Letter to My Future Self: A Brigit's Flame Mini-Contest Entry
A child of God . .
A wild thing . . .
I am passionate . . . I am wild and unfettered . . . I am crazy with life
I am a child of God
I am happy and free . . . I am uncensored . . . I am truth and beauty
I am ferocious and loyal and loving
I am free . . . I am beauty and wildness and rain and wind . . .
I am impassioned. I am free and untangled
I am careful of myself . . . I am beyond hope
I am sorry . . .
June 20, 2010
To My Future Self in 10 Years,
What do you make of this poem now? Personally, whenever I read this aloud, I wonder at that last line - I am sorry. I am a sorry mess? I am sorry for not really being wild as the wind and rain and thunder? I am sorry for who I am? Maybe by now you have figured this out, conquered the waves of sadness and hopelessness, let the wild child run free. I don’t even see, much yet understand, the many layers of repression that hold me down. I tell myself I am interesting, worthy, worthwhile . . . I’d like to believe in the passtionate, bold, and undaunting spirit that speaks within the meditative trance above. Sometimes I can feel the yearning of that wild child for more than I have offered her so far on this journey of mine. Tell me that you have done better. Tell me that you have grown into yourself at last; that the wind rustles the leaves of trees when you laugh. Tell me you have discovered the truth of your own beauty .
I imagine you, reading this. It is summer, too, and you are sitting at an old wooden desk in front of an open casement window. I hope this is the cottage by the sea I’ve always dreamed of, looking out over water that can soothe my soul even lashed about in a violent storm. It calls to me, that wild water - do you still hear it? Or have you lived within it and become who you were meant to be? I am looking at you now with my heart’s eyes and you are young even still, and there is a bemused expression on your face as your eyes scan this letter. A good sign? That is what I hope. My desire is that ten years from now, you are not still sorry.
With hope,
The Wild Child
P.S. And what of the tattoo? Did you decide on the rose or the dragon . . .? I know what I am thinking you might have done . . .
A wild thing . . .
I am passionate . . . I am wild and unfettered . . . I am crazy with life
I am a child of God
I am happy and free . . . I am uncensored . . . I am truth and beauty
I am ferocious and loyal and loving
I am free . . . I am beauty and wildness and rain and wind . . .
I am impassioned. I am free and untangled
I am careful of myself . . . I am beyond hope
I am sorry . . .
June 20, 2010
To My Future Self in 10 Years,
What do you make of this poem now? Personally, whenever I read this aloud, I wonder at that last line - I am sorry. I am a sorry mess? I am sorry for not really being wild as the wind and rain and thunder? I am sorry for who I am? Maybe by now you have figured this out, conquered the waves of sadness and hopelessness, let the wild child run free. I don’t even see, much yet understand, the many layers of repression that hold me down. I tell myself I am interesting, worthy, worthwhile . . . I’d like to believe in the passtionate, bold, and undaunting spirit that speaks within the meditative trance above. Sometimes I can feel the yearning of that wild child for more than I have offered her so far on this journey of mine. Tell me that you have done better. Tell me that you have grown into yourself at last; that the wind rustles the leaves of trees when you laugh. Tell me you have discovered the truth of your own beauty .
I imagine you, reading this. It is summer, too, and you are sitting at an old wooden desk in front of an open casement window. I hope this is the cottage by the sea I’ve always dreamed of, looking out over water that can soothe my soul even lashed about in a violent storm. It calls to me, that wild water - do you still hear it? Or have you lived within it and become who you were meant to be? I am looking at you now with my heart’s eyes and you are young even still, and there is a bemused expression on your face as your eyes scan this letter. A good sign? That is what I hope. My desire is that ten years from now, you are not still sorry.
With hope,
The Wild Child
P.S. And what of the tattoo? Did you decide on the rose or the dragon . . .? I know what I am thinking you might have done . . .