Is it okay that I keep writing letters to you, to myself, like this? Yes. I’m sure you’ll agree it is fine. I should know. I’m you and you’re me.
I’m not sure how to go about this, so we might as well dive into the crux of the matter: It is seeming harder and harder to keep up with the speed of life right now. And that was really brought into focus by the death of a friend last week.
You had seen them struggling and you had mentioned to yourself that you should reach out and then you didn’t and now they are gone.
And why didn’t you reach out? Because you hadn’t seen him in 22 years? Because you were busy with chores and school and toddler tantrums and infant sleep and birthdays and the day to day grind of life in the kingdom? Because you didn’t know how much he was struggling? Because you didn’t know…
You didn’t know. You didn’t know you wouldn’t have another chance.
If you had known, you would have sacrificed something else to make the time. One less thing would have gotten clean. Or a little bit less sleep would have been had. You would have made a different choice. But you didn’t know. And, there is no way to know that reaching out would have helped. Would have been worth doing anyway.
So, dear Jester, I’m not sure what the point of this letter is. I was grasping for some sort of philosophical piece on the speed of life but the words on the page keep failing that, in my opinion. Very unlike me, I have started, stopped, deleted, and started over this letter four times now. And this will have to be good enough. I don’t have the mental energy to attempt it again.
I guess, I just hope you can set aside any guilt you are feeling, we are feeling. Be kind to yourself. Grieve.
And maybe next time reach out… Because that pile of dishes can wait. Sometimes, reaching out can’t wait. And you don’t know what you don’t know.