Letter to my younger self

The general idea behind letters to our younger selves seems to be to gently encourage and support and warn. To my younger self I'd say wow, you're way ahead of me on some things, you burn with a passion I struggle to recall now.

On other things you're exactly like me, you are me, in mineral form maybe. Elemental, so it's like looking in the mirror and waving a little self-consciously, not entirely sure which is the actual and which is the reflection, freckles and a mild blush of embarrassment on both faces, the same eyes, the same sight, here or there.

One thing I've learned which you also knew or, rather, sensed and which you are bang on about is your belief in envisioning your future, creating your future. Yes, it really does work, it is true, though you didn't envision this reality. Even so, some snapshots along the way have proved pixel perfect. You are making me even now. Remember that vision of an old woman in an orchard? Long grey hair? I'm a few years off that yet and my hair is still short, but I don't doubt we will one day meet her too.

So to you, what would I say?

Relax. Keep seeing, learning, listening, looking. Never lose faith in the peace and wisdom in repose. Or that gained in action. Balance is what you're aiming for. It's harder than it sounds, but you can do it, you will.

Your instincts are amazing, sure.

There are some things that get better and you don't have to either grasp or deny them. Mobile phones, the internet, your interest - finally - in fitness, your children, the view from 35,000 feet of the red earth of India, sex with a woman, love, the slow erosion of ego. All these will come and astound you whether you want them or not. Live. Joy is a by-product rather than a goal.

Your Mum dies young. Be kinder to her now. You'll miss her much, much more than you can imagine. You'll transpose your need for mothering on to random women then, eventually, on to white feathers so you can be found by her at some level always, but especially in the Spring, the season when birds fly the nest. You left yours so young, you still carry the bruises of too many falls.

I love you, I whisper it through the veils of time, opaque mists in the valleys like bowls of milk between hilltops of then and now.

I love you.

Hold on. Believe.