A strange thing happened to me in the last year or so. I guess as I think more about it, it really wasn't all that strange, but in our world of modern technology, it was a little odd.
First a little back story and maybe it will all round out and make more sense.
When I was a kid, like high school age, my mom made my lunch bag every day. She drew, designed and colored brown paper bags into art. I had a boy friend and we had a note habit. We had a notebook that we took turns writing notes to each other in and passing back and forth. One notebook turned into many. Later when he went away to college, it turned into letters. We wrote back and forth every day.
Paper letters. In envelopes. With stamps.
Fast forward.
Chicklet came to live here. Then she went to school. About this time last year, I was telling her I would write. I did. Paper letters. Almost every day. Then the year ended and she returned.
I missed writing the letters.
There was a certain feel about writing. I'm not sure I can fully give it words here. You learn about yourself and if you're lucky, you learn about the person you write back and forth with.
Sometimes a rare and spectacular thing happens. They get brave, they dive in deep. They reveal things about themselves they aren't even necessarily certain they know. Life and hearts and living gets sorted out on paper, in ink scratches on paper. Hearts are seen and things are felt.
I had yet another opportunity to write letters this summer.
I took it. I snatched it. Hopeful.
I'm glad I did. It was worth it.
It's in a lull, perhaps over.
Circumstance is different now. Surroundings changed.
All those words splashed out on paper, totally, completely, more than worth it.
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