"I have been thinking a lot about how to go about living my life as it's happening and in such a way that I can leave it with no regrets. Toward the end of our journey down the Colorado on the course Page Lambert and I called The Heroine's Journey, Page had this great idea. She gave all of us cards and envelopes which she told us to address to ourselves. She told us to write our future selves a card, something that we would want to remember from the trip, and then put it into the self-addressed envelope, seal it and give it back to her. She then took all of our letters and said that she would wait to send our particular card out to each us when she sensed that the time was right, when each particular writer needed it. She said she had no idea when that would be, maybe weeks, months or years hence, but she promised she would wait until she felt the moment had come when we should get it.
So I received mine on the day I closed a play I was performing in, Outside Mullingar, which had been one of the happiest and most gratifying experiences of my professional life and one I sorely hated to leave behind. I was just beginning the inevitable crash into despair one feels when coming down from such a high when I got home and saw my own handwriting on an envelope. Strange to get a letter from myself. I honestly couldn't remember what I'd written, but I opened it, hoping to be cheered by the sun-burned woman I was once, covered in the red silt of the river, surrounded by the roar of the rapids and the calls of canyon wrens. Here's what I wrote myself back in the middle of August:
Remember what it was like to give your body over to the roil and flux and gentle drift of that pink brown river. The spin of the eddies, the soar of the canyons, the echoes of all those women laughing.
Remember the joy.'
And suddenly I did."