Life, is your hair different? Did you lose weight?

Dear Life of Mine,

I saw you the other day in my green car, but you didn’t see me. Hey, it’s not your job to see me, so no prob! I wasn’t offended or anything! I just wanted to drop you a line and say you looked—well, I don’t want to lie here. You didn’t look like your old self, Life. You didn’t look BAD, don’t get me wrong, but you looked DIFFERENT.

Did you get a hair cut? Did you lose weight? Is that a new shirt, Life? You looked…almost…like a stranger. I mean, of COURSE I recognized you: you’re my life. We’ve spent 38 years together. True, I can only remember about 36 of those years, for the most part. (Although there is that memory of my daddy holding me up over his head, pretend-munching on my little arms to make me laugh. That had to be pretty early on, Life, no matter what the child development textbooks have to say on that.)

Anyway, what I’m saying, Life, is that no matter what, I’d know you anywhere, even if you looked almost entirely different. As you do now.

You looked like you had a lot on your mind, as you scooted west on Route 2 in the old Sentra. (It was making a strange noise again, by the way. You might want to get that checked out.) Life, I saw you behind the wheel, and you were…what’s the word I’m trying to find here? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you were…older, maybe. You were…grayer. Not ‘gray’ as in ‘bleak’. But ‘gray’ as in…less technicolor, less black-and-white. Just grayer. The color you get when you start mixing all 64 bright soldiers in the Crayola box, the one that comes with the built-in sharpener.

I followed you to the supermarket, I admit it. You didn’t see me as I trailed you inside. (Again, of course you didn’t. You’re supposed to keep your eye on the…well, crap. I confess I’m not really sure about your complete job description, but I know it’s my job to watch you, and not the other way around.)

As you pushed your cart up and down the aisles, pausing occasionally to look at the carbohydrate count of, say, a Chocolate Peanut Butter Zone Bar, or Kashi Vanilla-Flavored Oatmeal, I couldn’t help but notice the slight hunch of your shoulders, Life. A little resigned, is how you looked. You’ve been carrying a lot.

I almost came up behind you, almost tapped you on the back and told you to stand up straight, pull those shoulders back. I wanted you tell you that you’re beautiful in your grayness, although it’s true all that gray in you now makes it easier than ever for you to move through shadows, barely detectable, unless you want to be seen. I know you don’t always want to be seen.

It’s hard, being seen.

I didn’t want to bother you. You understand. So I just tiptoed behind you for a while, trying to put my finger on the change in you. It’s not just the gray.

Maybe it’s that you’re hungry again, in a way you haven’t been in a long time. Or maybe you’ve been hungry for a long while, and you don’t have the energy to hide it with a big grin. (You have a fab smile, BTW. Infectious, when it comes out, crooked bottom teeth and all. Just thought you should know.)

Sure, you have stuff to worry over. There are people who are mad at you, Life. They are disappointed in your choices. Shocked and furious, even. I grant that. I know this is getting you down. Really getting you down. You know it’s bad when you aren’t even allowed to give a friendly SuperPoke to your former husband’s cousin on Facebook. You know it’s bad when you’re no longer welcome in places where you hoped to God you’d still be welcome.

Life of mine, to that I say: you’re a human Life, of course it’s getting you down. You’re real, you’re fallible, you’re flawed, and things hurt. You are evolving—excruciatingly and occasionally joyfully—but you are not Evolved. You have not Transcended, you have not yet figured out how to Live Completely in the Moment. You are not Gandhi, you are not the Dalai Lama, you are not Martin Luther King, you are not Pema Chodron, and you are definitely not Eckhart Tolle.

Some advice from a well-meaning friend who loves you, Life: please don’t buy into all that calm Eckhart Tolle stuff, all those ‘pain-bodies’ walking all over the earth, able to shed their pain like last season’s swing coat, if only THEY—you—WOULD JUST TRY.

You are learning that you need to find your own way, a way that makes sense to you. If you want to go down Aisle 8 before you muddle through Aisle 5, then more power to you, Life. You know what you can bear. Sometimes the comfort of Aisle 8 (all that soft Kleenex and Charmin) is necessary before you take on the flashing lights of Candy-and-Coffee-and-Tea-and-Cookies of Aisle 5.

Life, don’t buy into Suze Orman (not that you have the money to buy into her, ha!). Dr. Phil has some common sense, sure, you and I both agree on that. But he’s no saint, never was. He’s no wise man with a backpack full of McCormick Black Pepper and McCormick Salmon Rub Spices on his way to see the Baby Jesus. He, and Eckhart Tolle, and Suze Orman—their put-together public personas are what they and their peeps want you to see. They want to help, sure, but their big mistake is assuming that they need to help from pedestals of unwavering calm collectedness.

But they’re human too, behind closed doors. Trust me.

And FYI: calm collectedness was never supposed to be one of your charms. Leave that to those who come by it honestly, those with calm collectedness climbing up their twisty DNA ladders like ivy. There are a few out there—the few, the proud, the calm—but that’s not who you are.

Don’t despair. No, wait, go ahead and despair—I would never fault you on that—but know that you are doing some things right. That frozen pizza you put in your cart? The thin-crust one with spinach and goat cheese? That, my Life, was a fab choice. You were in the moment. You didn’t bother to look at the carbohydrate count or the price. You didn’t hesitate. You were hungry for a pizza with spinach and goat cheese, and you put it in your cart. Good for you, I say. The best we can all hope to do down here is put the frozen pizza of our choice into our cart, coupons or no coupons.

The good news is, Life, you’re still welcome in many, many places. There are many people who are still happy to see you. Would be thrilled to see you. Would be thrilled if you SuperPoked them on Facebook.

So don’t check out just yet, I wanted to say to you as you idly flipped through In Touch to see how Britney is faring these days. There are plenty of aisles left, a lot more nourishment coming your way.

Hope springs infernal.

Oops, I mean, you know, eternal.

I meant to tell you that I found the lyrics of a song by Deb Talan that I think you would like very much. You love Deb Talan of the Weepies, and she would love you back, if only she knew you. The song is called ‘Comfort,’ and whenever I hear it, I think of you:

When everyone has gone to sleep and you are wide awake
there’s no one left to tell your troubles to.
Just an hour ago, you listened to their voices
lilting like a river over underground
and the light from downstairs came up soft like daybreak
dimly as the heartache of a lonely child.

And when you can’t remember a better time
you can have mine, little one.
In days to come when your heart feels undone
may you always find an open hand
and take comfort, there is comfort.
Take comfort wherever you can, you can, you can.

You don’t have to reach for the stars. I know after all this time, Life, you still think you have to. You still think that you’re supposed to.

It’s okay to reach for an open hand instead. And to extend yours in return.

Really. That’s enough, Life. Take comfort wherever you can, and provide it however you can. The stars have been out there for billions of years. They do fine with or without us. They are not your Promised Land. You can relax and let them go.

You’re grayer, sadder, more complicated than ever, Life of mine. Even the supermarket cashier can see it. (“Live and learn,” she likes to say to her grandchildren, who pay no attention.)

You’re paying attention, and that’s great. Live and learn. Live and learn and lose and love, in spite of it all. Let the stars do their thing millions of miles away. You keep doing your thing.

Carpe Diem, as best as you can. Carpe the outstretched open hands offered in your direction. Carpe Frozen Pizza with Goat Cheese and Spinach. Carpe In Touch, and be proud that your response to Britney is an honest ‘Ah, poor soul,’ instead of a disgusted ‘What a mess’.

You are a mess, but you are becoming a graceful mess.

Gray is the new black-and-white.

It suits you. It really does.

Love,
the one you are leading, the one who loves you