Girl, today I write to you from nostalgia and gratitude. I write to you from the deepest parts of my soul, to you, the girl I once was.
I write to you, whom I remember today more than ever. If I close my eyes, I can see you clearly, the girl next to her doll houses, wishing she could be as pretty as they were. The girl who could pretend to feed them and care for them, the way she wished she was taken care of; she did this unconscious of her own pain, just her heart expressing itself.
I write to you young one, I push away the dark memories and think only of your spirit; the girl who embraced every moment of “happiness” she could grasp, resilient, magickal, fragile yet stronger than she gave herself credit for.
I remember you in grandma’s kitchen. I remember the smell of homemade butter and cheese. I remember how she eagerly used her little fingers to knead the dough, enjoying its texture as grandma taught her how to make bread. I remember her as she kept close to the stone oven, watching the bread rise. When the bread was ready, I remember how her soul felt so happy by the smell of freshly baked bread ready to be eaten. I remember her trying to decide what to put on her warm bread…cheese, butter, marmalade?
I remember the smell of chamomile tea and honey, which grandma would always prepare to match the freshly baked buns. Sometimes, if it was night, she would give the young girl a cup of warm milk with a hint of cinnamon. I remember the girl looking up after she finished drinking it; grandma looking at her with a big smile. The young girl feeling so full and pleased, not caring she had a big white milk moustache on her face…. she was happy.
I write to you sweet girl, the one who loved to sit by the fire and listen to her grandparents tell stories of times long gone. To her, the stories were better than fairytales. She was young but she understood them, something about them resonated with her. They weren’t just old stories, there was wisdom there.
I write to the girl who even though she was very young, loved to read and write poetry. The girl who loved her 6th grade teacher; a teacher who loved her pupils; full of passion for her calling. She wasn’t just instructing them, she was guiding them; not just towards the sciences and arts but as human beings. I remember the young girl thinking “one day I will be like her”.
I write to that girl, whom despite all the dark things which were already tearing at her soul and body, remained innocent. The one whom despite all the pain knew how to laugh and chase after butterflies. The one whom would dance to her own tune and despite it all, believed one day she would have more magickal days and less nightmares.
Today I write to you, after so many loses and victories. After days of joy and days of wishing I wasn’t here. I write to you because you remind me of what is good, worthy, strong and beautiful. You remind me that despite all the chaos and pain, life is still worth living.
You remind me to value those who love me, really love me…not just words. You remind me that people make mistakes but is the heart and the motivation that counts.
You remind me that even though there are days I can’t recognize myself, I am still lovable and worthy.
You remind me that I am capable of rising up after being knocked down time and time again.
You remind me that I know how to give love, real, deep love–that is my gift. That despite how broken I may feel at times, how unfit to be here, I know I can give love and wisdom; the first is in my nature, the second, a “gift” from a life too shattered yet also full of magick. To that girl…I love you.
To the woman I am now: even though sometimes the girl and you seem separated by centuries, and at times I wonder who you are, and what will happen to you….I love you. I will always love you.
I write on this rainy cold day, after weeks of what seems were a rollercoaster full of surprises and changes. Things that were and weren’t as they seemed. What happens as we grow up, that makes it so difficult to simply express ourselves in our totality? What happens to most of us that we become callous and sarcastic?
So much confusion could be avoided if instead of hiding our pain, stress, sadness; which only will express itself in more twisted ways; we were capable like children to simply be. What if we could just be so open, and yes, I dare say innocent… isn’t that strength? Isn’t that courage? Weren’t we as children strong and courageous because in our innocence we were willing to be open? Open not just to others but to life itself.
I write on this rainy day, as I reflect on all of these. As I sit here typing, with my eyes tearing up for having allowed others to let me doubt myself, my gifts, my essence. So, what if I am odd? What does it matter that not everyone gets me? Do I stop being lovable and beautiful simply because of their superficial judgements?
Am I supposed to hide who I really am so I may fit within the cookie cut version of what is supposed to be “normal”? Normal according to whom? Whose perspective am I supposed to listen, when there are so many? And what if I don’t want to listen; after all their perspectives are determined by their experiences and their experiences aren’t mine. What does it matter to others if I refuse to let go of the magick within?…Should I care?… I rather not.
I do not live in delusion of rainbows and unicorns; I see life’s magick, I feel the pain brought on by false conditioning within a shallow idea of what it is to be human. I see both sides of the coin; however, despite the tough days and even tougher moments, I still believe in the power of life’s divinity…my own divinity. I believe in the healing power of the natural love I carry inside and the care and love from others to me.
Despite it all, I still mesmerize at the beauty of butterflies, the smile of a child, the embrace of my loved ones, and every other little and big thing which makes this life not just beautiful and worth fighting for, but a wonderful life.
For all of it… I AM GRATEFUL.