younger self that you never let go is the idea that in your thirties, you'll have your physical and metaphysical act together. Somewhere, somewhen you got the idea that in your thirties, wherever you were, whatever you were doing, it would be organized. It would be orderly. It would be sensible and fully fiscally responsible. In short, you thought you'd be on the level. Welcome, Frustration. Won't you come and take up residence in my life?


See, I'm not sure where you got the idea that this was the time of your life when you would be fully in control. Honestly, all those years ago when you were young enough to think Erma Bombeck was hopelessly gauche, there were still warning signs. Remember that comic strip where one character told another, "I feel like I'm losing control!"
"Don't worry," was the reply. "It's all an illusion."
"That I'm losing control?"
"No, that you ever had any to begin with."

Really, what is it that you want? And where did you get the idea to want it? Do you expect to have perfectly behaved children? An obsessively organized house? Laundry that actually gets put away? A paragraph not entirely composed of question fragments? What is it that you really think you should be doing that you're not? And whose idea was it, really, that you should? Haven't you long prided yourself on being absolutely outside the reach of peer pressure and oblivious to the caprice of external opinion?

See, that's the thing. You're smart enough to know that entropy is not just a concept in physics. That the world, deviated as it is from its original blueprint, is irresistibly drawn towards chaos whether it be the State of the Union or the state of the kitchen sink. You're also wise enough to know that nobody with a capital NO in your circle of acquaintance has their act together behind closed doors. If their finances are tidy, their house isn't. If their house is immaculate, their marriage isn't. If their marriage is serene, their kids are rowdy. Or whatever. Nobody's got it sorted. But I won't tell you any of those things, because that's not really helpful, is it? That's not where the stress comes from.

The stress comes from the idea that you were ever supposed to be perfect in any of your parts to begin with. You've always known that you were not blessed with perfect looks. You've accepted that. But you got the mistaken notion that, because you believe you're smart, you should be able to achieve perfection. If you don't manage time, money, family, and/or career with ludicrous aplomb, then you're suddenly worth nothing. Not just less, but nothing.


Let go of that notion. You were not created for perfection, because the broken world can't compass it. Instead, you were created for all the flawed brilliance you can imagine. You were created to make occasional wise observations. You were created to do something, anything, passionately. So what if it doesn't make dollars-and-sense to the world. That poem you are writing? That's what you're here for. That blanket you knitted for your friend's child? That is the beauty of you. That precious, witty thing your child just said? That didn't happen without your influence. That person whom you encouraged? Put that on as ballast to balance your Atlas act. You were made for the moments of blinding brilliance that shine out of your life.

Have you noticed that a spotless mirrored surface doesn't reflect nearly as many rays of light as a pile of broken glass? Doesn't glitter like a yard full of asymmetrical snowflakes? Doesn't dazzle like the breeze-rippled surface of water? Life isn't ever going to be polished, unbroken, symmetrical, or  calm. Those things aren’t consistent with life. You need to keep an eye out for the joys in the midst of the jumble.

Like tonight, if you're me. The kitchen isn't clean. The laundry is half folded and not likely to get put away. The bank balance is laughable. But you went outside with the kids and their dad. For a glorious half hour, you all played Frisbee while absolutely nothing else mattered. And, BAM, you know that for once, you've nailed it. Everything is where it belongs in your world.

Love and Frisbee to you.
Now and always,

You