I’ve been thinking about letters recently, long beautifully written
letters, on paper and done in ink. I remember in English class how it was a
must to learn how to write a proper letter. That it was explained that letter
writing was a skill. But now that I’m older in a world that no longer believes
in letters, I know it’s more than a skill, its about heart.
I remember watching my grandmother write letters to a friend in England
every few weeks, watching her hand flow over blue airmail paper. Her letters
looping and curling. In fact watching both my grandparents write anything was
just something I loved to do. They had the most beautiful handwriting, my
grandmother’s can only be described as ladylike flowing and pretty with loops
and delicate lettering and my grandfathers was sharp and precise, his letter
creating cuts and stabbing lines. No I didn’t grow up in the fifties or sixties
or before e-mail became a thing, I just grew up with people who still
remembered doing things the old way and taught me an appreciation for it.
Even in high school, although my friends and I had cellphones, which we called cellphones and not just phones because most of us still had landlines at home, we would write each other letters every week. Just to talk about things we couldn’t or didn’t want to say out loud or in public. Besides that we had parents that didn’t allow us to use our phones all the time, or have unlimited minutes to call and text all day. Hell even guys that liked you would send you a letter because they would be too shy to approach you and talk to you in front of all your friends, and even though calling you was easier writing a letter was just so much better. Or maybe he had a female friend that advised him that writing a letter was a lot more romantic.
Yes writing a letter and receiving one was still one of the best things
growing up. It was this tight excited feeling in the pit of your stomach and
the uncontrollable smile and the indecision you felt about wanting to open it
or to prolong the feeling of anticipation.
The feel of the indentation of the letters etched into the paper filled
with secrets or words of love and devotion. It might seem silly since we do the
same thing today via e-mail, texts and blogging and we don’t have to wait or
wonder if someone had received it or read it or if it’s been lost along the
way. Today we know in an instant if someone has received a message and in
emergencies that’s a good thing, as well as other situations.
Yet what about those softer times, the times when you want to show
passion but not overwhelm. To me sitting down to engrave your emotions and
thoughts about feelings deep and sublime is something that speaks of a unique kind
of passion. Taking time to sit down and write down your thoughts about someone
or your feeling about something takes time, thought, desire and passion; most
of all it takes patience. Every stroke of the pen is a thought that must be
experienced before it comes into being on the page. You not only feel the
movement of the pen on the page but the emotions you experience become etched
into the sheet itself.
There have been letters, lovingly kept, cherished. Stained by salty
tears, by smudges of sand, even by blood. Some so brittle from being handled
and re-read time and again. Some of these letters have found their way down
through generations. Speaking of love, and pain, of happiness and laughter of
people who have been long gone except for the part of themselves preserved in
their own hand on that piece of paper – a moment snatched out of time. A moment
that they could not forget. Thinking about a phone conversation or replaying a
moment in your mind it nothing like picking up a page that has been hand
written just for you. Handwriting is a part of someone, it is an insight to
their personality, their psyche. It’s a doorway not only to their heart but to
their soul as well.
Letter writing is something from the heart that we have lost, it is a privilege
we have given up.
There are times when trying to tell someone how you feel, how you ache
for them, explain pain, what you has been lost to you in a second or what you
have gained by just a chance meeting. How can you express anger, fear and desperation
when you cannot speak a word?
That is when you draw a sheet of paper nearer and pick up a pen.
