I’ve been exchanging letters with a former high school classmate for a few months.

She and I constantly wrote to one another in our early to mid-teens, and then for a variety of reasons we didn’t correspond for nearly fifteen years.

Sometimes we write back very quickly – sometimes we don’t.  It’s never clearly been outlined, but somehow I’m certain we both know that the letters are sent free of judgement or expectation.  Sacred space where we both get to revisit who we were and safely question who we are.

I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve been carrying around her last letter for some time – waiting for exactly the right conditions in which to read it.  And late this afternoon, after I worked through a day that was intended for rest, after not waking up early enough to practice my yoga, after feeling dizzy from talking myself into circles at therapy…the moment finally presented itself.

With Briggs snuggled next to me on the couch, the rain pouring down, and my racing mind trying to time dinner, solve a work puzzle, and watch Wild Kratts  simultaneously, I remembered her letter.

I gave Briggs a kiss, got up, and unfolded the beautifully hand written sheets with delight.  Eight minutes later I was restored.

My friend’s stories are compelling and authentic.  I can actually see her courage on the page – and they remind me why she and I (and all of us) must continue to create.

We all have stories to tell and things to share and keeping our treasures (the shiny and the putrid) locked up, serves no one.

Especially ourselves.