This morning, I found myself thinking about why I write you these letters? I close my eyes and remember those times, about where you are now. The hospital bed. The beeping noises. The nurse or doctor coming into the room, exactly when I finally manage to drift into sleep. If you can call it such. And I recall saying “no” to talking with friends or family who wished to check in on me over the phone. I remember that I clearly told my family, no one is to come to visit. I know you don’t have any energy for that. And then there was that bag with journals, and even a book on a near-death experience, that a bunch of friends had put together and brought to the hospital, and I looked at it many months later.
So, I know you can’t really read my letters. I know you don’t have the power to hold them as paper or as emails. I know you are so blurry from the painkillers that nothing gets through to you. And still, I feel I must write.
I write to you because it reminds me of what’s important. Drifting back into the ordinary in life, especially after our adventures, is often such a blessing. But then, it is also so crucial to remember the profound truths that became realized along with our healing. So, I write to you, and between the lines, I re-remember.
I write to you because time is not only linear—the dance of cause-and-effect. So, when I write to you, I am also the cause, coming from the “future” us. I dream the insights into being. I dream the growth. And then, maybe, by the power of our imagination, which is so much more, when we let the control of our minds release it, I remind you that you’ve already learned something, even if it is in your linear future. Then, you don’t have to go through some of the challenges again and again.
I know it only partially makes sense. It is real but hard to explain. You need to experience it. Try feeling it for a moment. Go back and meet our daughters. Meet them, not today, but a few weeks ago, on that first night after the car crash when they were crying at home, and the adults around did not know if I, you, were going to make it through the night. Imagine you are there as light and breath, feeding them, as you had done the night before. Comfort them. Be with them in your energy. You’ll be surprised how much healing this brings. I am now trying to do this for us. Me. You. Heal us with compassion. And if you did not understand any of this, don’t worry about it. It took me a long time to grasp it myself. The seed has been planted.
Healing takes time, and it can also emerge as a miracle.