Skip to main content

Such a Long Time

Today marks my seven year anniversary in San Francisco.  It has been my longest love affair yet.  Apparently, it's making me wax nostalgic:

I'm currently cleaning through things in my closet and have come across boxes heavy with old letters and cards from friends throughout the years.  In sorting through, I knew I wanted to keep some representation of everyone who has been significant in my life, but didn't need to keep every single blessed note.  (There were a few letters from people I honestly can't remember, and I'm guessing they can't remember me either.  After reassuring myself it was life, not Alzheimer's, I tossed them). So I wanted to do the letters the courtesy of a read-through before recycling them.  And I was struck by how about 95% of them all began with something like the phrase "I'm sorry it's been so long since I've last written."  It didn't matter if what era of my life the letter was posted, the sentiment was universally a feeling of guilt.  Which is now how I often feel about not calling dear long-distance friends, and a when I do finally call, I usually begin with "I'm so sorry it's been such a long time since I called."

Anyway, after spending several hours in my closet sorting through memories and mementos, I emerged as if from some kind of marathon therapy session.  It's been a long time since I've written a letter to a friend, but I do occasionally send cards, and now feel even more recommitted to doing so.  When I found cards from people in my life who have since passed on, they took on much greater meaning than when I first received them. And I loved finding little treasures like my deceased grandfather's phrase "There isn't a klinker in the bunch" in regard to his children and grandchildren. Being reminded of whole parts of my life I'd forgotten about, or friendships that are so changed they are unrecognizable, or of people who greatly influenced my life leaves me worn out, but in a good way.  I'm glad I kept boxes of letters for this long and I'm glad I could let some of the letters go.

It's never quite hit home as much how electronic my correspondence has become though until I poured through the boxes.  I'm not sure I'd be as inclined to look up the length of an email history with a friend, but I'm grateful that I can.  And with the advent of facebook, for all it's faults, I've been able to reconnect with some of my former-letter-writing friends in a way that is very satisfying.

But nothing beats those little homemade cards, or letters with hand-drawn stationary with the simple familiarity of a friend's handwriting.  Those had to be kept.

Comments

  1. therapy session! so true.

    i recall receiving an encouraging hand written note from you when i was a new mommy to noah and emilie. i remember that your thoughtful words refreshed me. i kept it on my fridge for years.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Good grief! I just realized your sweet comment was hidden here - thank you for it Denise! If in my note I predicted you would be a fantastic mom (as you have always been a fantastic person), I think I pretty much nailed it. :)
      I have to say, finding notes I'd forgotten about that really made an impact on my life made me want to send people notes. For some reason along the way, I had stopped believing in the power of an encouraging note. Sometimes, when you hear no response (which was certainly not the case with you - you have always been super encouraging) it's hard to think you should keep it up. But now I'm more inclined to just enjoy the gift of writing the note with the hopes it makes a difference.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

For Mom, Twenty-One Years Later

I lost my mom twenty-one years ago today. She died from complications related to a long battle with chronic-progressive multiple sclerosis. I was a week away from turning twenty-one. Which means I have not had her as long as I did have her.
It used to make me unique among my friends, to have lost a parent at such a young age. But I’m no longer young and many friends have joined this depressing club. The dues are astronomical and no one prepares refreshments.
People, moms are important. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Whether you were once a child or are currently a mom. They are the sun, moon, and stars, even when they are completely obscured by darkness.
I wish she mattered less. She doesn’t. She matters more than almost anything: that first hit of love, that childhood sense of safety, that initial understanding of what it means to be a woman in the world: mom.



Memory is funny when it comes to dead people: I can remember her any way I want. Which means I can also mis-remem…

The 2018 Iceland Report: Part Last

The exciting (or at least the inevitable) conclusion of Part One and Part Two of Icelandic awesomeness....


Day Six: Ekra Cottage/ Lagarfljótsvirkjun to Höfn
This day was all about epic scenery. Kilometer after kilometer of stunning beauty. The ever-shifting sweeping views afforded us herds of wild reindeer, giant snowy fjords, a mossy valley, snow blowing across the road like dry ice, lava rock, waterfalls. It was a total feast.













Our halfway point was Djúpivogur which houses a collection of giant roadside marble eggs, each one fashioned after a particular type of bird's egg.



We arrived in Höfn and checked out the harbor and the free museum (a welcome respite from the windy harbor) before checking into our guesthouse. Which we had all to ourselves. We made one last meal of fusilli and bell pepper (fusilli meal #4 for the trip for those keeping track - I'll be taking a good long break from fusilli now) and read. I found a left-behind copy of The Silence of the Sea by Yrsa Sigurðar…

The Quarterly Reading Report

It's been waaaaaay too long since I posted a Quarterly Reading Report. I'm about to amend that situation. I have lucked on some pretty spectacular reading in 2018 so far--some recent publications but most not--and I'd be a bad friend if I didn't share these titles with you.

In the excellent crime detective/thriller department, we have Yrsa Sigurðardóttir's THE SILENCE OF THE SEA, which I've already posted about. It was the perfect book for atmospheric Iceland. I also loved Tana French's THE TRESPASSER. Set in Dublin, Ireland (I think 80% of what I love best about a crime detective/thriller is that it is placed in an incredibly interesting setting), the protagonist is a difficult (and therefore interesting) woman in a man's world working the hardest case of her life. The writing is super in this engrossing page-turner.

I got to fill in some sad gaps in my consumption of books written in the 80s and 90s and early Oughts. Also a thriller, Peter Hoeg's