to my daughter
June 7, 2016 § 3 Comments
Some days I want to gather memories into one of the many eclectic containers that litter corners of your room, your personality like bits of confetti that stick to my days making everything more interesting for your company. Little moments that cannot be strung together but only collected into a cacophony of sentiment.
Over the past week I have held turn of phrases over, delighting in fragments of humor and gentler expressions of fiery certainty. The way you cocked an eyebrow when I suggested a chore to demonstrate responsibility; the tilt of your chin as you rebutted with a demur, “we both know that won’t last.”
Or maybe I could capture the way you spontaneously unearthed painting supplies to capture a movie because you couldn’t quite sit still and touching paint to paper helped you fall further into the story line; cloaking yourself in colors as the sound lead your hand to create.
There’s catching you long past bedtime cleaning your room by balancing everything precariously from the tip of your walking stick and the way you bundled your stuffed animals curiously into a noose. I understand the moment is temporary and that the structure of your organization cannot be decoded, but there is a simple gesture of appreciation in the illusion of order.
Most definitely I would gather your language. Early speech struggles still interrupt eloquent exclamations and I may never outgrow the way you structure what everyone else sees from a perspective just askew enough that we still piece together your meaning first by shades of colorful interpretation. I must write these before they are lost to poor memory.
There was a moment only last week when you caught a music video for an artist you like and you mused over an inner turmoil when the visual presented contradicted the strength you had inferred in her talent; pieces of overly sexualized imagery that felt disjointed invited an impromptu conversation on objectification and body image.
I wonder what color your passion for individuality might inspire. Consistently inconsolable over the injustice of “girl colors” you intentionally choose objects in shades that challenge generic assumptions of femininity for creativity. Gladiator sandals to pair with your animal print blanket shaped into a toga and held by a turquoise belt and anchored by a backwards baseball cap to hide a nest of tangles.
These moments only hint at larger truths; you are profoundly insightful and playfully uninhibited, cautiously aware and tenderly curious. Flecks of spirit are ever present pieces of self; prisms that catch the light as you shape your lines of thought.
Beautiful fragments that leaving me scurrying to remember fleeting minutes of days that pass too quickly into years.
Love, Mom
to my son
April 22, 2016 § 2 Comments
This week I came upon a letter you wrote to someone else. The discovery was a curious accident of poor organization, papers mixed up and gifted to me unintentionally, but the act of reading your thoughts was a violation of trust.
I struggled with the decision to confess my guilt. It would have been simpler to feign ignorance, but I wondered if acknowledging my mistake might one day help you to initiate a difficult conversation with me. I also wanted to be able to begin a conversation about some of what you said and I couldn’t ask you to be honest without first offering the same transparency.
We’ve spoken already, you registered mild embarrassment, initially, but quickly forgave my trespass against your privacy. As teenagers go, I count myself lucky that you are so openly vulnerable and fiercely forgiving. We went on to talk about the girl you care for, how you came to meet and the emotions you had kept so closely guarded.
Tonight a copy of the letter in question is tucked away for your future self, packed alongside holiday wish lists and an emotional goodbye you wrote our first family dog; mementos of your childhood like breadcrumbs that might forever help you find your way to a boundless enthusiasm and untarnished certainty, innocence we too soon outgrow.
Love, Mom
signed, sealed, delivered
December 4, 2015 § 2 Comments
There is a sensory memory to my love of holiday cards; the scratch of pen against paper and the crinkle of thick envelopes, even the bitterness of the seal crinkles my nose with a childish delight.
Over the years the busyness of the season consumed the leisurely joy of handwritten letters and demanded a more convenient choice; a single image with pre-printed wishes mailed to an ever growing population of acquaintances.
This year I’m embracing the transition of our move and returning to a beloved tradition; handwritten messages folded into card stock stuffed with a candid photo to mark the passage of another year. Strokes of ink in looping wishes that curl like steam around a cup of cocoa.
It is a selfish indulgence, this whittling of lists, but it is also a more intimate gesture of intention. A small meditative act during a season too often cluttered with distraction.
beloved
February 8, 2015 § 2 Comments
I write you in the space between my dreams and consciousness, just as the light crests the darkness I press my mind against memories and fight the clarity of your absence. For just a moment, I am less myself and more my own.
postmarks
September 22, 2013 § 4 Comments
I have spent most of my life drafting letters to loved ones, a habit born of a childhood shuffled between my parents’ homes. I fold pieces of my days into words that travel over time and place to those who are never far from my thoughts.
Last week a new indulgence, whimsical stationery intended to inspire my children to practice letter writing, gifted me a beautiful surprise. Inside the carefully packaged envelope was a sentiment that seemed to encompass my affinity for a handwritten letter; the very essence of my affection eternalized in poetry.
More than kisses, letters mingle souls. – John Donne
The promise of sharing one’s self in lines of thought etched into paper is an intimacy of thought and intention between writer and reader that even time cannot fade. I sometimes wish I could gather old letters to chart my life in language; the block print of early efforts blending into carefully structured cursive that later looped around teenage heartache and then swept more hurriedly into long, sinuous letters.
First loves and cherished friendships, childhood companions and mentors in motherhood; my life is richer for the individuals stretched across my past between letters often lost along the way. So many people measure the value of relationships in finite language, beginnings and endings. I measure love in postmarks that travel across time connecting us to reflections of self and memories shared.
unfinished
January 9, 2013 § 2 Comments
Disconnected thoughts, apologies, wishes, and goodbyes scattered across a lifetime; letters unshared that I revisit in memories. Over the years I have begun gathering these thoughts into messages that begin almost from the middle of a conversation hidden beneath years of forgetfulness and distraction. I cast these letters into my past, letting go of something unsaid while collecting a greater consciousness of self; wondering if the recipients, special souls no longer connected to my days for whom so many memories keep us tethered together in time, know they are cherished with the innocence of childhood and the wisdom of age.
memory mosaic
July 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
What if we traded predesigned cards for letters, looked past unnecessary collectables and gathered memories in print or photographs to honor birthdays and special occasions? A year or two ago a friend celebrated her husband’s birthday in letters; blank stationery accompanied each invitation for guests to share a memory or story. A mosaic of eclectic moments from a life held together by friendship and love. Enamored by the sentimental gift of memories, I immediately longed for the pages of letters that have littered my past.
As a little girl I would connect pieces of my life from one parent’s house to another in letters. I would write friends from what felt like the other side of the world. Letters seemed to transport friends from school years past into the present tense, filling unfamiliar moments with comfort. I miss the bold careful print in brightly colored crayons and awkward loops of early script punctuated with scribbles.
In love, I created stories in letters. I would focus on the good and let pages of daydreams mark the space of young love. Too young to date, I tied my notes in heartstrings and tucked them into a young boy’s letterman jacket to keep myself in his thoughts. I wonder how close my dreams of love would reflect the life I have created.
Even now, faces from another time come to me in unexpected memories and I send a note sharing the sentiment. Tiny trinkets of gratitude, inspiration, or humor for moments from lives intersecting. I often wonder how these words are received, but mostly I find joy in the act of sharing the timeless gift of remembering.
scribblechic 