Write it Down in a Letter

About fifteen years ago, on the way home from teaching an evening yoga class, I heard an interview with Isabel Allende on the radio. At that time in my life I was going through a separation and I was desperate to create some kind of system that would help me make sense of the world. My main priority was being a good mother to my young daughter; I couldn’t afford to fall apart. I was hungry for guidance.

In the radio interview, Allende shared the how she managed the time following her only daughter Paula’s death. Paula was in her late twenties when she died from complications of porphyria, a disease that is rarely fatal. After Paula’s death, Allende turned to group of close women friends and started what she called a prayer circle. The idea, she said, was simply to witness each other. There wasn’t a focus on fixing or changing anyone, just to support each other by being there.

That very night, I emailed a handful of friends to share the idea and, wallah, my own prayer circle was born. Five friends and I met monthly for two hours and followed specific guidelines — listen, don’t advise, be willing to share. We didn’t interrupt each other to share a great idea about how to solve someone’s problems. We didn’t gossip. We just listened and shared. And it was a beautiful, wonderful thing.

Once, when I was feeling really desperate about the state of my life, I wrote Isabel Allende. I told her how times were hard, how I felt hopeless, how I’d started my own prayer circle. She wrote back and encouraged me on my journey. She signed of with, 

Your are at wonderful crossroad in your life and you have an open heart: many good things will come out of this, for you and your daughter.
Love,
Isabel Allende

I am at another crossroads now, in the transition time of letting go of the little daughter I so worried about all those years ago. After Isabel Allende’s daughter Paula died, she published the book Paula. The book is comprised of writings Allende created during the year that Paula was in a coma. Allende, not sure if her daughter could hear her or not; not sure whether she would live or not, writes to her to get through this painful transition filled with unknowns.

Several years after I started my prayer circle, Isabel Allende came to speak and my circle of girls went to see her. Completely star-struck and nervous to speak to this woman who had quietly become my guide and mentor, I approached Isabel Allende with my circle of friends at my side, and introduced myself, telling her that I was the one who had written her that letter to her and to thank her for her wisdom. She was gracious and let us all take a photo with her. 

Part of this transition I am in is honoring my daughter’s distance, her need to move away from me, to put my voice in the background and her voice in the foreground. My inclination is to keep advising my daughter, managing her and telling her ways to live her life. What I’ve learned (quite painfully) over the last few years, is that my daughter isn’t hearing me the way she used to and my nagging often turns into an argument.

A few weeks ago I woke up with a list of things I felt compelled to share with my daughter — thoughts about what she ought to pack for college, ideas for who she should invite to her graduation party, questions about how her college saving is coming along. I knew that if I brought up this litany of to-dos with my daughter first thing in the morning it would only lead to conflict so I decided to write her a letter.

My intention was never to share the letter but to simply get my worries out on the page so that I wouldn’t burden my daughter. I’ve written every day for fifteen days and my letters have turned from worries and lists to hopes and dreams as well as simple proclamations of love and unconditional support.  

When Isabel Allende was writing to her daughter during those long days of the unknown, there were things she wanted to share with her daughter — memories of their life together, tales of her ancestors, and the deep mother’s love she carried. There were also questions she had for her daughter stemming from a mother’s natural curiosity to know the secret parts of her children.

Isabel Allende’s daughter never awoke from the coma. The book Paula carries her memory. It is a beautiful testament to an amazing woman who died much too young. It is also a profound narrative of a mother’s love. 

When my daughter was little, when I first started my prayer circle, there were lots of concrete things I could do to help me feel connected; things that let me know I was taking care of her— reading a bedtime story, making a healthy dinner, holding her when she felt sad. These days my daughter feels mostly unreachable, and soon she’ll be living in a dorm in another state more than a thousand miles away. There are so many things I want to share with her, things I want her to know and understand, memories I want to relive.

The truth is I want to share all of these things because I want to feel closer to my daughter. These memories and to-do lists help me feel connected; they comfort me in this time of transition. Writing a letter was a stopgap that I thought would help me get through one anxiety-heavy morning, but I see it as much more now. 

Writing letters to my daughter is a way to honor this transition for myself, but also for her. I can share memories, declare my love, nag to my heart’s desire, and she can maintain the space and independence she so needs right now. I keep the letters to my daughter in a little notebook that I have no intention of sharing with her anytime soon. 

Maybe one day, if my daughter becomes a mother herself, and she experiences this transition I’m in now, I’ll let her know about the letter-a-day trick I used during her last summer at home. I’ll tell her how all the feelings she’s having are totally normal and that it might help to just write it down in a letter.