12/30/2022
❤️❤️❤️
In the last almost 3 years, I haven’t really written anything by hand. Mostly, I dictate. Sometimes, I type. Depending on the cooperation of my fingers, on that day. I’ve written no letters. No reminders or lists. No thank you notes. No love letters.
This is not my handwriting.
Or at least, the handwriting that I am familiar with. The handwriting that I had in some arbitrary before. I practiced writing this, probably 300 times. More. Starting with letter “y” and continuing if I liked the shape. Moving my pen by an inch and starting again if I didn’t like what it looked like. I covered five pages with letters and words. Dissatisfied by the shapes I was creating. Annoyed by the need to buy a new pen that would accommodate my new hand. My new fingers. Coordinating awkwardly to create this new writing style.
What a fascinating thing.
And certainly a thing that I have interesting feelings about. Some are kind, some not so.
That makes sense.
I don’t know you. And I hope that you can hear me when I say that you make sense.
The ways in which you have done whatever it is that you need to do for felt safety, makes sense.
The ways in which you have done whatever it is that you do to show up on the planet, makes sense.
In the ways in which you have challenged yourself, or not, makes sense.
The ways in which you share of yourself, or not, makes sense.
You make sense.
You make sense.
You make sense.
I believe that you make sense and can move forward and evolve and shift, too.
I’m going to keep writing. With my hand.
I’m going to keep dictating, too. And I’m going to allow myself to feel what I feel about it.
Thank you for being here this year.
Thank you for you.
Love,
A
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