Writing Letters Again

Somehow baby James
Has brought me back to letters.

I used to write them all the time.
To all kinds of people.
In high school,
My cousins Christy and Maisie,
And other cool seeming older folks
I hoped to stay connected to,
Especially once they went off to college.
Kept it up through much of college myself
Adding letters to parents,
Friends traveling.
When I met Ashley in the fall of '94,
She promptly went off to Mexico for the winter.
Me to Germany.
I wrote maybe 20 letters for her to take with her
Written and sealed and handed off,
Because I didn't know how long the
Germany to Mexico post would take.
And didn't want her to lose the connection.
Somewhere just before we left,
Met baby sister Mallory,
Who nearly broke legs, back, and arms
Demonstrating cartwheels
Indoors.
Started writing to her too,
In part, at first at least,
To make a good impression.
"You need to win the heart of the mother,"
My mom said.
And there seemed some sense to this.

In those years, Dartmouth was up and running
With its "Blitzmail"--all of our first experience of email,
Though it seemed a mostly Hanover-contained phenomenon.
High School friends on other campuses had email addresses too,
But in arcane, unfriendly systems that made the telephone,
And often the letter a much preferred source of connection.
All of which soon changed.

I kept writing Ashley
Throughout our dating years.
When we kept landing on opposite continents.
And depended much on the kind of candor
I seem only to find when writing.

And then she was the only one I wrote.
Then no one.

Replaced by emails.
Written and read as hastily
As a blog post.
And even those thoughtful,
Multi-paragraph
E-treatises,
Nestled in between ads for
Penis extensions
And XXX opportunities,
Just don't get the kind of
Love and attention
As a piece of paper
Passed from hand to hand to hand
Read
Reread
Reread
And on your mind
Until you write in reply
Maybe starting one day,
Finishing a week
A month later
Carrying your recipient
All the while with you.

Not a starred,
Flagged,
Or otherwise queued-up to do item
To be checked off
And forgotten.

And there is so much I process
Only at ink speed
And only through ink
This blog an OK substitute
And a vast improvement over the journals (see On a return to writing)

A few times these past years, I have wanted to start writing letters again.
Have even done so.
But getting no reply.
Or a reply by email.
Or a call.
I got discouraged.
Gave up.

This year.
Nearly a year of hiatus from the journal,
With James,
And flexibility,
And rolling with the punches my excuse.
A year apart from most nearly all creative,
personal
Real writing.

In August,
Ashley, James, Scout, and I
A vacation,
Where James' naps,
And evening times served for our annual marriage retreat,
I found myself talking about letters.

Had written one to cousin christy last spring
After the memorial service,
And was so struck by her response.
I wrote again that week.

Finding myself again.
Speaking in ways I had not
For so long.

With Ashley's encouragement,
Paddling up or down the Black River
On the eastern edge of the Adirondacks,
I resolved to write letters again,
Whether or not I get anything in reply.
Discovering I need to do this for me.
A gift of sorts I can give to others.
But also a gift for me.
To know and be myself
In ways that
Are just not
E-possible
Or possible
(Or at least likely) live
For me anyway
Or at least yet.

Perhaps dadtoday
Will surprise me by turns
Unexpected
Unimagined.
I hope it will.
But in the meanwhile,
Letters again.