Your Freest Self Says Hello
A love letter to who we really are.
Last week my family and I went on a last-minute camping trip to Voyageurs National Park, on the cusp of the Canadian border. Our campsite was on its own little island, surrounded by cool, clear water. The land there is rich in quartz, and the lake water literally sparkles all the way to the bottom, like someone dumped in a handful of glitter.
I don’t like swimming in general, but I love splashing around in 60-degree lake water—a rare treat that I was sure to take advantage of. My kids immediately decided the water was too cold and stayed near the shore to make sandcastles. That meant I got to enjoy the even rarer treat of swimming largely unencumbered of the duty of supervising my children.
I bobbed farther and farther from shore, past the drop-off where I could push off the slick, rocky lake bottom and out to the deeper water where everything below me was dark. I paddled after our dog as he chased gulls and ducks. I lay on my back floating, letting the current push me around the corner of our island, my eyelids closed to the orange sun. I treaded water and watched the quartz dance around me while warblers sang and red squirrels chattered like grumpy old men from their trees.
It was only for an hour, but that time in the water was as good as any weekend silent retreat. It’s probably a function of spiritual direction training, but just as I’ve begun to attune myself to notice God in unexpected places, I’ve also come to know that there are certain scenarios where I should never be surprised to meet the Divine. Remote wilderness, especially water, is one of them.
In those sixty minutes, I was free: free of the flies that had been hovering around our campsite, free of the expectations I place on myself, even free of the clinical anxiety that is, as Mr. Bennet would say, my constant companion.
Any writer knows the challenge of putting feelings into words, so here’s my attempt in the form of a love letter to both of us. Here’s to our inner freedom, dear one.
Darling,
You are not a puzzle to be figured out or a code to be cracked. There is no “answer” to that “problem” that reappears in your life week after week, no solving the mystery of who you are. No influencer or podcast or book or Facebook group can cure you of your inmost being.
Don’t you see? Who you are is beloved.
You are every drop of water that sustains you, every gentle breeze turned into your precious breath. Your footsteps leave a path, no matter how faint, that others will trace someday, following, grateful that you showed them the way.
You are expansive and uncontained. Original. Unpredictable. Magic.
I suppose you could put yourself into a box. Maybe sometimes those walls are helpful as you become who you are. But a sunflower doesn’t stay a seed; a bird doesn’t remain in its shell. Even a turtle pokes its head out.
You are more than your diagnosis, your personality type, your job title, your religious affiliation, your relationship status, your political party, your fears, your hopes. You are as God made you to be and as you choose to become: co-creating with the Divine.
The walls of our boxes are high, constructed by systems, society, our loved ones, ourselves. We’ve been in some of them for so long, that the walls are now made of a thick, unyielding stone.
No wall goes on forever. Find a ledge to stand on, a vine to scale, a rope to throw over the top. I dare you to climb. Peek over the edge every now and then, soak up the wonders that lay beyond. Say hello to your truest self, and nourish her in freedom and in love.
Someday, when you’re ready, when it’s time, walk atop the wall. See and embrace yourself for who you are. No judgment can reach your ears here. No calls to fix this or that. There is no slick marketing telling you that this will be the thing that finally changes what you hate about yourself. Here, there is no snide voice reminding you of your faults and failings.
There is only you, surrounded by Love itself. Here, you are free as you are.
It’s not lost on me that I was bobbing around a lake on America’s Independence Day, experiencing a full freedom of self at a time when many in our communities are not free. They’re experiencing unconscionable mistreatment, every patriotic song and wave of the flag a taunt that says In this country, only some of us have ever had true freedom.
Each of us deserves to honor, and have others honor, the dignity inherent in being who we are. That remains a luxury for so many people, for so many reasons. There is no neat and tidy answer to this, but know that if this is you, I’m holding you in prayer.
Mother Cabrini, pray for us.1
St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, commonly known as Mother Cabrini, was an Italian nun who immigrated to the US in 1887—around the same time some of my own Italian ancestors were setting foot on US soil. Mother Cabrini lived in New York and worked to care for immigrants; she also established the first US orphanage. In 1950 she was named as the patron saint of immigrants.