About a year ago, I visited Michelle and Shane in North Carolina. There was a nice dinner gathering of their friends and after some wine the conversation turned to everything, including technology. I responded that I was a border-line Luddite. Naturally Miche and Shelby protested and called me on it, but to some extent I was technology resistant and resentful. But like so many things, that has changed now. No wine induced Luddite claims will be made after blogging this experience.
And that is one thing I’ll miss the most. Writing to everyone at once. I never felt comfortable sharing words with a general audience. To write letters and emails to individuals has always been true joy, so I don’t think I was selfish before — rather bashful with what really matters. In my life of talkers, I knew early on that anything can be spoken. But writing it down really means something. These ambiguous little things made of letters earned my respect early on. Not only that, but the written word captures memory — memory being one of the slippery aspects of consciousness that I try to wrestle still (and still).
To tell you that this space has kept me close to you all would be a banal and ineffective truth. There are some of you I actually know better now. I hear the inner voice in your comments or emails that must get drowned out on the physical plane. Without a smile, face, or color of hair to frame us, we become our true selves. And I see (read) all of you much more clearly. I think this is the way I want to be recognized — simply through a selective arrangement of words.
Now I am nearing the end of this exercise in sharing my life here with all of you. Writing in this way — without any one of you in mind and only my voice and experience in my head — has been liberating. Yes, I’ll continue to write poems with a pen and paper first. And I’ll always value the strength and privacy of a handwritten letter. But this immediacy coupled with the gathering of people and comments and connection is a major evolution in my thought process. Thank you all — the silent, the frequent, the passersby, and the faithful — for helping me open up and realizing that release is vital to growth. This — whatever this is — will be missed.
Don’t leave yet, it is not quite the end. More will come.