The Versions

The Versions

By Heather Wood

I feel my grip slip from the unicorn as I plunge face first towards the concrete. Oh shit! My heart leaps into my throat. Wait…

Unicorn?

Great, I must have had one of those fall reflex things as I was finally falling asleep. Why does that even fucking happen? I sigh and flick off the covers. I switch on my bedroom light just to make sure there isn’t a unicorn in my room. There isn’t. I glance over to my husband’s side of the bed and realize that he isn’t there. Strange.

I switch the light back off with a huff of disappointment. Of course there wouldn’t be a unicorn in my room. Damn, that would have been awesome. I imagine myself riding into school pick up on a unicorn. That would certainly solidify for everyone that I am a misfit weirdo. But I think it would probably be worth it.

As I’m climbing back into bed, still imagining scenarios in which I could ride my dream unicorn, I hear something. It sounds like muffled voiced and dishes clanging and it’s coming from downstairs. Is my whole family up? What time is it? Why can’t I see my clock? I must have knocked it on the floor during the unicorn incident.

I throw on my slippers and head downstairs, all the while muttering under my breath about my annoyance at the middle of the night caper my family is pulling. As I haughtily swing into the room armed with my mom tone of voice, I suddenly freeze. It’s not my family I find in the kitchen. It’s me.

And me

and me

and me.

There are four of “me” in the room. They are all sitting around my kitchen table eating cheesecake in their pajamas. It’s like a scene out of the Golden Girls but instead of Dorothy, Blanche, Rose and Sophia, I’m greeted by four different versions of myself. Two younger than my current self and two older. I turn to try and run out of the room because I honestly don’t know how to process what’s in front of me. It feels scary and freaky in a supernatural way. It’s like I’m caught in some kind of Charles Dickins/Steven King/ 80’s sitcom.

Despite my best efforts to flee, I don’t move.

The youngest version of “me” takes my hand and guides me to a seat at the table. I appear to be about 6 years old. I’m struck by how small and innocent I look. Six-year-old me says “I have a message for you and a question”. I try to answer her but my voice dies in my throat, so I just nod breathlessly in agreement.

“My message is; remember to play.” As she speaks these words images flash through my mind. Memories of myself wandering through the woods, making witches “stews” and creating imaginary play stories with my friends and brother. I see myself running, throwing a ball, and putting on dance shows for my stuffed animals. Damn, I knew how to play.

I’m struck mostly by the sensory memory of what it felt like to play. The freedom, the lack of self-consciousness and time awareness and the lightness that can only follow the joy of simply and exclusively chasing desire, curiosity and imagination. “Thank you” current me says, “I had forgotten what it feels like to let yourself play”.

“Now for my question” six-year-old me says. “What’s it like when we grow up?” Something about her use of the word “our” sends a shiver down my back. I stumble with my words a bit. I’m so afraid of disappointing her. I remember at that age that I wanted to become Jem from the 80’s cartoon and lead my band, the Holograms, to incredible success in the music business. I hoped she wouldn’t be crushed to find out that we have no musical talent.

I tell little me that we marry a wonderful man who has a crooked smile just like Gene Kelly. She beams. I tell her that we have two amazing sons and that watching them grow up into people is so incredible. I rattle off the many different jobs we’ve done and careers we’ve tried out, and I’m so surprised by how impressed she seems.

There is something about seeing her awe and joy at my experiences that knocks me off balance. I feel my perspective shift. That does all sound quite wonderful and exciting as it’s reflected back to me in her delighted expression. “We do all that!” she said with tears in her eyes. “Wow.”

What I had framed to myself as failures, falling short and changing my mind too much, she saw as adventurous and brave. My list of accomplishments and experiences felt big and impressive as I watched her react to them. I suddenly felt so much gratitude.

Another me, this one looked to be about 20, tapped me on the shoulder. Seeing her reminded me of how hard it was to be that age. She looked happy but I could tell it was a mask. She was a little too thin and behind her pleasant expression I could feel inner turmoil brewing. She said, “Can you give me some advice?”. Her expression was so hopeful. My heart broke for her…for me.

I thought for a minute about what to tell this version of myself who was lost. I had flashes of my life at 20. I had just graduated college and in the process realized that the career I thought I had wanted for myself was not the right choice. I felt like I had made an irrevocable mistake. I had chosen the wrong path and now I was disoriented in the woods with no idea what to do. I just simply said, “Keep wandering. You find your way by trusting your gut”. She seemed relieved. I asked her if she had a message for me, assuming that each version of me would follow the same format. “Don’t forget to keep learning things. You’re allowed to still be a beginner.” She winked at me as she delivered the word “beginner”.

“My turn” a voice said from across the table. This version of me was older than my current self. She looked to be about sixty. I smiled when I registered that she had pink and purple hair. I exchanged a knowing smile with 6-year-old me as the Jem theme song played in my head. “Truly outrageous, truly truly truly outrageous.” Damn, 60-year-old me is cool.

I buzzed with excitement as I said to her, “I can’t wait to be you!”. She laughed and said, “It’s great, but take your time babe.” I felt so much less afraid to get older. This version of me had cool hair and a self-assurance that only comes from being truly yourself. She interrupted my awe but saying, “Well you already got my message, here’s my question. What does it feel like to be at the beginning of this next chapter?”

Her question surprised me. As my kids were growing older, I was feeling like I was at the end of a chapter. I hadn’t really thought about the fact that it was also the beginning of a new one. 60-year-old me wanted to remember how this felt. “Daunting, exciting, scary, shaky and… well, powerful. I guess I sort of feel like a painter who’s got a blank canvas in front of them. But this time when I’m going to paint, I’m doing so with experience.” 60-year-old me took a deep breath as she let that sink in.

“My turn” said the oldest version of me who sat to my right. She looked to be in her 80’s and I was struck by how piercingly sharp her (my) eyes looked. She said, “I don’t regret anything, but I especially relish the moments where I told the world to fuck off and did what felt right to me.” Apparently, age has not diminished my love for salty language. “My question is more of a request” she said. “Stop wasting time comparing your 40-year-old body to the 20-year-old model.” Me and 20-year-old me exchanged surprised looks with each other. She continued, “When you’re 80, you’ll dream about the 40-year-old body. Just enjoy it and appreciate it.”

The four of us all laughed and I was suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude for the wisdom I had gained. When was the last time I let myself play and feel carefree like 6-year-old me was? When was the last time I looked around at all that I had and remembered that at one point, these things were all just dreams on a vision board?

20-year-old me had reminded me to let myself be a beginner. When you’re 20, it’s easy to be brand new at something. As you get older, it feels shameful and embarrassing. Why was that? Why was being new at stuff just for the young?

60-year-old me had shifted my perspective about this stage of life. Raising little children was ending faster than I felt ready for it to. The speed left me feeling so anxious for what the end of that would feel like, I had forgotten to be excited about what the next stage might bring.

80-year-old me assured this me that being myself, a weirdo misfit who wished she had a unicorn, was something I’d never regret. She also reminded me to appreciate this “youth” that had lately begun to feel more and more fleeting.

Filled with a fresh perspective and a remarkable sense of gratitude, I stood to give each version of myself a hug. As I did, the room began to spin and I began to pitch forward. In the blink of an eye I was suddenly sitting up straight in my bed.

Disoriented, I looked around the room trying to make sense of what had just happened. I knew it was a dream, but it felt like more that that. As I stumbled down the stairs, still in a magical haze from my mystical visitations, the smell of coffee and sound of voices greeted me in the kitchen.

This time I knew that I would be greeted by my family, and I felt an overwhelming sense of appreciation for them, for this moment in time and for whatever was coming next. The other versions of me still felt present. I knew I could tap into their likenesses whenever I needed them, and they could do the same in return.

This knowledge was even better than having a unicorn to ride to school pick up.

Damn, having a unicorn would be so cool! I bet I get one when I’m 60. Yes, 60 year old me definitely rides a unicorn.