It’s been said that people don’t write letters anymore. I don’t remember actually writing many letters after college. Email was about to be a thing, but I do remember years ago, my dad telling me that when my mother really wanted to get his undivided attention, she’d write him letters. I also remember him saying that he found that annoying. They divorced in 1979.
Still, I love to write letters. I just don’t always write them to people.
Dear 2009,
You’ve been battered, bashed, insulted and in general, disrespected at every turn. And while I agree from an historical perspective that you haven’t necessarily been stupendous, on a personal level you’ve brought me much joy. For that, I am, and will always be, grateful. I am stronger, healthier, and more confident than I was this time last year. I have found my backbone, my spirit, my voice, my love, and myself. I don’t know what will happen next, but I think I may be ok with that.
So instead of a list of things I’m glad to see go (like last year’s litany), I will close this year with gratitude, fondness, compassion for all of the many who don’t feel the same, and with a sense of hope. Hope for what joys will come. Hope for the ways I will overcome adversity. Hope for the ways I will grow and change. Hope for the future.
Welcome to the party, 2010.
Shan
Dear Jen,
It’s 11:00 and I just got home from night two of the reunion. Since dinner was scheduled to start at 6:00, one might wonder why this reluctant attendant would be getting home so late. The way the night ended sums up the whole night pretty well. Can you say “held hostage by MC?” Picture if you will, MC in my car, still full of bitterness about her lack of social stature in high school, parked on 74th and Division blocks from JG’s place where she’s staying for the weekend — sorry, can’t be more descriptive other than to say it’s somewhere near 74th because JG made MC promise not to let anyone know where she lives. Anyway, I’m trapped in the car for 30 minutes while she tells me how difficult her life is compared to EVERYONE else in high school. 30 minutes. Oh, but wait. That wasn’t the most uncomfortable part.
That would be a tie among (choose one) (a) LN’s repeated check-ins to see if I was sure I was ok being here without a husband; (b) a truly bizarre conversation with R and her fiancé whom I actually suspect may be in the Russian mafia; or (c) the 5 minutes I spent locked in the bathroom with a glass of wine trying to convince myself that if I just left people might notice.
Apparently my single status elevates me to just above social pariah — slightly higher than MC and R — people actually told them to move to a separate table. Remember all those girls who worked on the yearbook who made the rest of us feel like it may be quite possible we weren’t IN high school since our pictures never made the candid shot sections? The same group that sat at the “cool table” at lunch? They still reign supreme.
As you can probably deduct, none of our crowd actually showed up. LF was a no-show again. Several people asked me where you were. I resisted the urge to tell them that one shallow night every five years was all you were able to process. I think I’m over the reunion thing now. My self-confidence is shaken, I’m overly concerned about the state of my wardrobe, and if it weren’t for the lack of tests I’d be convinced that the twilight zone dropped me back to my Sophomore year again.
I’m going to freak out for a few more minutes and then go to bed. I hope your evening was less traumatic. Do know I was thinking of you, largely with envy and in a state of terror.
Shan
Dear man in the small truck in front of me,
That speed limit sign you just passed? It’s not a goal.
Signed,
The Raging Person in the Mini Cooper Behind You Trying Really Hard Not to Push You Out of the Way, Only Resisting Due to Her Basic Understanding of Physics.
Dear Earless Deer,
I saw your photo in my Facebook News Feed the other day. All neck and eyes. Looking like a cross between a guilty dog and a seal. Some said you were attacked by a cougar. Seems to be the most plausible scenario. Others say it was frostbite. Someone conspiratorial (seems to be going around theses days) claimed they heard there was a deer-ear scalper roaming through Joseph taking trophies, or snacks maybe. Someone thinks you should be put down, that’s people talk for shoot you, to end your suffering. Others spotted you with a pal and say you’re doing just fine. A couple of nice women want to knit you a hat. Oh, and apparently you’ve been named Patty.
So.
Dear Patty,
I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. You’re kind of a bad ass. In fact, I think you may be my new role model. You took on a cougar WITH YOUR HEAD in the winter and you walked away. You held that head up. Ears be damned. You stared back at the staring eyes and the pointed cameras without a self-conscious bone in your brown body. Let them stare. Let them gossip. What do you care? You took on a cougar! With. Your. Head.
Besides, what other people, or deer, think of you is none of your business. You are probably the most recognizable deer in Wallowa County. A deer celebrity as it were. Bring it on. Bring on the gossip and the conspiracies. Bring on the laughter. Bring it all. You are Earless Patty, slayer of tree bark, stomper of cougars!
With admiration,
Shannon
P.S. Please keep your ego in check, Patty. You might be getting a little cocky. It’s not like it’s that hard to be a public personality (deer-ality?) in a small town. I wouldn’t start googling your name or anything.
Dear Heart,
Today you broke a little. Maybe a little more than a little. Maybe you shattered. Maybe the feeling I have in the center of my chest is the result of the gaping hole where you would be if you were still there. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe your absence will make things easier.
Maybe you were never there in the first place, and this sad sorry attempt at pretending you were is what caused the problem. Maybe you are so putrid, so repulsive, repugnant, deformed, that my attempt to give you away was understandably rejected. Who would want you?
Maybe today I’ll just be sad. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to pick up your shattered pieces and reassemble them into something useful, beautiful, desirable.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll wake up and discover that you have always been beautiful, desirable, and solid. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll find out that you’re still there, perfect in your own design, happy to be where you are. Maybe, oh just maybe, the owner of this beautiful, desirable, still beating heart will look inside and find that all is as it should be.
And then?
Maybe I’ll be willing to keep you open, not clamp you back down in the iron cage furnished with the distorting funhouse mirror you’ve lived in for so long.
I think, my dear heart, you broke a little today. But maybe you will be all the stronger for it tomorrow.
Hopefully,
Shannon
Dear 2010 Shan,
You’re about to jump off a cliff. You see it in front of you, but you have no idea how far the drop is or what you’re going to find at the bottom. Will it be glass shards or feather pillows? A deep lake? A fire pit? Loneliness or friends and family? Shame? Despair? Destitution? Dare we think, success even? New vistas? New love? Will there be speeches and flowers and a parade in your name? (Hopefully not. We aren’t big fans of parades. Too much standing around.) Will you finally get that BIG LIFE you’ve been writing about for the past three years?
I get it. I was you.
It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the cacophonous voices around you, telling you you’re crazy to leave this sure thing, these people who think you’re “just great!” Who tell you that you should just “hang in there,” that “it’s not as bad as being broke.” That “this is a bad time to be out of work.” Or… “are you sure your skills are transferable?” Ouch. 10 years later and I still wanna smack that guy.
Ooooh, and let’s not forget about the questions about your financial security?
“What are you going to DO?” “What if you lose your house?” “Is David going to support you?” “Will you move in with your parents?”
Then there’s the voices of “support.” Choruses made up of “You’re so brave!” And “I could never do what you’re doing!”
I know how you feel. Irritated. Nauseous. Sweaty. Cold.
Just breathe. None of this is about you, anyway. I think the psychology folks call it projection. Or is it transference? I can never remember.
Can I give you some advice? Listen to the quiet voices. The whispers. “You’ve got this.” “I’m so proud of you.” “You really are brave.” “I love you.”
Most of all, listen to the melody. The lead. The voice that sits deep inside. Can you hear it? It’s your voice. “I want a Big Life. I don’t know what it will look like, but it’s not this. I want to create, to give, to breathe. I want to teach again. I want to write. I want… more.”
That voice, 2010 Shannon? She’s onto something. Listen to her and you’ll get that big life. It won’t come without many false starts, disappointments, a crushing heartbreak, loss, collection calls, cases of Kleenex, and tsunami-like insomniac waves that look to sweep you away. But take courage.
You’ll also meet spectacular people, lose old baggage, truly understand how much you are loved and needed, meet new furry buddies, grow even closer to your family, and end up someplace that will astound you.
I promise.
With so much love and gratitude,
2020 Shan
Dear Cast Iron Pan,
Why do I love you so? Is it your weight in my hands? Your heft and strength? That you can go from the stove to the oven to the fire pit with no complaint? Your steadfastness and dedication to simplicity? That you scoff at modern “conveniences” like dishwashers and microwaves? Is it your versatility? Your willingness to act both as a serving dish and a weapon? That you can hold an entire chicken, roast a handful of Brussels sprouts, or crush a pile of hazelnuts?
Or is it your mystery? The unknown, uncountable meals you cooked or skulls you bashed in before we met. The strangers’ hands that held you over hot flames. Were they the same hands that abandoned you in a box in the back of the garage until you were released like a genie in a lamp at a neighborhood yard sale, just $5 including your lid. Were you insulted at the price? Did you fear for your long-seasoned surface as you were snatched up by the novice city cook?
Dear Cast Iron Pan… I think it might be time for me to start dating again.
Yours always,
Shannon