Altruistic Aaliyah announced another amazing abroad adventure- an aim Aunt Aretha almost assuredly adopted as an adolescent, and although an afflicted, attenuated amygdala accelerated active aggressions, Aretha assented assertively and affectionately, alternating allegories associating Atheism and archaeological artifacts abundant around Antigua, albeit arbitrarily; an arcane awareness about adopting archaic Austrian aesthetics and attire; and anecdotes admonishing authority as an alacritous, adroit Anarchist at an amiable and ambitious age, ascending austerity and approaching an authentic audacity audible around all authoritative, avarice Aristocrats, and Aaliyah, abnormally acquiescent, adamantly agreed ameliorating agrarian atrocities and advocating against adversity across Africa alleviated Aaliyah’s Anglo abasement.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. My weight pushes down into the seat of a green folding chair and my legs relax over the edge, feet planted on the concrete slab below. A soft, guiding voice comes through my headphones. My eyes close and the light and warmth of the July sun presses its colors gently upon my lids. My unconsciously stiffened muscles are calmed limb by limb.

I am led through a sequence of visualizations. Gradually, I arrive at the doorstep of my future self. The person inside is 20 years older than my current age. She is the person who is also supposed to be my inner mentor. The wise antithesis of my inner critic- the bitchy saboteur who relishes in her ability to aid, perfect, and dig in her stilettos when no one asks for her assistance, corrections, or judgment.

I cannot immediately see her dwelling. Is it a house, cabin, condo, mansion, or perhaps a shack? But I do feel something. It’s warm, somewhat unstable ground beneath my feet and a soft but gritty sensation between my toes. Sand! I look over my shoulder and spot the glistening sea. The house comes into view. It’s really more of a cottage, with a wraparound porch and red Adirondack chairs adorned with cozy, vibrantly colored cushions. There’s a hammock too, obviously.

The woman comes to the door without me having to knock. She is a stark contrast to the Critic. Her long, flowing skirt is topped off with an airy, blue blouse reminiscent of her ocean neighbor. Layered necklaces, wrap bracelets, and vintage rings compliment her Bohemian appeal. She guides me into her home. Family pictures and eclectic yet tasteful art lines the walls. It feels comfortable; lived-in but not cluttered, and relaxing but not boring. The voice over my headphones guides me into the woman’s favorite room so she and I can talk.

The room is fairly small, but the large princess window with upholstered bench seat on one wall, and wide French doors opening to the deck on another give it a bright, airy spaciousness. Plush, Moroccan-inspired pillows in various colors, sizes, and textures coat a substantial corner of the room. Rich, red fabrics provide a canopy, partially enclosing us as we settle in.

The voice instructs me to ask the woman a series of questions.

“What has mattered the most to you throughout these twenty years?” I repeat the guide’s words.

I feel her answer “family” and “travel.”

“What do I need to do to get from where I am today to where you are now?”

“Let go,” she replies. “Not everything goes according to plan.”

I am comforted by the smile in her eyes when she says this. But I also can’t ignore the nervousness in my gut. What isn’t going to go according to plan? And whose plan is it? Is she talking about day-to-day simple plans, or the vague to slightly less vague ideas fluttering around my head about what should be my longer-term plan? If it’s heavy on the latter, what or who has created these “shoulds?” The “should” imposed by family or friends (inadvertently or purposefully), the “should” built out of societal constructs and past personal events, the “should” of the Critic who threatens to keep me small and negative?

The woman doesn’t answer, but then again, I have traveled back into my thinking brain and lost all sight of her. I’ve wandered out of the meditation and into the vastness of my own questions. Who and/or what is in control of me? Will I listen to my wise future self when my journey steers into unexpected territory? Or will the Critic’s voice stifle my ability to adjust, adapt, or willfully navigate in a new direction? This future self is supposed to be my inner mentor, but I’m not confident she has all the answers- well, not yet. But, maybe if I choose to listen to her while on this journey, she will at least guide me to the beach.