Every once in a while, you get a privileged, pull-back, crane-view of your life. It’s brief, but if you’re lucky, it allows you to see the grace of things you cannot from the trenches of your daily battles.
As part of the incredible blessings I’m being graced with, a dear friend is going over the entire seven years of Dandelion and doing some culling and editing with the intention of creating something new and possibly paper-y. While the archives are of course open to anyone who wants to read- knowing someone is lovingly cataloging the life I’ve lived is a surprisingly vulnerable feeling. She’s doing so in chronological order, and has sent me some touching observations as she moves forward through my life with the surreal advantage of knowing the future.
I felt a little geeky, as though someone was reading my embarrassing junior high diaries— and yes I know anyone can read it— but knowing someone is doing so meticulously is crazy-making stuff. Her observations have all been kind and tender. Along with noting the general improvement in my writing (huzzah!) she asked me to go back and read my very first post ever. I just did, and I think I want to share it with you.
The whole reason Dandelion exists, from a practical point, is that I needed to respond to a young woman who was critical of being a SAHM, and I couldn’t post without my own URL. Thats it. I even picked the name in two seconds, on a whim, as I looked out the window. That first letter though, my friend observed, contains the seeds of my future—
It’s a beautiful letter, and again, especially heart wrenching given what you’ve been through lately…that first post is a powerful picture of the woman you are going to be forced to become, or, rather, the woman inside that you will be forced to find. That first post shows that she has been there, all along.
Indeed. I even write what I will do in the unlikely even of my marriage dissolving. I had no idea what was coming, and yet the seeds are all there. Stepping back and looking at the 7 year arch of my life is humbling and makes me realize how prepared and fertile the ground always is- even when we cannot get anything to take root and the soil is hard and unforgiving- it’s part of the plan.
I hope I can remember that now, moving forward, again and always on the curling crest of my future. It really is about faith.
If you’d like to read the letter, click this link.