write yourself love letters
originally written: 3.4.2020, during a spring lockdown spent in japan. it’s been sitting in my drafts.
part of the personal journey of becoming my wise woman self is knowing when — and how — to write to myself. how to write deliberately and passionately for an audience of one.
since I was a teenager, I had always wanted someone to write me love letters: effusively and poetically, yet with serenity and restraint. I never met a man who could write in such a way (and I’m glad. the power he would have over me! I would be addicted to his words.) now, I realize more and more how I’m the one meant to write those letters, rather than to sit around waiting to receive them. I write them for me.
in the past few years, I’ve been experimenting with writing to myself. you could say that all writing is ultimately to the “self… ” and all that writing is, is simply saying words out loud in a white walled, empty room. but writing poetry or fiction or essays is very different from writing in a journal, and writing in a journal to yourself is very different from writing a letter to yourself.
you can write in a journal and feel comforted by the fact that it could disappear into oblivion; it is a reflex of your mind acting out all of its moods. it was never meant to be read. you can say stupid and embarrassing things in journals, and the journal is a safe space, a vessel that holds all thoughts; even the ugly ones.
but a letter is different. a letter is directive, pointed, addressed. it was written for a purpose, and it was meant to be read. a letter is meant to have an effect on the heart and soul — it is meant to question, console, soothe, convince, provoke, or encourage. you write letters because you wish your words to have a emotional effect on the person — your words, in that sense, are a form of alchemy: a tonic for inspiration, a salve for pain, an elixir for stirring desire and passion.
so, if a letter is a tonic, is it not, then, the best gift you could give to yourself? in times of distress, boredom, and pain? I used to write “dear kening” letters to myself every time I felt like I was wallowing in the oceanic abyss.
sometimes I’m surprised by what comes out. sometimes I don’t understand it, or where it comes from. but I know that I trust the voice. the voice I write to myself with is somewhere between mother, sister, best friend, and lover. it is full of romance and passion, but grounded and wise. this here, is my practice of self trust. of listening to my voice, and allowing myself to believe it.