My husband took this photo of me when we were out at a cafe last summer which is a rare feat. Not the cafe, which is a regular feature of our weekends now that the kids are aging out of our lives, but the photo. He rarely thinks of photography and so we have albums filled with family photos relatively absent of my existence, except for the annual shot of me lighting the birthday cake for one of my boys.
“You look so pretty today,” he said, “Can I have your phone?”
I always believe him, but then I look in the mirror or at a photo and it’s just me. Nothing special. Or more often worse than I imagined or hoped for, like this one.
I really didn’t like this photo, and I still don’t like it, but you know what, I don’t mind it now like I did before, and it’s only been a year.
I take this as a good sign because typically it’s like a decade before I appreciate a photo that I really didn’t like at first.
Soon I may like myself almost right away.
Which brings me to this letter that I wrote as part of a writing assignment with the women who journey through the chakras with me. We had to write directly to ourselves which turns out is kind of hard…
Dear Kelly,
(Boy, it’s hard to begin that way.)
Dear Kelly,
(So much more at stake.)
Dear Kelly,
(No place to hide.)
Dear Kelly,
Dear Kelly,
Dear Kelly,
For all the times that name was used as a curse,
I am so sorry.
Let it go.
For all the times you’ve found yourself occupying the ugliness of another’s version of you,
I am so sorry.
Let it go.
For all the times you assumed that ugliness as a safe haven from feeling the deeper pain of loss and separation,
I am so sorry.
Let it go.
Let it go, Kelly,
Not because it doesn’t matter,
But because you do.
Precious.
Always.
Now.
~Kelly
Two Owls Calling 