I present to you - a letter I wrote to myself! May it have something of value for you, also.
Hey,
I know that sometimes it seems like you’re in a kind of Groundhog Day situation; a stretch of desert where you have to keep on doing the same thing over and over and over and over again.
One more social media post. One more promotional photo. One more practice. We put our legs in and out of our jeans over and over and over. We brush our teeth, comb our hair, stay hydrated and pick our battles. We grieve how little we feel like we’re really accomplishing, how slow change is, how the world feels like it’s actually turning backwards.
‘What’s the point?’, we ask ourselves. ‘Why try?’
So you know what normally comes next right about now. I will point you to the grand scheme of things and remind you that we thrive on hope like we thrive on water. But right now, my mind is too small for grand schemes. I’m Tinkerbell with room for a single feeling.
So imagine, not the grand scheme of things, but a lake. A still, beautiful lake. Nothing is expected of you. Nobody can reach you. It’s all up to you right now. You have total permission to do what you want. You can sit here in your little red kayak for as long as you want.
You can just drift along and become one with the scenery. Nobody needs to know that you’re here. Nobody needs to see a photograph. Nobody needs anything from you at all.
It’s quiet. You’re safe. Your needs are met. You can hear yourself think That’s right - that’s what you sound like! You can breathe the clean air so freely.
You take a nap. The longest nap of your life.
And then you wake up. You catch a fish, and cook it right there on the beach. You do this all day, every day, for a good three months or so. Just you and the lake.
And then it hits you. You’re actually kind of bored. You can’t remember the last time you were bored.
And another thing. You kind of miss the hustle and bustle, just a little bit. You miss seeing people and hearing their dumb questions.
This whole being-one-with-the-kayak shtick is nice, but it’s not where you want to be a year and a half from now. You want to be…farming corn with your best friends, turning them into necklaces for dolphins, and then talking about it over whiskey. Apparently, you can’t do that from here.
So whenever you’re ready, row back to shore. You will find I have left a box for you with a few tools to get you started.
Whenever you’re ready.
This concludes my letter to myself! As you can see, I needed a mini vacation, even if it was just an imaginary one. We all need rest sometimes.