Dear 75-Year-Old-Me

My 50^th birthday arrived this month.

I’ve been reflecting on what it means to be at this supposed midpoint of my life. “Fifty” kind of snuck up and surprised me, taking me by the hand. Suddenly, here I am, standing side-by-side with “fifty”, no longer squinting to see it so far ahead in the distance.

Amy Poehler described “fifty” as “the youngest of the oldest”. It’s the middle age where it’s possible to have much younger friends and much older friends; where it’s possible to be relevant and relatable across an entire spectrum of age groups. At “fifty”, I’m moving into the segment of the population referred to as “old”. How easy it can be to get hooked by that word or by the numbers, yet, I humbly acknowledge that it’s a possibility denied to many. And so I stand here, shoulder-to-shoulder with “fifty”, feeling immense gratitude for my life.

For years, I had a practice of writing myself a letter on my birthday. I’d seal it in an envelope, write my name on the front, stow it away in a file to be saved and opened on next year’s birthday. I would write to that future me about my hopes and dreams for the year ahead. I would write about things I was excited to accomplish or eager to overcome. Opening and reading the letter on my birthday was fun and celebratory, giving me pause to reflect on the changes and events of the past year and adjust, making new commits for the year ahead.

This year, thanks to an invitation in birthday card I received from my husband, I wrote to my 75-year-old self.

When I picture my future self, I see her with bouncy grey hair half tied back, a loose fitting blue linen shirt and baggy white linen pants. She lives in a Nantucket style home on the water. It’s quiet, lush and beautiful. She has lines in her face, mostly from smiling and laughing and she has kind eyes that look softly and deeply. She is easy and relaxed; she’s an artist and she’s at peace. She’s wise and comfortable in her own company. She is not reactive to impulses or bluster, instead, she is generous in her regard of self and others.

I visit her from time to time in my imagination, mostly to seek out her advice and guidance. She’s always there. Ready and willing.

This is part of my letter to her…

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Dear 75-Year-Old-Me,

This is a letter of gratitude. When I think of you, I give thanks.

Thank you for taking such good care of us over all these years. You have been so good at staying healthy and flexible in mind and body, and because of that we are able to live and enjoy life fully.

You’ve been able to take things in stride, to maintain a balanced and harmonious outlook on life and relationships. Thank you for learning to let go, to forgive and surrender because it paved the way for even more joy and contentment.

Thank you for exploring art, beauty and creative expression, for giving up the need to impress others, the need to strive, to be perfect – it has been so freeing.

Thank you for devoting yourself to lifelong learning. The energy from trying new things has been key to having vitality, vibrancy and feeling alive.

Thank you for staying curious.

Thank you for ushering me into this life by dropping breadcrumbs toward what this younger me most needed to see and experience.  Thank you for speaking to me gently and lovingly and for staying visible, even when I drifted.

Thank you for your love, your softness, your stillness and calm, for your joy and humour. Thank you for laughing easily and often. Thank you for your ease.

I see you standing there, 25-years down the road. I’m standing here now having come this far. Each day, I’ll take steps closer to you. I’ll follow the breadcrumbs. I’ll tear up the collection of disappointments and hurts, open my palm for the wind to take them, churn them, and lay them to rest. When I reach you, our notebook shall be clean and fresh and ready to write the story of the next 25-years.

Thank you for loving life.