10/100 (a letter to childhood dreams of grandeur)

Dear little starry-eyed former self,

It hurts, a little, to break this to you, but I'm going to serve it to you straight: you grow up to be quite ordinary. Certainly you care about things a lot. You feel things a lot. You think things a lot. But you are not particularly original, particularly smart, particularly brave, particularly endearing, or particularly funny. The realisation of this hurts, sometimes. I mean, it hurts the eleven-year-old you still stuck inside the thirty-something me. Because, while gravity has taken its toll on the outside, gravitas hasn't entirely consumed the interior. The fraction of me that is you keeps hoping that when I grow up, I'll be amazing.

To be honest, dreamy younger Danielle, there will be a lot of people smarter and more gifted than you. Very rarely, in a little spark of something halfway between Sehnsucht and illumination, you'll feel as though you are able to look at things for what they really are, and the realisation will cause your heart to beat quicker and your whole world will have an instant of greater, richer clarity. But mostly those moments will ride on the words and wisdom of other smarter people who have similiar experiences on a more regular basis.

There are people in this world who don't just see things for what they are; they see things for what they were, once, and what they could be in the future. Occasionally, you will feel as though you have a good idea. But there are people in this world who not only have good ideas but are able to articulate them so fiercely and so beautifully that they empower others to take hold of these good ideas and run with them until they are no longer ideas at all but clear, living actualities. There are people who will look at what goes on in the world and be able to tie it into the vast narrative of human history, recognising patterns and deviations, the ebb and flow of humanity's mark on the world.

There are people who are good at what they do, and people who are truly brilliant at what they do, and then there are people who are brilliant at what they do yet somehow also possess the voice, and the charisma, and the rare configuration of beautiful facial symmetry that makes people sit up and take notice. These people are able to talk about what's important to them without their features scrunching up into an ugly cry, who look endearing and purposeful even when squinting into the sun.

But this letter isn't to those people. It's to you. You'll grow up, little you, and you won't be especially amazing. If I could slip back through time and let you know that, I don't think I would. Because if you can't have dreams of grandeur as a child, then when can you? It's important that you think big thoughts, hopeful thoughts, foolish thoughts, before the cynicism of the world slaps them out of you.

If I did end up face to face to with you, though, and you asked me whether you'd be brilliant like all those other people? I'd tell you to stop looking at them if all it means is comparison.

But if you are looking so that you can cheer for them, honour them, learn from them, and imitate their goodness, then by all means, go. Know this, however: you won't be a genius, but you can have a go at doing ordinary well. You won't. Not always. But you can try. And if time and again you come up against limitations (even if the primary one is simply that you're too darn scared), then that's okay. Start again tomorrow. If it's possible to do something so earthbound as eating or drinking and yet make it for the glory of God, then it's possible to work extraordinarily hard at your ordinary life.

Chin up, little heart. Normal people still dream.

7/100 (dear someday)

Dear future me*,

I don’t always like to think of you. I mean, I have enough trouble with present me. There’s so much I want to do and still haven’t done. There’s so much I wish for. There are so many ways I could be a better version of myself. And of course there are the grey hairs I keep finding lately (I am too YOUNG for that, I tell you). What I’m probably actually saying — what I’m realising even as I type this, future me — is that I have high hopes for you but I realise not all of them will be fulfilled.

When I was younger, I had a perfect picture of who you’d be, future me. You were going to have long straight locks (of a rich chestnut brown). You would be suave, confident, a sophisticated city-dwelling executive. Also you would wear a canary-yellow power suit with matching heels. Obviously you were gonna be one classy lady.

When I got a bit older, the picture of future me shifted a little. Future me was going to be a hippie type who wore ravelling sweaters in unflattering shades of green and did her hair in two plaits, who never wore makeup, and whose favourite shoes were gumboots. She would paint and draw and write things, and she’d chase hens around the chicken coop.

Present me is less sure of what future me will be, but funnily enough, present me sits fairly smack dab in the middle of my two earlier projections. If this says anything at all (and more likely it says nothing), it suggests that future me will be less about personality and individual style, and more about the series of choices I make between now and then.

So dear future me, I don’t care whether you wear canary yellow heels or gumboots, whether you have a favourite hairdresser or you’re a wash-and-wear kind of woman. I acknowledge that the grey hairs will probably increase rather than decrease (at least in reality, if not appearance; there ARE such things as hair dyes. Please don’t be disgusted, hippie seventeen-year-old self).

I want you to assure me, future self, that there will be a good man to love and children to love on, but I know you can’t make those kinds of promises and so I won’t hold you to them. Instead, future self, I’d just ask that you learn from what’s going on now, so you can be more of a person because of what happens to you. Be braver than current me. Be kinder than current me. And please, always be faithful. Cling to the rock. I’ll keep my end of the bargain.

Love,
your fanciful younger self.

*this post was entirely the result of a meme prompt left for me at tumblr by Hayley.

3/100 (letter to a teenage me)

Dear little seventeen-year-old Danielle,

I write to you at age seventeen because apparently that was your -- our -- favourite age. I don't even remember now why it became so, but I suspect it's something to do with being a sort of magical inbetween time: not really a child, not really an adult, and yet it's entirely possible to be one or the other or both. A good age.

The teenage years were kind to you, little beaming, optimistic Danielle. I don't mean in the sense that they blessed you with an unforced grace of movement, milky white skin, and gorgeous long tresses of wavy hair. I don't need to tell you that none of this happened; after all, why do you think there is no cheesy retrospective picture topping this letter? It's because I couldn't find a picture of teenage Danielle that I was willing to share with the internet. So no, Danielle, you will never be the beautiful, ladylike Meg of Seven Little Australians with her delightfully romantic ways and the adorable sprinkling of light freckles over her nose. Sorry about that.

But your teenage years were brilliant in altogether different respects. You lived in cool places and had cool friends and your siblings were cool companions and you got to make stuff and paint stuff and think stuff and read stuff and all those horrible things you'd heard about intense emotional and hormonal confusion and the teenage years totally being the pits? They didn't actually come true.

I'm not saying things were perfect, and I'm not saying things are going to be perfect. Life's messy and, while hormonal confusion won't dog your teenage years, emotional confusion will definitely pop its head in during your twenties. You know how you knew it all and had all the answers when you were seventeen? I'm afraid to tell you, kid, that all that dries up. By the time you hit mid-twenties, you'll be starting to realise that things are less black and white than you'd once thought. Pat answers don't actually satisfy. Also, life sometimes punches you in the stomach -- hard -- and this may dent your breezy seventeen-year-old demeanour. I have to tell you, Danielle, that far from being more confident, more interesting, and more funny, you will likely be less of all those things. In short, Danielle, you will turn into one of those people you said you never would be: a grown up. What's more, it'll come over you slowly and before you even realise it, you're there, never to return to the kingdom of the kids.

Grieve a little over all of that, if you want. I know you have big dreams and plans. But when you're done, dry your eyes and start looking ahead. Good things will happen. You'll be surprised by the doors God opens for you. You'll be startled by the amazing gifts that come in from all corners at surprising moments. You'll be in awe when some of your dreams, the ones you've had since you were little, will actually be realised. Some of the friends you're starting to get to know now -- they'll still be majorly important in your life fifteen years later, plus you'll get to know some amazing new people. You'll grin when you realise that you don't have to click with everyone straight away. Some strong and deep friendships can start off slowly, and others can burst into existence like fireworks. Have fun enjoying all of them.

You will have friends all around the world. Your book collection will continue to grow -- alarmingly. The internet will only get cooler. You'll be less of an extrovert than you once were; try not to think about it too much. In fact, try not to think about most things too much. That's always been your downfall. Stop beating up on yourself; you're not fat. One day you'll look back and wish you'd appreciated your size now, because you sure won't stay that away. Again, sorry to have to put it so bluntly.

Chill out about the whole driving thing. You're a late (late late!) bloomer, but you work it out eventually -- you even figure out how to read maps and get yourself to strange places. As I said, your skin will never be porcelain, but the horrid teen-face days will eventually disappear. And here's something cool: you finally, eventually, actually work out how to style your hair in a way you like. After years of experimentation and grief, you WILL settle on some styles and cuts that work for you. The frizz shall be tamed! I mean, to a degree. Pantene-ad-perfection will probably elude you all your days.

I know, I know -- you want me to cut to the chase already and tell you who you end up with. But here's the thing, little hopeful-faced Danielle: there is no who-you-end-up-with, at least not yet. I know you secretly think you could get married by eighteen or twenty-one. After all, it's what your Mum did, and you really just want to have babies and stuff. But you're so not ready for that. I mean, you would've muddled through, joyfully and optimistically, and grown up next to whoever you married (don't worry; it's not him. He eventually finds someone else, so you can breathe a sigh of relief). I've seen other baby brides do that, and life is lovely for them. But I'm glad for your sake that it won't pan out this way. I hesitate to even tell you any of that. What seventeen-year-old wants to know that she still won't be married at the age of thirty-two? It's the truth, though, and there's no way you'll really get this, but while it's definitely rough at times, life is good.

Thanks for spending all that time in reading and study and soaking up the word of God. It'll come in extra handy in the future, especially when you no longer have time to sit for hours and digest good meaty stuff. It will be so helpful, particularly when you realise that there's so much you don't know. Eventually you will turn into your mother, Danielle, and cry during movies. That's payback for all the times you laughed at Mum. Actually, you'll cry a lot, sometimes even in front of people. I know you worry sometimes that you're an emotionless robot, but seriously. Quit worrying about that. It's so not true.

You will keep secrets, little-version-of-me, that you can't imagine having to keep. You will see things broken down and built up again. You will develop a rich and thankful appreciation for your amazing family. That's all I can really tell you. I'll leave the rest for you to figure out on your own.

I wish I could have some of your starry-eyed optimism to keep me company nowadays, but I don't really think I'd trade that for what these years have shown me -- will show you -- of grace. God keeps His promises, Danielle. You don't need to be scared to grow up.

With you all the way,

Danielle

Emotions. Who'd have 'em?

It happens with such stunning regularity that I really should quit being surprised. It's like clockwork, actually: I'll publish an article somewhere, about something, and over the next few weeks I will butt heads with that very thing again and again. It's almost (absolutely really very much) like God is saying, 'Are you truly and consistently going to believe what you say you believe?'

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote an article in which I discussed the huge value of authenticity. People being real with other real people is something I'm passionate about, and the article focussed on the importance of not shuffling to cover our flaws but learning to be honest with one another and with God about the less-than-Pollyanna aspects of our lives. Sure enough, the past few weeks (and even during the writing of the article, if I'm being honest), I seem to have been at my most vulnerable worst. My poor mother, oh counsellor of saintly virtue, has borne the major brunt of my blubbering, whining, stressing, and neuroses. And I find myself apologising for it constantly -- apologising for the lack of cool, the lack of answers, the lack of fakery, the lack of feeling like a completely together grown-up.

But every time Mum responds with kindness or simply by listening patiently (never rolling her eyes at me even when I want to roll them at myself), I'm reminded that she doesn't love me because I'm awesome, mostly because a) I never was that awesome, and b) even if I somehow worked out how to be awesome, I'd forget quickly. And though I am passionate about authenticity, I've realised that I want my realness to come in a more attractive package, which isn't really real at all.

The thing is, weakness is awkward and uncomfortable, embarrassing and messy. It isn't pretty, and it never seems to showcase us at our best. It can't be packaged up into neat little clearly-defined boxes to be pulled out at appropriate moments. "Oh, it's vulnerable time? We're swapping weakness stories? Boy, do I have a doozy for you!"

Weakness is inconvenient. It's annoying. It makes us lean on others -- but that's part of its beauty. None of us want to revel in our weaknesses, but we can, in one sense, embrace them. Weakness tells us we are human. It says we are broken. It reminds us that we need each other and we need a Saviour. Those who love us best know we aren't perfect and, in fact, they rarely expect us to be. Thanks Mum.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Mothercare -- it was lovely, wasn't it? :)

Meaghan -- ooh! D&M weekends! I love it! PS. "From the area!!" PPS. This.

Carla -- THIS MUST BE REMEDIED!

Rebecca Simon -- I agree on both counts! :)

Jess A -- you are absolutely adorable. Your comment made me grin exceedingly widely.

A letter:

Dear Self (and others like you),

The world is full of creative people, and the internet is like a full-to-busting library of all their work. Only, in this library you can borrow more than plain old books. Yes, you can also peek into other peoples' journals, open their sketchbooks, browse through their rolls of undeveloped film, and -- sometimes -- look inside their brains.

It's inspiring. Amazing. Mind-blowing. And sometimes it gets you down. You think that the way you see the world, and the way you interpret what you see, is nothing compared to the way they see it. What they do is wondrous and otherworldly, but what you do is mediocre.

Well, Self, I need to tell you something.

We've already established that you're not a genius and never will be. I'm sure you know that you've got a lot to learn. But let one of the first things you learn be this: what you do is mediocre to you just because you do it. Think about it. Of course you cannot look again through your own eyes at a work you've created as a result of what you see with those eyes. Of course it will all be familiar. Of course you will understand that about 99% of the world's creative people will be able to do better.

But none of that matters.

This is because God made you who you are, and because His work has value, the way you see the world has value. Oh, don't get proud about it. It has value because of Him, not because of you. And I'm not telling you to find yourself, because it's finding Him that matters. But, Self, please be happy being You. God made you You for some reason, even if you never get it. So be the best possible version of You, for His glory and smile.

Love,
Danielle