Once upon a vivid dream...or was it?

Yesterday afternoon, I was organizing the attic when I came upon a box of my old journals. I started keeping one when I was twelve and continued until a year into my marriage. (My husband thought he was supposed to have access to every nook and cranny of my mind. I disagreed. Rather than argue, I stopped keeping a journal. I wish I hadn’t. But that’s another story.)

Anyway, I was excited when I realized the treasure trove of adolescent angst I’d found and sat down to read a bit. When I opened the earliest notebook, a piece of onionskin paper slipped out. It was yellowing and written in a handwriting I recognized as my own. Not my childhood perfect penmanship taught by Sister Mercedes and Sister Mary Ellen handwriting. No. The adult version, personalized over decades. I felt a chill. It had no date. I read: Dear Younger Me and skipping to the end, I noted it was signed, Your future self.

And then, I remembered.

And it was a doozy of a brain-twisting memory, because I remembered both sides of the...dream. The writing of the note that I was yet to experience…and the receiving of the letter by my terrified, eleven year old self.

I have to laugh as I write this. I mean, I say memory, but clearly, it was a dream that felt real and left traces in my mind so that one day I might…remember…Right?

Except that, I was holding evidence in my hands that what I remembered was not the product of an overactive imagination. I can recall clearly now that moment in my mother’s house, in my small room, sitting upon my bed, blanket up to my chin, staring into the darkness at this, this woman, who was me, or, one day, would be.

She told me not to be afraid, that she had something for me, to help me along the journey of my life. I tried to scream for my mother. Again, she told me to be calm, that she would never hurt me and that I should remember that myself. Then she asked to read me a letter she’d written me. “Like you, I am still better at writing my thoughts than speaking off the cuff.” And this is what she read to me. What I read on that yellowing piece of impossible history in the attic.

Dear Younger Me,

Say ”yes” the first time he asks you to marry him. (I need not tell you who. There is only one who will ever ask.) You may think that you are being the more mature, the more adult – you will be so very young when he asks – but really, you are just untrusting of his feelings and of your gut instinct that he is the one. Trust him and yourself: Say yes. It may not change the time table very much, I mean, ultimately, you do say yes and as I write, you have been married almost thirty years. But that initial lack of trust may have colored the early years unnecessarily.

That Christmas you try to decide who to visit, visit Daddy. Save Aunt Deenie for another day. You will spend your life time regretting it if you do not.

Keep writing. Even when you stop keeping a journal because of prying eyes, keep writing. It will save you more than once.

Keep doing all the things you love even when you are exhausted by all your responsibilities. You will find the moments of joy you permit yourself will allow you to keep bringing joy to others.

And at that country club? Your ONLY friend is the cantankerous club president. Remember that. It will save you serious disillusionment. Although learning from bad experiences can be a good thing, this is NOT one of those times.

In general, the path you take is a good one. The five and ten year plans you write serve you well. You are not very adventurous, but enough to keep your life interesting. Keep following your instincts…and your heart.

That smile you cultivate in adolescence to overcome your shyness? Keep sharing it. It is good for you and for the world around you.

It is not an easy life. It is not an endlessly happy life. You will endure many hardships. But you do endure. And you have an abundance of joys to see you through.

It is a wonderful life. Believe it. Believe me.

I do love you though you may doubt it from time to time,

Your future self

As I read the last words, the paper disintegrated in my hand…from age, I suppose. And so, I ran to my desk to write them down, so I would not forget…again. I mean, given the evidence, it’s apparent that one day, time travel will really be a thing… Right?

Right?