Write On Wednesday-Love Letters

In my Keepsake Box is a ragged piece of notebook paper, folded into quarters, that came in the mail on Valentine's Day 1966. Here's what it said:

Dear Becky,

Someday when we grow up, I want us to get married. We will live in Canada and raise dogs, cats, horses, chickens and cows. We will have five children. I love you and want to make you happy forever.

Love,

Gordon

This little missive captured my 10 year old heart (in spite of the writer's notion that offering five children and a menagerie of animals was romantic!) I immediately hid it away in the bottom of my desk drawer, and obsessively re-read it until I wore the paper thin with folding and unfolding. Even now, 40 years later, those carefully penned words of love have the power to bring a little lump to my throat. Just a few years after receiving that letter, I would be the recipient of dozens more love letters, the letters that Jim and I wrote to each other on a daily basis during his first semester away at college. The 35 mile distance between us seemed endless, and envelopes stuffed with 8 and 10 page letters passed back and forth between our mailboxes every day. All those letters now reside in two shoe boxes, sitting side by side on a shelf in the bedroom closet, a record of that time in our lives when we poured our hearts out on paper, exploring emotions, and dreaming of our future. My most precious love letters of all, of course, are the hand scribbled, crayon drawings proffered in my son's grubby little hands. Like the one written on a half sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook that reads "Mama, I love you sooooo much! I want to kiss and hug you! From your best boy in the whole wide world!" (followed by his full name, address, city, state, and zip code!)

Not long ago, I happened across a box of letters my mother-in-law had written to my father-in-law in 1944, during the first summer after their wedding. She had apparently returned to Colorado for the summer, leaving him in Michigan. Her letters were full of the same tone she continued to take with him during the years I knew them -reminding him of the chores he should be doing, providing detailed accounts of her daily activities, along with complaints about the weather. These were certainly not conventional love letters, yet he had kept them together in a box for over 40 years, this record of their time apart which her voice clearly communicated in the words she chose to put on paper.

In written communication, we are often able to express things that are difficult to verablize. Writing letters gives you a chance to consider your words carefully before putting them to paper, and offers the advantage of being physically distance from the recipient while they're reading. Sometimes it's easier to share feelings we might otherwise be reticent about -both positive and negative.

And love letters certainly provide history for the life of a relationship. In a recent essay in Newsweek magazine, journalist and novelist Anna Quindlen wrote about the power of writing in the lives of ordinary people. "Words on paper confer a kind of immortality," she writes. "Wouldn't all of us love to have a journal, a memoir, a letter, from those we have loved and lost? Shouldn't we all of us leave a bit of that behind?" That's certainly why I've safeguarded all my love letters. Like miniature time machines, they transport me back to moments in my history, providing me with a tangible artifact that lets me connect with the writer as they were at the moment of writing. How about you? Have you written and/or kept love letters? Perhaps Valentine's Day is a good day to write one to someone you love :)

One Deep Breath-Shelter

enclosed within me

my womb guarded you

impenetrable fortress ~

your fierce protector

my arms enfolded you

sweet shelter from life's storm

~

flown from the nest

my love surrounds you

safe haven for the spirit

The most elemental of life's shelters is the relationship between a mother and child. I am reminded of this lately, as I recall my son's birth 27 years ago this month. He flew from the parental nest long ago, and later this week will fly even farther afield as he and his wife travel to her home in Thailand where he will spend several weeks with his "other family." He has certainly attained every parents goal for their child - a fulfilling relationship and a satisfying, independent lifestyle. So, there is little I can offer him in the way of "shelter," except the most basic of all life's protections - my unconditional love. Inspiration from here; photo from here

Festival Day

The second Saturday in February is legion here in Michigan - at least for high school singers and their teachers. It's Festival day, the day singers all over the state gather for adjudication in solos, duets, quartets, or small ensembles. Today was my 15th year accompanying high school students at District Festival. It's a day that's at once exhilirating and exhausting, inspiring and innervating, surprising and predicatable. It's a day I've come to dread, but also anticipate, a day I wish would never come, but then one I hate to see come to an end. At 6:30 this morning, the dark road leading to Eastern Michigan University was practically deserted, the few cars headed in that direction most likely carrying teenagers caterwauling in all sorts of vocal gymnastics in an attempt to work the morning frogginess out of their vocal cords. They descend upon the Alexander Music building like a busy group of locusts, all nervous energy and wide eyed enthusiasm.

My schedule today was lighter than most years - I accompanied 10 events, which included three ensembles and seven solo singers. My soloists ranged from a confident young man who has already won scholarships to the two most competitive music schools in the state to one who was so petrified with fear, his hands shook convulsively when giving his music to the judge.

My role on this day becomes so much more than just the provider of "background music." For a period of 24 minutes - 12 for warm up and 12 for performance - I'm like that kid's backup in a war zone. Especially for those that are insecure and unsure of themselves, one wrong note from me and they can completely lose their fragile hold on the music. I make sure the judge's copy of their music is all together, measures numbered, that they get to their room on time, that they do the proper warm up exercises, that I have plenty of water, kleenex, aspirin on hand, and generally provide moral support for whatever happens when they go in that room to sing. That's the exhausting part.

The exhilirating, exciting, inspring part is when a group of kids finally get it all together for the first time on stage, and what comes out of their mouths is so "luscious" (the judge's word, not mine) that you feel as if some musical fairy has sprinkled magical dust all over you. And no less emotional is the feeling you have for that petrified kid, who's barely able to open his mouth to talk to you, but somehow gets through two entire songs (one in Italian!) with notes and rhythms intact.

During the past few weeks, I've been trying to figure out how to simplify a life that's way too busy, overcrowded, demanding, and just plain out of control. I decided that this would be my last year doing this "part time" job at the high school. It's demanding, it's time consuming, and the pay is virtually nothing. Simple decision, right?

Not really. Not after a day like today, a day that reminds me of all the rewards I get from being around young people who are so passionate about their art, and who are willing to take risks in the pursuit of that passion.

On the way home, I was listening to this CD. Just six years ago, the artist was one of the students I accompanied at Festival. He now lives in New York city, has traveled the world as an entertainer, is writing and recording music for a new Disney TV series, and is up for the lead in the new touring company cast of Movin' Out, the musical based on the life and music of Billy Joel. Talk about magical fairy dust...

As much as I crave more time and space in my life, I am loathe to give up the experiences I have with these young musicians. I guess it's back to the drawing board in my quest to simplfy life...maybe I need a little fairy dust of my own.

Write on Wednesday-Girl With A Pen

The first book I ever read about writing was a children's book called "Girl With A Pen." It was actually a biography of Charlotte Bronte, written for children aged 10-13. I got it from my school library, and I can still remember the pale lavendar color of the binding, the gilded letters of the title. My favorite part of the book was the beginning, when the author described Charlotte and her siblings as children creating a fictional world and writing stories to while away the long days and nights on the Yorkshire moors. Charlotte had a small rosewood lap desk she used to write on, and the children made miniature books from whatever scraps of paper they could find, and then stitched them together. They taught themselves to write in the most minute of scripts, since their paper supply was very limited. This minisclule script would completely fill the tiny pages of their handmade books, books they would then squirrel away within the rosewood writing desk.

I used to read this part over and over, simply enchanted by the thought of Charlotte and her miniature notebooks. Of course, I made little notebooks for myself, and wrote lots of "gothic" type stories in imitation of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, stories about "black rooms" and "wandering winds." My grandmother had given me a small cedar keepsake box that I kept them in - my version of the rosewood writing desk.

I think most of us who love to create with words also love the tools we use to create with. As a child, buying notebooks and pens was much more delightful to me than buying candy or toys (really!) In those days, the single aisle of school supplies at the local Woolworth's was enough to keep me occupied for quite some time. Now, when I walks into a Staples, I'm in heaven! Of course I love to browse the "fancier" stores like Papyrus and The Paper Merchant, where they have shelves of beautiful leather bound journals and Mont Blanc pens locked in display cases like fine jewelry. Alas, most of my "hand writing" is done with cheap Papermate stick pens ( I like them because they're skinny, and fat pens hurt my small fingers after a while.) And though I love to look at those beautiful journals, I prefer to write in plain old spiral notebooks or white legal pads - there's less pressure to write something befitting the elegance of your notebook!

Although I do most of my writing on the computer, because it's simply so practical, I think there's much to be said for the tactile sense of holding a pen in your hand and physically forming the words in your own unique handwriting. They are truly yours that way, formed in an way that only you can form them. My son's elementary school art teacher used to describe the way Brian drew as if a "direct line was flowing from his brain right through his pencil and onto the page." I've had that feeling with writing sometimes, and it's especially exciting when your hand is connected to a pen, feeding the letters directly onto the paper as if by magic.

One of the most memorable stops on my trip to England a few years ago was touring Haworth parsonage, home of the Bronte family, where I was able to actually see those little notebooks and the rosewood writing desk. It's amazing how those simple "writing utensils" were so inspiring to me, another girl with a pen.

So, how about you? What are your favorite writing tools? Are there any writer's tools that have inspired you?

One Deep Breath-Twilight

summer time

filled with endless play

day stretches until dusk

~

street light's amber glow

signals twilights arrival

mother calls me home

~

fresh from a cool bath

tucked snugly into bed

silver moon stands watch

~

What a pleasant memory - long summer days, when all the children in my neighborhood were allowed to stay out and play until dusk. The standard rule applied for all of us - when the streetlight's came on, it was time to head home. Since I was the "good girl" I was always appointed lookout. One eye peeled toward the big lampost on the corner, I'd try to wring every last minute of play from the day. Someone's mother (usually mine!) would start calling out our names, and we'd finally go racing toward open front doors, shouting breathlessly, "See you tomorrow!"

Inspiration from here; photo from here