Note To Self #1

Found this in the archives at the magical commune where I lived when I was itty bitty.

Looking at this image, I'm reminded of experiences I had when I was a child – of staring at photos of myself – studying my face – looking far beyond the surface – searching for things I believed a photo could tell me...things I couldn't perceive from the inside.

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This image draws me in like few are capable of doing these days.

Something about my pensive expression – like a gentle foreshadowing of the heaviness my spirit would so soon come to carry – and my softly furrowed brow, framing eyes already so intent in their focus.

I can't help but wonder; what was I witnessing? What had so arrested my attention in this moment? Is this a record of genuine melancholy?

Or am I simply observing with the entirety of my presence, just as I do today?

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Remembering Kindness

Gazing at this likeness of my younger self – I feel a compassion for her that hasn't been so easily come by this lifetime.

I'm so terribly hard on myself – striving for a kind of perfection that is ultimately unattainable – holding myself to impossible standards and berating myself for failing to live up to them.

Somehow, stepping outside of myself and courageously looking back – with the invaluable perspective afforded me by photographs such as this – I'm able to hijack the stubborn self-loathing that has become such a dominant part of my inner dialogue.

When viewed as this beautifully innocent little human, I can so effortlessly forgive her flaws. I would never belittle her the way I so habitually disparage myself now.

I could never fault her for trying her damn hardest and being so wonderfully, imperfectly human.

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I Love Her

I adore the patchwork freckles, already kissing my soft little cheeks, and the cowlick – that stubborn wave that lays in any direction but the one I want it to – on her, it's a sweet touch of character...the delightful wabi-sabi woven into her cute little, tow-headed fringe.

I'm charmed by my lovingly crocheted poncho and signature 70's plaid pants – likely hand-me-downs, well-worn and threadbare, softened by the four siblings who came before me – with holes in the knees; perfect for the absent-minded worrying of tiny, curious fingers.

I want to wrap her up in my arms, snuggle into her neck and whisper softly... 'it's all gonna be alright.'

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^{Today's my birthday; I often fall into contemplative reverie on the anniversary of my birth.
Though I've vowed to gift myself with a much-needed break from all things electronic, I may post bits of this day's inner meanderings – reflective crumbs for my future self...that I may always find my way back to my truth.}