Notes to a Born Self
I don’t know the exact time of my birth. 5 or 6 am. My mom remembers dawn breaking outside the window. When I press her for more, she gently reminds me that she was occupied at the time.
Fair enough, mom.
There I was, pulled out, all tiny and screaming. If you were to translate what I was shouting to the world, it’d probably be a rendition of WHAT THE FUCK?
I think of the little beings we arrive as, thrust into the arms of unprepared parents. Instructions manual, none. Amazing that they manage to raise us to go on to build rocketships and write mysteries and compose symphonies. You’d think that given the general silliness of our species, we’d have gone extinct a long time ago.
So, several dawns later, here I am. Sometimes still looking around, mumbling, “wtf?” And sometimes, struck with gratitude for the sheer beauty of it all.
Since time – heck, reality itself – is an illusion, I’m going to give my newborn self the manual I wish he’d be given. Close my eyes, reach out to him, and hand him this. No fluff. No theories. Only hard earned truths. The rest, he can color between the lines. Here goes…
– You are worthy. The sooner you accept that, the sooner life will zing.
– Break rules. The rewards greatly outnumber the punishments.
– Everything is an experience. In the now, that’s it.
– Good and bad are labels. Be with the experience, not the label.
– You are special. Treat yourself well.
– I repeat: you are fucking special. Don’t accept less from anyone.
– Love requires risk. It’s worth it.
– The more you close your heart, the more it gets broken. Funny how that works.
– Your mind is not far removed from a monkey. Don’t trust it.
– Your inner self, the quiet and deep part within, trust that.
– Every day, spend time in gratitude.
– Every day, create something.
– Love yourself. It works wonders.
I am a later version of you. Before I know it, there will be a later version of me. And before he knows it, no more. Poof, a wisp of stardust, gone. Leave behind a life that mattered. I love you.