I once read a book that said, Every letter is a love letter. Which I kind of love, because you have to prick you heart in order to wet the quill to write one. Meanwhile, another half of me protests, because in acknowledging the legitimacy of the statement I expose love for many people by default. I am not so careless to love so many, or to admit it so easily to even myself. But my heart is easily pricked, and I have a general fondness and hatred of everyone, which is very conducive to being interpreted by my heart as a love affair. I think I could publish a book called Love Letters Ill Never Send. I have written so many sparrow soliloquies, but never gave them wings. (But I still think theyre lovely little birds! Each feather carefully traced, and tucked, and tufted. And what an exotic thing it would be to make bird houses out of the wrong mailboxes! Ha!) And I still do send quite a bit, usually on impulse. I kind of pride myself in the number of countries Ive sent hand written letters too. But the art of writing letters is lost in our culture. I think this is an awful tragedy. Im predisposed to enjoy it, but it is a skill that takes cultivation and we do not live in a society that is practiced in patience... or exposing heart, or noticing another person long enough to want to deposit some truth into them. (What truth? There is no room for truth when we are ravenous little monsters bent on ceaselessly whetting our own appetite on anything and everything that inspires craving, with little ability to decipher the heart from the stomach.) I digress. Its such a particular happiness to write a letter. An ecstatic melancholy to recall what has passed, point out what is fleeting, and draw upon what could be as it pertains to another person but stirred up within your own biased interpretation. What jeopardy it is to build a bridge from one side of the river knowing you wont be met half way, all the while having to draw upon your own resources to get you across. If youre resources prove to be untrue, everything will collapse on you. But bridges are often the most aesthetic grounds of transportation, if they are able to be crossed. But what if the holy transcript of human emotion expressed through language is not well received!? It feels as if the page is sling-shotted back into the human heart and bursts into flames at the friction of collision! All that is left is the inky residue of unrequited words that slowly smear across your cardiovascular organs and often the front of your consciousness to cause no small shock of pain. And yet, what an extraordinary excuse to turn the everyday events of life into poetry?! To be able to capture life through interpretation it and tangibly carry it with us!? A kiss can not be relived, but words always find a way of bringing new life! With what better eyes to see yourself but through the words of another person? What a wonderful opportunity to pause long enough to enjoy life in the present, in writing one. What a treasure of discovery in reading one, or a source of gratitude and nostalgia in rereading one. Its a well made meal that takes a long time for the elements to be gathered and prepared but can be feasted on for a life time. Anyway, I encourage anyone with a heart to write someone a letter. Its a vulnerable thing, so youll want an excuse. Feel free to blame me.
Posted on: Tue, 23 Sep 2014 21:13:27 +0000
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