It was a little depth charge from the past; reminded me of John Donne's lovely words, "letters mingle souls".
It was sent from England, on a whim, by a friend filling up a quiet morning in a country kitchen anointed by the first sun of spring; that shy little flower, the snowdrop, making its first appearance outside, along with two swans on a tributary of the Avon that her medieval mill-house nudges up against. She described the world around her so vividly, a landscape cracking open after the bitterness of winter. There were no crossings-out, it was considered yet spontaneous, a lovely combination. I could almost feel the imprint of her worn kitchen table that she wrote at, that I've sat at many times over the years, yakking away, and now miss very much. Then there was the paper; the heaviness of it, creaminess, sensuality.
It was the antithesis of a recent dinner party. "Google me," said the stranger beside me, spelling out the intricacies of her name instead of just telling me a little something of herself. I left early. I had googling to do. Ah, modern life. I like observing people, slowly; a Google persona tells me little and can give the wrong impression entirely; whereas a heartfelt letter can feel like a baring of the soul. And why on earth would anyone want Google to be the shopfront to the person they are? It reminded me that the older I get the less I want to meet new people; I spend scarcely enough time with cherished friends and have little time now for the clutter of anyone else.
I wrote back to my friend, not wanting to drop the ball that had been tossed. Carved out a slice of stillness in a busy day, forcing myself into a soul-concentration as her reverie was answered with another. The words came strong. It felt good, replenishing; felt like a turning towards authenticity. And this from someone whose main mode of communication now is email. But they so often feel dashed, harried; misspellings and carelessness diminishing them. Rarely do they feel like a connection of the soul. I think of the potency of letters past, from decades ago: my grandmother's, barely a full stop in them, the hand spidery but the voice strong. Love letters that addled me, break-up letters scanned with a thumping heart, letters brimming with Herman Hesse quotes from backpacking mates. Each one in a hand as memorable as voice; some as sharp and as shocking as a slap. So many kept: a greeting on the back of a test, a ripped-out journal page, a careful phrase on a gum leaf. And then from about a decade ago, a vast dropping off. A great gulf of silence and a volume of emails I'll never bother printing out. The hand-written letter is not just about communication, but communion - that spiritually softened word of connection and grace.
Writing shelters me. My own, as I do it; but also other peoples'. And this letter sheltered me for a blessed moment of stillness. How do you write stillness? I've always wondered if it was possible, and my friend came close. I didn't rip open her envelope at once but waited for quietness; made a cup of tea, readied myself. There was something of a ritual to it. It was the shining time as I read the tonic of her words. As Goethe said, "we lay aside letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy them out of discretion, and so disappears the most beautiful, the most immediate breath of life ... " Oh yes. In this world of homogenisation, of all the clattery chattery declarations and posturings of Facebook and Twitter, I appreciate "other". Want to be "other", seek it out. This letter, vividly, was "other". Quietly, beautifully. I wonder if it'll be the last ever received from a cherished friend. I hope not.
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