a letter to my 27 year old self

At 26 I learned that life cannot, should not, will not be doled out in 200 calorie lite packages. I felt it crying on the phone. I felt it on a mountaintop. I felt it in letters and texts and voice memos and tagged photos and soft Sunday smiles and Tuesday evenings, too. I wrote I love yous that hung off my rear view mirror on rides through the mountains and perfumed my car for hours. It was kneaded into bread and scrubbed off kitchen sinks 

So this year, Jessica, I hope you find love. I hope you find hope. I hope you find all the gentle and soft ways those two will masquerade in pockets of the day, and I hope you hunt them down like birds to a song. 

Let them come, come to you sweetly, too, like butterflies to a petal, to your finger, too, if you’re still enough, if you walk at the pace of grace. And let sunshine expand into every crevice of your being each time you lay down on the grass, and when you lay down, let the wind dance and the clouds speak and the earth tremolo, let all of nature reach towards you and show you soft, gentle, sweet love. 

I hope you find love that makes you smile so big, and people who make you excited to spend a whole day in the snow, who convince you that the snow sprinkled on the trees are stars in the blackest sky; because what has been so bad you haven’t been able to pick yourself back up again? Or so bad that you haven’t found yourself surrounded by love, regardless?

Living is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the constellations in the night sky. To sit in a church and see the sun drip through the stained glass is one thing, but to be at the top of the mountain, with the sun rays shining down like prayers? I want you to realize just how lucky you are. And to share these moments - stolen little moments - with wonderful, shimmering people? That’s living. 

I am young and dumb, and you are growing. 

The world is wonderful, jessica. Happy birthday.