I love to write letters. Long hand, cursive, lengthy letters. And I love receiving them. Only a delivery of flowers gets my heart racing more than finding a letter in the mailbox. (The letters are rare, and the flowers rarer still which makes them all the more special!)
In elementary school I had a few teachers who started pen-pal programs, and although they all eventually petered out, I never lost the love of writing to someone and waiting for their reply. In high school, I became good friends with an exchange student from Australia. We were basically inseparable for the year she was here and I envisioned a lifelong pen-pal at last. However, she moved a few times after returning to Australia and I lost the address chain. Thirty years later, I still feel a measure of sadness of losing that tie with her.
|Just a couple of my letter binders.|
Years ago when Abram started college, I started writing him. It’s nice to sit down and just chat away with pen and paper about how my day has been, what’s happening on the home front or share an idea I have for my writing. So every few weeks, he gets a few pages of my thoughts and other odds and ends. And now that he’s out of college, the letters continue and probably will until I can’t write anymore.
I know the list of ways to communicate today - the internet and email and instant messaging and blogging and a handful of ways I don’t even know about I’m sure – is growing rapidly. But for me, nothing counters the relaxation, intimacy and connection I derive from putting pen to paper. It’s basic. It’s black and white. And it’s lasting.