A few years ago, I decided to write a letter to my younger self, the child I was. I explained the difficulties he would face, encouraged him, gave advice… as if I actually had something to teach.
Then, one day, with a very vivid image in my mind that I will remember for life, I saw him looking at me, dressed in his brown cardigan. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t sad, he wasn’t judging. He was just looking at me.
Suddenly, I saw my own stupidity reflected in his eyes, my pretentiousness, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. That look undressed all my speech and I saw, maybe for the first time, how far I was from him, how I was not him. I saw with crystal clarity how I wasn’t his teacher, but his debtor.
He wasn’t asking for anything, he wasn’t angry or sad, he was just looking at me with his big brown eyes, unshielded, honest, unpretentious and yet, so powerful. For all my stature, I felt insignificant; for all my achievements, I felt uncomfortably powerless, stranded.
And so I did the only thing I could do: I apologised to him. He said nothing, but I intuited he understood.
Days later, an image came to my mind from nowhere. I saw my younger me, again in his brown cardigan. He came closer and just took my hand. I understood I had been forgiven. Later I also understood I had not been forgiven by him, but by me. He had just stood there, waiting with no hurry. And when I was done, he had just taken my hand, symbolising (I hope) our union.
The Introverted Tree 