An Unplanned Postcard

When your younger self gives you a hug…

I’m currently reading The Return of the Prodigal Son. It’s a book authored by a Catholic priest named Fr. Henri Nouwen. It belonged to my partner but now belongs to me because you know…there is love in sharing. To be honest, I thought it was going to be a boring book about doctrine, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised. It’s a delightful read about personal struggles and the journey to inner freedom.

Since there are frequent references to the Dutch painter Rembrandt, I decided to pause and look him up in the middle of my reading.

So, as I write this, I’m in the middle of reading about the life of this late, tormented artist. The thing is, I feel so nostalgic. Have you ever felt embraced by a version of yourself from the past? Like you can feel them opening a door and waving you in with a warm embrace, asking where you’ve been all these years? That’s exactly how I feel now. I’m convinced that the version of me who is wrapping me in this oversized hug is me from 2012. That’s twelve years ago. (Because I’m bad at math, I had to pause and do the calculation.)

Just before I entered university, I used to research a lot…for fun. I enjoyed looking up artists, psychologists, dogmas, strange phenomena… I loved reading about quirky subjects. It was during that time that I buried myself in the study of Abrahamic religions. The more I discovered, the more motivated I was to keep digging. Wow! What a time it was!

So, you can imagine the 2024 me reading about Rembrandt. I got transported all the way back to 2012 and early 2013. It’s almost like a hallway I didn’t know existed has been opened, with just enough light to know where to put the next foot. I’m curiously following it, only to meet my teenage self. That 17-year-old was a scholar through and through, and she’s still grinning as I write this. She’s stunned it took me this long to come say hi, but she’s thrilled nonetheless. Wow!

This has been quite an experience, and it has set off a myriad of ideas in my head. There are so many versions of myself I want to give a hug. The 10-year-old me loved to draw. She was also fairly good at it. But that wasn’t even why she drew—she loved details. She was meticulous, enjoying the process of sketching an image down to the smallest feature. I can’t wait for the door that will open whenever I’m ready to pick up a pencil again. I’m excited.

I’ll stop here for now and get back to reading about Rembrandt. I don’t know what else I’ll find, but I’m excited to find out.

In the meantime, I’m curious—have you ever had a similar experience? I’d love to read about it.

With loads and loads of love,

Odinakachi Nwonu