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Rated: E · Letter/Memo · Contest Entry · #2211476
From the Ego's point of view
Dear Me, Myself, and I,

Greetings and salutations, my friends, and with that, my first thought is to thank you for all of the love, compassion, and grit you have provided through the years. The schizophrenic introduction of this letter is an acknowledgement of knowing my person as a prismatic being with facets that are ever-changing, ever-growing, and ever-questioning. There are distinct and contrasting angles to my persona. The needs, wants, and desires of the ego vary with time and circumstance. Just like a flower that blooms in the sun and wilts in the winter's frost the triad's soul must be cultivated and nurtured. I vow, in this year of 2020, to tend to the continued well-being, care, and fulfillment of me. Never shall this be a selfish prophecy of my life, but an inclusion of all the lovely trinkets in my flowerpot accumulated along the journey.

As a kid, one of my favorite passers of time was to make paper fortunetellers. It involved folding a square piece of paper, with many bends along the way, into the shape of an opening and closing pyramid. The folds were numbered, indicating how many times the pyramid would open and close with the flexing of the fortuneteller's fingers. The awaiting child's future would be revealed at the crinkled unfolding of the last bend, chosen by the folded spelling of a color choice. It was just a thing that girls did during rainy time recess of the 60's. And into my path, along came an innovative teacher of the times that chose to play the game along with her giggling and goofy students. She made her own artistic version, perfectly stenciled and brightly colored, of a fortuneteller. After much "oohing and ahhing" at her creation, our fortunes were read. Michelle, the teacher predicted, would be a scientist that worked at curing cancer. That little girl ended up being a physician. I will never forget when she came to my prediction and the smile that shined in her eyes as she delivered the message with such conviction. "You shall be a writer of words and teller of great stories" she said. Sister Michaeline was her name and in her kindness, she offered us all dreams. She believed and so we believed. So what does this have to do with a Dear Me letter, you ask? Lori, that answer is, one teacher long ago believed in you and your ability, and you owe it to her and yourself, to maintain guardianship of that gift. Write like there is no tomorrow, express the spirit that dances in your soul, and leave behind a legacy of your words. Writing is the portrait's frame to my being and all vines bloom from seeds buried in its wood.

My goals for the New Year are many. The first of which is to be ever mindful that we are never guaranteed a tomorrow. I have lost many friends and loved ones over the last few months and the grieving process is a formidable adversary. I can either let this process drain me or spur me on to live and cherish every moment allotted. Dear me and my precious 2020, let the spurring begin! The trinkets left in my flowerpot will be lavished with all the love I can muster.

There is a hushed panic that invades your soul at the death of loved ones. The tolling bell is intimate to all and often left unspoken. The laundry list of things left still to do is crippling, if we allow it. Every author seeks to write their one true byline of notoriety and remembrance, a defining saga of the person they are, but our summation is not found in the moment. Our vast presence upon this earth is witnessed and storied through the hearts and minds of people we have touched. Dear 2020 me, I will do everything in my power to let my bell ring loud and clear with a beautiful and inviting tone. I will invite life's spirit into my home, into my family, into my deeds, and into my writing, There will be stories left unpublished and others left to write, of that I am sure, but I refuse to be curtailed by a laundry list. We live but one scene of the written play and I challenge you, Lori, to celebrate your time upon the stage, for it will continue with the written pages left behind.

Story telling is how I choose to relay the highlights, lowlights, and everything in between about my existence. At times the passion consumes me, and yet I have never considered myself an author. There is secrecy in the garden of my pleasure. The titles I wear of wife, mother, nurse, sister, daughter, and person of faith have always been my primary designation. It has only been within the last few years that I have shared my writings with friends and family. While they are always supportive and encouraging, I have yet to shed the feeling of unworthiness for the kind words. Each time I share a story, revealing a part of myself, it is like placing my infant in the middle of a busy street and waiting for the cars to pass by without injury. Dear 2020 me, it is time to let your voice be heard. Speak with confidence and learn that your stories are worthy. They will not resemble the works of others but there is value in the message. Lori, know that your babies are strong and will survive in their merit. Step out of your secret garden and learn to share the most integral part of who you are. A nun once believed in you and you should be willing to do the same.

It has been over two years since I joined writing.com and it has caused an explosion of personal growth. Bumping elbows with some incredible writers has served to inspire, motivate, and challenge me. My goal for my time spent at WDC is to do the same for the newbies to the site. I hope to update my blog daily, keeping it relevant and interesting. Enroll in the contests and engage with other writers is my continued plan. I will keep my heart open to new challenges. Do not fear trying to write other genres. Redo your portfolio to reflect the new year and new look at life. Clean out the cobwebs and polish the silver.

Did you accomplish all that you set out to do in 2019? No, and just like all New Year's resolutions the desire to accomplish them still lingers. Resolutions are the stuffing of dreams and dreams are the meat and potatoes of life. Striving to grow is what humanizes us. There will be failure, but there will be victories as well. So Lori, here in 2020, instead of chastising yourself for the things that didn't work keep reaching for the things that might. There is a baseball out there with your name on it waiting for you to belt it over the fence. Love and Kisses, dear me, you're definitely not perfect, but you are an authentic work in progress. So long till next year.

Word Count 1197

© Copyright 2020 L.A. Grawitch (lgrawitch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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