Day 15 of 30: Notes to Self

& some stories about chickens

To celebrate a year of the Isolation Journals, we’re inviting you to join us in a 30-day journaling challenge for the month of April. To support your practice, we’ll be emailing you three prompts each week. Then in May, we’ll return to our regular Sunday newsletter.

If you want a little extra inspiration, you can find a daily prompt here on the site. And if you want to help sustain the Isolation Journals, consider becoming a paid subscriber.

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Collage by Rachel Cargle

Hi friend,

Not long ago, I found several drawings I did when I was young—of the house I would live in when I grew up. From one to the next, there were slight variations, but it was always a little farmhouse edged by flower beds, on a small plot of land, with a couple of dogs and some chickens. 

If I had to guess, I’d say I drew the house when I was nine; I was very into chickens back then. For Christmas that year, I asked my parents for an incubator, and they obliged, along with about two dozen fertilized eggs from a local farm. Over the next three weeks, I tended them with extreme care, turning them every few hours to keep the little embryos from sticking to the shells. When one-by-one, twenty little chicks emerged, I felt like some kind of god. I carried those chicks around my neighborhood in a little doll stroller until my parents got tired of the squawking and pooping and had them sent back to a farm. 

It’s funny to think back on that little drawing, and the dreams I had back then, and to realize how close it is to my actual home now. As the winter turned to spring, I started dreaming about building a coop and filling it with plump little hens. I even joined a Facebook group for local chicken lovers—which, I can’t lie, has given me pause. There’s always a new post about someone’s entire flock being massacred by a dog, or some chickens going rogue and pecking a duck’s eye out. There was even a science fiction-level mystery: one of the owners found in their hatching box something that truly looked like a fetal alien. And yet, I might just have to take the leap.

In the past year, it’s felt like we’ve been pinned to the present; the past felt obsolete, and the future felt terrifyingly unknown. But there’s power in reflecting on our old selves, and projecting what we want for our future selves. And so we’re revisiting this evergreen prompt from Rachel Cargle, the writer and lecturer whose explorations of race and womanhood have ignited meaningful conversations between people all over the world. Today, she’s inviting us to have a dialogue with ourselves—past, present and future.

With love,

Suleika

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Notes to Self by Rachel Cargle

Lately, I’ve found comfort in appreciating the various versions of myself thus far. That younger me who was brave enough to make the big move to the city. Child me who opened her heart to curiosity and found hobbies that I still indulge in today. Teenage me who was scared often and instead of pushing myself into discomfort I cared for myself with a confident "no" to things I preferred not to be a part of. That version of me just a few years ago who found little morsels of joy even in the midst of what felt like the biggest storm. 

I smile and look at her (those younger versions of me) with my mind’s eye. I hug her, I dance with her, I tell her I am proud of her, I forgive her for the things she was pitting against herself, I let her in on secrets about her future that she can only imagine.

I also have been indulging in the practice of praying to future versions of myself. The version of myself next year who will be fresh off of surviving a global pandemic. The version of myself who is 40 and will be benefiting from the choices I'm making now. The version of myself who is 50 and taking stock of how I've been existing in this world. The version of myself who is 70 who may be celebrating deeply in the friendships I am investing in now.

I pray to those versions of me. I ask her to be gentle with me, I coax her for hints on what’s to come, I list for her all the ways I am caring for her, right now—with that expensive face cream, through weekly therapy, by taking a few risks in business. I make promises to her, I speak my desires for her. I get energized and inspired knowing that she—that sage and grounded version of me—is waiting to meet me finally. 

Take some time to reflect on all versions of yourself. This is a deeply intimate and revealing practice that can offer healing, insight, and hope. 

Your prompt for today:

Write a letter to your younger self. Thank them, praise them, scold them, comfort them—engage in whatever way you feel led with one or many versions of your younger self. Whatever comes to mind. 

Now, let’s shift to exploring your older self. What would you want to say? To ask? To request? Tell your older self what you are doing now in service of them. Tell them what the ideal situation might look like when you finally meet—where might you be living, what type of work might you be doing, who might you be spending time and space with.

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One Last Thing…

Our prompts will always be free, and all are welcome. But if you have the means, we’re humbly asking you to consider becoming a paying subscriber. Over the last year, I’ve worked with the most incredible team of women to nurture this project, sourcing over 145 beautiful prompts from the most extraordinary people I could find, and coming up with new and exciting ways to build community. It’s been a labor of love but also a whole lot of labor. 

Our hope is to continue to do this work—because isolation did not start with the pandemic, and it will not end with it. More and more, isolation is a feature of modern life. We want to continue providing opportunities for reflection, connection, and inspiration. We want to continue creating with you. Because as our friend Elizabeth Gilbert says, a creative life is an amplified life.

I do this work because I know it works, and it’s necessary. Here, we create ourselves. Here, we write our way through.