Letters to no one

There’s a certain catharsis that comes when you write without an agenda. Not for an audience. Not for rankings. Not because you have to. But because you want to. Because the thoughts and words are pouring out of you, and you need somewhere to place them . . . somewhere that feels safe, away from what someone in your home could stumble upon, away from the judgement of social media or the world. . . a blank canvas. 

That’s what this is to me. 

Before I became a stay-at-home mom and Airbnb host, I worked in marketing. For 15+ years, I spent 40 to 60 hours a week writing content with the goal of getting noticed. I’d obsess over how many clicks, comments, views, opens, shares, etc. articles, emails, and social posts got. Everything was based on getting better engagement and more reach.

And do you know what happened as a result?

I stopped writing for myself.

My words became my revenue. So, it made sense to maximize the bottom line, and write for pay, not pleasure or play.

Right?

That’s what I thought. But I was wrong. Very wrong.

In 2022, my dad passed away unexpectedly. He was 56. I’m sure he felt like he had plenty of time left to pursue his interests, as he was active, young(ish), and in good health. But death is funny. Not in a ha-ha kinda way. But in an ironic “gotcha” kinda way.

He was a poet. Prolific in his 20s. But, by his 30s, he stopped writing all together. And, I believe, he always intended to go back to it someday. The trouble is, that “someday” never came.

Poetic, eh?

When I cleared out his house, I found his poetry sitting in dusty boxes in the back of his closet. Each piece was signed, dated, titled, and typed.

Those were his dreams. His words. Pieces of his inner world. And they were boxed up and compartmentalized — something to do continue later, not “now”.

But what happens when you don’t have a later? What happens when life sneaks up on you, and everything you intended to do for your life doesn’t come to fruition? Not because you were unable to do it, but because you never got around to it.

Do you get another chance? A reincarnation? Or is that is? A one-and-done?

In my dad’s case, he stopped writing poetry because he got distracted. He was so busy building a business and earning money to buy “stuff” that he forgot about the “stuff” that really mattered to him. And it wasn’t just the poetry. He also forgot me (we were estranged when he passed away).

For decades, his words were forgotten about. A thing of the past, not the present. And when I discovered them, it made me wonder: Was this always the purpose these poems were meant to serve?

Were they a tool to help him get out what was inside of him (his thoughts and ideas)? Or did they — did he — have a greater purpose that went unfulfilled?

For the creativity that exists within each of us, but that we often ignore in a bid to earn more money, to buy more stuff, and to live a distracted life?

And do we continue to hear whispers of that creative force, quietly telling us its time to come back and be in touch with the deepest, truest parts of ourselves? Or are the whispers slowly drowned out by all of the “things” we fill our lives with that don’t really matter?

I can’t answer these questions for my dad. Or for you. But what I can say is that I’m opening my heart and mind back up to that creative whisper. To the one that’s telling me it’s time to wake up and stop being so distracted. It’s time to get back to the basics of who I really am, not what I’ve pretended to be.

And as I put these words to this digital paper, I can feel long-slumbering pieces of essence coming back online. And back to life.