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Dear Me, Love, Me


It is New Year's Eve, 2023. Massive changes are afoot in my world. I am walking at sunset with one of my dogs, and it occurs to me that the next time the calendar hits December 31st, my life will be very different. I reflect that there is no way to know what this means, different. While some details of life follow me through every iteration, there's so much in this moment that I cannot yet define. I feel called to write a letter to the woman that I will be next New Year's Eve.


Dearest Deb:

I don't yet know the woman who will read this, but here is what I do know about her (you, me):


I love her. So fucking much that I asked to burn down my life so that she could rise from the ashes. I used those very words: I am ready to burn this down. And while they were true, I will admit that I struggled, after uttering them, to light the match. No matter, the burning has come for me. And I love her so much that I walk willingly now into the flames. All that is no longer needed, no longer aligned, will burn away now so that she will have as much space as she needs to rise.


I believe in her. She is so strong, so capable. I know this because I am already strong and capable. I have everything that I need, in this moment, to become her. She will, by her nature, be greater than I am now. It's impossible not to believe in this woman, who is everything that I am today and also so much more. She, we, can be nothing less than spectacular.


She will be worth it. Every. Single. Bit of it. Every tear, every lonely night, every loss, every choice that feels impossible to make--she will be worth everything her creation requires of me. This is true not just to me, for me, but for what she will bring to this world. What I lay down in sacrifice to her now will give her roots so deep that she will never falter, never fail. She will be a force, a power. She will break worlds. She will soar.


She is me, already. Even thought I can't see or feel her just yet, I know she is here. I sense her inside of me, a bud not yet blossomed, but no longer wrapped tightly. A blush of color peeks through at her seams. We are nature's cycles, she and me. I will fall and crumble, and my lessons will be composted to nourish her. She is the seed of me; I am the Earth where she will flourish. We are here in this space together now, that which is no more and that which has not yet come to be. We are one. And two. And all.


Though I do not yet know you, I would tell you that I cannot wait to meet you, to be you. I have a knowing within me saying our life is going to be a riot! I've learned so much of joy, of surrender, of balance, of boundaries, and rest, and ease, and allowing. This is the fertile soil in which our next chapter is planted. Somehow I know, even in the darkness of winter's death, that nothing short of stunning grandeur can grow from this.


And I wonder, what would you tell me? As the sun sets on your December 31st, as you can so clearly see what is obscured for me now, what would you write back to me? I hope it would be love and gratitude. I hope you have some crazy, courageous stories to tell. I hope you will be able tell me that different meant things I could never have imagined. I hope you will be proud of me, as I am of you. And I hope wherever you are--whatever land is beneath your feet, whatever magic is blowing on the wind, wherever you lay your head and heart at night--it feels like home.


Huge love,

D

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