An image of me came my way this week--came flying through the airless space, the ether of hypertext and social networking. An image of the ghost of me past, the me who was. The me before babies, before marriage, before graduate school, before travel. The me before life.
The innocent me.
The me who wanted a new dress to wear to the church dance.
And a hat to go with it.
And this image, for some reason, demands to be acknowledged.
So I acknowledge you, my sixteen-year old self. But you really should have helped out with the dishes more often. You should have told your family you loved them more often. You should have been a tad bit less self-absorbed (says the 37-year old me who is writing an *entire* post on herself). You should have worried less.
But some things you got right, by serendipitous chance or by absolute design. Whether by one or the other, I am grateful.
And now my sixteen-year old self tells me--can't you see the look on her face?--as I am now, you once were. As you are now, I will become.
I look into the airless ether to that future self, wondering what the ghost of me yet to come would say to the me right now. Undoubtedly, she will tell me that I should have worried less.
Time is a funny thing. You can never step in the same river twice, or so says Heraclitus, the grand master of the idea that each moment is its own universe. But there is my face. And here I am--dipping into the river again and again.