Time for Writing Letters

Time for Writing Letters

I was out shopping—not with the greatness of spirit in the enterprise but more as an obligation as I had been talking to a little boutique owner about what she might have in her shop to suit me.  I was looking for a certain shade of green in a new sweater. My hopes were high.  So after grocery shopping with the man, eating a sumptuous lunch (freshly made sushi made just to order for me), freshly baked bread from one of the vendor at the farmers market, tasty Bing cherries and fresh picked strawberries; I was willing to head out.

But first about the sushi, really, it is who you know. Or perhaps, it is the perfect alignment of the planets, stars and some god or goddess who is bored looking down at the right moment waiting for something to do. I was simply looking at the sushi at the market and was asked if they could make something special for me if I could not find what I wanted. So after a bit of discussion, a decision was made. I was told to come back in ten minutes. The result.  It was probably the best sushi that I have ever eaten with the exception of some that I had in Japan.  It was proving to be a great day.

Back at home after finishing up my green tea I watched briefly my husband weeding in the yard.  I let him know that I was heading out to the boutique.  I live in a small town so parking about a quarter mile away from the shops I enjoyed the breeze coming off of the ocean while I walked to my destination of beautiful clothes, soft to the touch, lovely to look at and hopefully, something to take home.  I tried several blouses, one sweater which was the wrong shade of green to finally settled on a pair of black leggings with a soft skirt attached. Saying farewell to the wonderful staff at the store I started to amble towards my car.  I didn’t make it far.

I stopped in another small boutique of odd and ends, cards, ornaments, lotions, etc. to look at the various greeting cards which they had on display.  I picked out several only to place them back before leaving the store.  Why? I don’t like spending money on cards which are quickly tossed after someone received it.  Cards are fun, beautiful and thoughtful but it is like throwing your money away.  I still send them, I like getting them but today I was not interested in mindless frivolities or so I thought as I walked back to my car.

I should write some letters, carefully written out since so many of my family are getting old and reading someone’s poor penmanship is not necessary a good thing.  Finding a young person with good eyes is even worse since learning cursive writing in school has not been taught for years, I rather not frustrate and torture my elderly family members with the duty of looking for a handwriting interpreter.  I have a good hand in cursive if I just remember to slow down. Getting myself to work at a speed of 33 ½ rpm versus 45 rpm or 78 rpm is not too difficult (here I am dating myself, some of you will remember records and phonographs). 

After all, I stopped to gaze at clouds in rain puddles after a storm, I prefer walking outside without earplugs in my ears in order to hear the chatter, trills, and longing calls of birds early in the morning. I enjoy the silence of my house in the morning without the negative blaring of the television news, reality TV and other brain drain events.

I still write letters though not as often as I should.  After all, how many of us rush to the post to check on whether or not we will have received something other than a bill.  Even my bills come on line as I am practicing green measures when I can.  I have a policy: pay the bill when it appears in my email.  Before I used to line the letters up, put a date on them waiting until I could send a check out for payment.  Checks, I use them rarely.  Donations to the church, paying for our acupuncture treatments as he doesn’t bill insurance or take credit cards.

So what is a letter? Why should I write one? How do I begin?  For me, it is a note telling snatches of my life to another human being just to let them know I still exist.  I have one sister who is partially deaf.  I don’t call on the phone as it would be a disaster with my soft speaking voice combined with her hearing loss.  I write.  I pick up the paper, sometimes a card; search for a pen and just start telling her bits and pieces.  She writes to me. She tells me of her life unfolding in her home that I don’t even remember visiting except for the hot homemade cinnamon raisin bread thick with butter. I haven’t see her since I was a child, I was probably, possibly 15 years old.  Today, I am 64 years old.  I have written to her yearly at least 3 times a year.  She used to send birthday cards. 

It is getting close to another time for me to write to her, perhaps I will start my letter tomorrow when I have more to say after all, she only gets a few letters a year from me.  When you think of it that way, tomorrow has already started.  It is time for writing letters.

Flashes of Color

Flashes of Color 

I have a routine. In the morning when I get up, I push the curtain aside in the bathroom and gaze out the window. Looking into the sky, past the fences, the rooftops, I look to see what kind of weather I might be facing when I walk out the door.  Lately, the multi-colored climbing rose with yellow-orange blooms has been gazing back with its beauty. Regally satisfied, the roses sit on the branches, content to have their blossoms revealed at last. I have to look past the red rhododendron which has flowers at eye level to see the rose and beyond the rose to judge whatever might be happening in the sky. Not an easy task with the flowers that vie for attention.

As a rule, the sky is cloudy, overcast or sometimes entirely hidden by the fog that has formed and drifted in hiding the flowers, the world beyond my window. Fat drops of water linger on the rhododendron bush leaves until too heavy the water streams toward the ground.

However, yesterday morning, I was greeted by a rainbow in the western sky above the ocean. Excited, I ran through the living room with my naked body chilling in the air—looking for my camera, searching for my purse where my phone should be.  Opportunity was calling.  I tried taking pictures through the window of the bathroom, frustrated by the screen blocking the view, I hurried into the front bedroom and without regard for my neighbors’ sensibilities, I pulled up the blinds, standing naked with camera in hand I snapped several pictures before deciding to chance getting dressed to scurry out the front door.

The man was still sleeping, it was Saturday morning after all.  With complete disregard for his opportunity to sleep in for I was up, after all, awake, and heading out the door; I yelled to him “Get up, get dressed and get out here.”

Later on, I would realize the earliest of the hour when I and the dutiful husband came back in from viewing the wonder of a double rainbow in the sky.  It was just after five thirty in the morning. The day continued with showers, clouds highlighted by the sun and a chill in the air.  The rainbow was a memory, its flashes of color hidden again.

Maybe all memories are flashes of color. I know that many of my memories have been washed off the canvas, painted over with only a dash of crimson, cerulean blue, or true black showing through.  I can’t say that I want the ones that I remember hanging in a gallery waiting for a viewing. Why? How personal are they? Or do I think that they just are not too interesting?  Definitely not titillating.  How exciting do I want them to be? I am just not paparazzi material nor do I wish to be.

 

I like living in the quiet. The man likes living in the quiet alongside of me.  The only drama that we generally experience is when we are on stage performing as actors on a community theater stage.  What bits of drama we experienced currently is on the world stage.  I tried not buy a ticket.  It is a difficult thing to do until something reminds me living a life is on a stage.

As I get older, my body is shoving out subtle hints that this stage I am playing on seems very real indeed until I am encouraged to self-heal, to gather myself out of the imaginary hole that I have allow myself to fall into.  Perhaps, what I really need to do is to gather the flashes of color place them back on the palette, mix them to begin painting my naked body with possibilities. I want to run out into the world to glow, to dance, growing in joy because the canvas is still here so I am going to color mine.