A letter to myself: Dear FF,
This morning I dreamt about you. You wore a red dress with a hole in the back. I could see your spine and counted all the vertebrates from the bottom up. You looked happy and inspired though slightly fatigued in one eye. When I awoke, I thought I should write you. It's been a while since checking in.
Are your flexible hands and global eyes flourishing? Is your skin clean and soft like a baby's cheek? Are you singing loudly, praising unknown gods, whirling with dervishes, cooking feasts for plants and other species, petering across dusty hard wood floors? Are you a rubber band stretched around a mound of ideas and actions?
Perhaps you are curious about me? I am growing inside. I have two lives, one for me and one for others. And when people ask me how my day is, was, or will be, I try to say more than simply "fine" because these days are layered and textured like grass upon soil, soil upon rock, rock upon fire.
Lately I have been thinking about motion in small spaces; how one moves in a bathroom, in a closet, in cubicles. I count my steps in these tiny places and note my posture. Each time I am comforted by this strange intimacy within space.
This is what I am to me, but to you I am something else.
I hope you are well. I think of you often, especially in afternoon sunshine.