I miss letter writing, a lot. I know there’s email, it’s simply not the same though. A month ago I was looking for an exquisite pen; it was a gift and I’d misplaced it. I began looking on one of the shelves (I’ve five very long shelves). After looking for a few seconds, a very familiar looking box got my attention. It was a box with a bunch of old letters, and the bunches were tied with the loveliest of ribbons, and they seemed to be, well, waiting, I thought. And I asked myself, waiting for what? There was no answer. So I reached for the box that for many years was carted from one place to another, now seemed the perfect time to take a look at what the past might reveal.
For the most part, reading the letters was wonderfully entertaining. Some of the people who wrote those letters have passed away, and the people who are alive are all leading very different lives. The letters ran the gamut of emotions, and, of course, they had an entirely different affect on me than when first read many years ago. I’ve changed, along with everybody and everything else. Again, what was revealed that evening was that everything is always changing. It wasn’t sad; it was just, wow, that all happened?
Although we are privy to many historical intimate letters, somehow when the letters of a long time ago are from people personally known, written in their own handwriting, and allowing the recapturing of memories, if only for fleeting moments, a different feeling arises. It’s a very nice feeling; I’d call it calming because somehow I sensed that everyone was fine – right here, right now; dead or alive; they’re all fine.
I’m sure many people would be excited to open their mailbox and see, along with junk mail and bills, a handwritten, personal letter on beautiful stationery. And, as for the one writing the letter, I remember it’s very satisfying, and tends to put things into perspective. Oh, yes.
I haven’t found my pen yet.
Sweet dreams, everyone.