Dear Bee
Last night I came to the sudden and terrifying conclusion, that it has been well over a year since a Letter Day.
And as I sifted through my mailbox, reading and rereading our correspondence I just asked myself where the time has gone.
In truth, I should be unfucking my life and not writing this letter. I recently purchased the Kon Marie book? Yeah, I find myself asking the “Does this spark joy in my life?” question most of the day. But the truth is, there is a certain importance to unfucking my brain too. Does it spark joy? No, not right now.
I’m listening to classical music again. Mostly piano melodies. Another thing that I haven’t done in the longest time. I played the keys a few days ago. For father’s day. He cried. At least I brought him some joy.
I don’t know why we stopped writing. Life got in the way I suppose. Somewhere between now and then you blossomed into a mom. How are you?
Tired probably.
I read your prosebox letter yesterday. The one about you leaving D with your in-laws. You know its ok to be the person who talks about their kid?
It’s this big monumental thing in your life. It’s allowed. Hell, I just want to hear from you.
But underneath all of that, how are you? Is this everything you wanted? Are you alright? Are you safe? Are you happy?
I don’t anticipate you having much time to write. So I don’t suppose I also expect a Letter in response. But it would be impolite not to ask, and I miss you so much.
It’s not uncommon for friends to drift when things change. Natural even. I just want you to know I miss you. I miss you like you miss the perfect moment to drink your tea, always reaching for it when it is too hot, or too cold to enjoy. I miss you like the world misses spring in the deepest grasps of winter. I miss you, like when we reach for the summers of our youth, memories of times long past and not forgotten, comfort from the dredges of the mundane.
When did we grow up?
I don’t know when I crossed the line, I had balanced on the tightrope for years eventually falling into adulthood. Yet constantly looking for a more knowledgeable other to show me the way.
We’re all looking for help, lost, floundering around, yet somehow more responsible than the young ones.
I’m sorry for the rambles. In truth… I’m not sure what I’m writing about.
I feel like broken pottery. I feel like somewhere I was shaped into some sort of vessel, and then through some sort of twist of fate, I broke. And I broke as this half finished… thing. Who knows. Maybe I was nudged and fell to the ground? Someone mumbled “shit” and spent the next few weeks sticking my pieces back together.
And then that same person decided to repair me the Japanese way, with the gold. Until between my cracks the gold flecks glint, a beautiful reminder of brokenness. Kintsugi its called. The golden repair.
Except … what if the pieces don’t quite fit together again? No, that’s not what I mean. What if instead of being baked I still had something to mould into?
I can’t go back and change the things that shaped me, but at what point do you get baked into a permanent, unchanging thing? 24? 52? When do you become the old dog, who can’t learn new tricks?
I thought I still had time. I do. But yet I feel stuck instead of malleable. Like I committed the corners of myself to something and the bits in the middle don’t get to move now, stretched to their extremes.
What scares me the most is that I won’t be able to change and adapt. And I need to. Life is going to be so much different in one revolution’s time.
You know, there is a certain validity to living every day as if it will be your last. It’s not about the ‘YOLO’. And it sure as hell isn’t about doing everything on the premise of “you will die one day”, or “enjoy every moment”. Fuck enjoyment. There will be hard shit whether we want it to be or not.
It’s really about realising that one day, [whatever it is you’re doing or seeing] will be the last time you are [doing or seeing it]. And you will only come upon this fact many years later. Possibly with a sigh, preferably with a smile.
One day, it will be my last morning in this bed. Between these sheets. Staring at these walls. With Nikki at my feet, an ever-present guardian of unconditional love. Smelling these smells of home. Without realising it. And then I will be halfway around the world simultaneously closer and further away from you. And so much further away from everything it is I know.
And I don’t quite know which is worse. Missing that which stays behind, or beginning again?
I’m petrified that these edges of who I am will not grow again. To accommodate for change. That this stubborn pot is all I get. Held together by some gold.
In biology you learn that accommodation and adaptation is key for survival. What if this kills me?
To be honest. I didn’t know where this letter was going. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if it arrives at a bad time. Or in a bad space.
Please, give my love to AJ.
Know that I love you too.
And that I miss you.
Yours.
Justyna.
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