dear 2017 a love letter by jeanette leblanc

Dear 2017. A love letter

Dear 2017.
 
It may be a little forward of me, and maybe I’m jumping the gun a little, but what the hell – I kind of dig you. Maybe it is premature, I’ve known you less than a day and should probably play it cooler at first. But you know me – that’s not really how I roll.
 
You see, I swear, when the clock counted down last night and we passed midnight I felt an immediate shift, energy based and deeply expansive. It feels like you’re different than the year we just left behind – not so tight and grasping. Less like a manic rollercoaster ride – more like gentle ocean waves. Like you’ve been meditating and working on your breath and maybe doing a little yoga to get ready.
 
2017, without being condescending – I feel like you’ve already done the work. And I feel like you’re ready.
 
To be sure, I’m pretty sure you’re going to ask a lot of us. To dig deep and fly high. To tear down our barriers and to stop playing safe. To quit our excuses (because you’ll just see through them anyways) and all the justifications we give for playing small. I’m pretty sure, 2017, you’ve got little time for playing small – you’re ready for us to be all in, game on.
 
But I also think that you’ve already prepared a soft place to land, cooked up a pot of hot soup and gotten us a soft blanket to curl up in. I feel like you know we’ve done battle and are here with open arms, ready for us to lay down our weapons and rest a while. Like you’ve got high expectations that we’re going to get our shit together but also a hell of a lot of grace for the times when we inevitably don’t. And my god, we need that grace.
 
You feel deeply nurturing to me, 2017. Like the fiercest mama bear, protective and strong and true. Like you know just how hard it’s been and you’ve got our backs and you’re read to give us a good talking to any time we start with the negative self talk and deprecation. I’ll admit – we’re pretty bad at that shit. I’m pretty sure you’re here to convince us we don’t have to be quite so tough anymore.
 
Thank god, we don’t have to be quite so tough anymore.
 
You feel old to me already, 2017. And wise. And honestly, really fucking chill. Damn, I like that about you. Like you’ve been patiently watching us get ourselves into such crazy messes and waiting to see what we’ll do when we’re inside of the open space of your 12 months. Like you know we’ll work it out. Like you’re ready to give us infinite freedom – but also a firm guiding hand to get us back on track. Like you know we’re gonna be alright, given enough time and space – but you’re okay that we’re not quite there yet.
 
Goddess knows, we’re not quite there yet.
 
And I feel like you’ve got space for all of that.
 
I’m pretty sure you’re expecting us all to give way fewer fucks about the things that don’t really matter, so that we have way more to give about the things that really do. Like you’re a really big mirror, reflecting self back to us in a way that can no longer be avoided. You’re also probably going to shine a pretty bright light on all of those things we refuse to look at, in the hopes that we start to see clearly for once. I admit – it’s not been our strong point this last year. We’re clumsy with this, no doubt. I’m pretty sure this is where the grace comes in. Thanks in advance for that.
 
You want to know something, 2017? I wrote this letter to you already. I wrote it already and I lost it and I'm pretty sure it was way better than this one I’m writing for the second time. Deeper and more clever. I was seriously funny in the first version. Poignantly funny. Honest. And then it was gone. And maybe that was your first lesson to me, to not hold so tight and to trust that there are always more words, more stories to be told. Because I’m pretty sure you already know I’ve not been telling near enough stories, not been writing near enough words – and you know that I’m going to have to do better.
 
Yes, 2017. I know I can do better.
 
Dear 2017. I have to admit – I’m a little battle scarred from this last year. I want to trust, but I’m wary as fuck. I’m triggered and I’m tired and I’m so full of hope that it scares me. Hope, it seems, is sometimes the scariest thing of all.
 
Truth is, I want this to be good. Better than good. I want you to be the year that I make good on all those unmet promises and step into this potential for once. I want you to be the year that I give myself over to love in a way that I never have, and build the future I've dreamed of for so long. I want to live bigger and bolder and more fiercely than I ever have.
 
Yes, I know that’s a lot of weight to put on any one year and any one self. So, maybe we can make a deal you and I? How about we drop the promises and resolutions and expectations. How about we agree to not even have so many projections on who you are or who I am or who either of us will become over these next 12 months.
 
Because no doubt I’ll stumble and trip a few times, guaranteed. And maybe you will, too. This many trips around the sun and I’m humble enough to know that for sure. But I always get up again. Can you remind me of that when I forget?
 
So, let’s just show up for each other, you and I. Let’s show up full force. I’ll bring my messy humanity and my paradox and my contradictions and my holy gifts and my deep down desire to breathe more, love deeply, create fully. You bring your magic and your laser sharp lessons and your grace and your way of moving us through, no matter what.
 
And let’s just see what we make of that.
 
I’m ready if you are. Let’s do this.
 
xo.

J.


Dear readers.
If you, like me, know that you need to write more in 2017 and long to get back in touch with your wild heart30-questions-to-bring-you-closer-to-your-wild-heart – please consider joining me and our community of Wild Heart Writers for Round Two of the popular workshop, 30 Questions To Bring You Closer To Your Wild Heart. We begin on January 9th with 30 all new questions to get you diving deep into yourself and into the practice of daily writing in safe and supportive community. The cost remains $30 for the workshop and community, so that the experience remains accessible and open to all (scholarships also available).  Join us – and write your way home.

 

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