“It is a universal truth that no matter how well one knows a scene, to observe it from above is something of a revelation. I stood by the railings and peered over, beyond the tree. The library — usually so vast and imposing — took on the appearance of a stage set. Ordinary items — the Steinway & Sons grand piano, the oak writing desk, Lord Ashbury’s globe — were suddenly rendered smaller, ersatz versions of themselves, and gave the impression of having been arranged to suit a cast of players, yet to make its entrance.”
Grace Bradley, (in The House at Riverton by Kate Morton)
Writing a letter to yourself is a little like observing your life from above. Nearly 250 of you wrote letters last week, climbed up on the ladder and looked back on your past, seeing it differently than you did when you were living down low inside it.
You told her to be brave.
You told him to write down everything he remembers about his Dad.
You told her to carry deodorant in her purse
You whispered that her mom will become her best friend.
You encouraged her not to hide behind other people’s words, write some of her own, and then go join the party.
You said to listen to that quiet girl on the bus.
You urged him to raise his hand even if he isn’t certain of the answer.
You promised that over time, people will tell her that her name is beautiful.
You told her to go ahead and take that chip off her shoulder.
You taught her about the shape of her curves and the shape of her soul.
You warned her never to let mom dye her hair.
I am learning so much from your words, the tenderness with which you speak them, the perspective you have to offer the younger generation. If you haven’t written a letter yet and linked it up, there is still time. I’ll leave the linky open through the rest of the week.