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Posts tagged ‘death’

Reclaiming the Lost Art of Letter Writing

These days, anyone can speed-type a text and push send. But not just anyone sits down and handwrites a letter anymore.

In our instantaneously digital, fast-paced world, I’m feeling more disconnected than ever, partly because I can’t remember the last time I stopped long enough to have a lengthy and non-hurried phone conversation with my dear friend, JR Rapier – a talented artist and painter whom I’ve called my BFF since the age of six.

Truth told, I feel caught in a dizzying conundrum of managing kids, family, writing, blogging, tweeting and facebooking that has left me with a rise in my anxiety quotient - and a burning sense of urgency. Not only from the fear of losing myself, but of losing that delicate and precious connection to the people I love.

In the last six months, I’ve lost three uncles, who at times, I failed to call or write as much as I believe I should have. You see, none of them had email or Facebook accounts or had learned how to text. So at times, reaching out to them took more effort than I often had time for, or at least more effort than grabbing my iPhone and tapping out a few lines of impersonal banter.

It seems that in my life, text and email has virtually wiped out all former ways I used to communicate. Although I still take the time to hand-write thank you notes, text and email – along with social media – are by far the chief means in which I communicate with those around me. I won’t deny or argue that technology has helped make communication and doing business easier and faster. In fact, for authors like me, social media is a godsend, allowing us to spread the word about our books in an almost viral manner. But what, may I ask, are we sacrificing in return? Is it the time it takes to cultivate meaningful relationships? Or analyzing it one step further, is it also the physical connection of placing pen to paper? That sensation of gripping a writing instrument with your fingers and feeling the friction as it glides across the page? In other words, is our way of digital communication desensitizing our lives, both physically and emotionally?

Signs of Our Times

Case in point. In general, schools are starting to place less emphasis on cursive and handwriting skills, with some even doing away with teaching cursive altogether. That’s in vast contrast to a generation ago, when flowing script was the mainstay of both grammar schools and the professional world.

But researchers say handwriting helps children develop in other areas, such as reading, writing, memory and critical thinking. So where does that leave letter writing? And where does that leave our kids with the ability to pick up a pencil and write legibly across a page?

Pen Pals

The other morning as I was handwriting my morning pages (that’s right, Artist’s Way author Julia Cameron REQUIRES that you write your pages in longhand), I remembered how JR and I used to write letters back and forth to each other when we were kids. I’d usually get a few from her during her summer vacations with her family, which always took her away for a couple weeks at a time to either the Grand Canyon, Colorado or some other National Park. In these letters, she would detail to me everything she saw and experienced during those travels, making me feel at times as if I was right there with her. Finding a letter in the mailbox from her would always send me bounding to my room to tear it open and flop belly first onto my bed. And just as quickly as I would read it, I would write a reply, mostly on stationary adorned with kitties or other cutesy images and colors. I always loved a trip to the Hallmark store where I’d get to pick out stationary – my very own letter-writing paper and envelopes that would reflect my interests and personality. JR would always do the same, sending me letters on her latest stationary of her choosing and creation.

I still have those letters in my attic and plan to dig them out for a good walk down memory lane. In the meantime, I’ve decided to ask JR to be my pen pal again. I even went out and selected some stationary that reminds me of Paris – and a fancy set of pens to go along with it. For me, letter writing is as much for cultivating my friendship with JR as it is a creative exercise for myself. It not only will help us focus on our friendship outside of the chaotic lives as mothers and artists, but it also is a way to get back in touch with myself outside the dizzying digital age where I sometimes feel drowned. Although I can’t change where technology is taking us, and honestly, I’m not sure if I even would if given the chance, what I can do is change how it affects my life. We all have the power to set boundaries, and perhaps it’s time to set a boundary or two for how far we allow the digital age to invade our space.

It turns out I’m not the only one thinking about letter writing again. In researching this post, I found several resources focusing on this very thing. In fact, there’s a entire book dedicated to the personal a letter, which according to The Hand. Written. Letter. Project., “is currently drowning in a tide of depersonalization, with junk mail and automated correspondence.”

So what’s your thoughts on the fate of the handwritten letter? When was the last time you took time to write one? Do you sometimes feel disconnected and overwhelmed as I do in our digital world? Would you ever consider becoming a pen pal with an old friend? If so, who would it be?

Stairway to Heaven

I skipped our family bike ride yesterday (which has fast become an after-dinner ritual in our household) to set out on foot for some much needed solitude. You see, earlier that morning I got a call from my cousin, Jeremy, informing me that my beloved Uncle Erwin (88) had passed away.

Although his passing was expected after having suffered a massive stroke the week before, the actual news of his death sent me into a tailspin of anxiety and grief – the same upheaval of emotions that have plagued  me off and on for the past 30 or so years since losing my father to a heart attack at age 9.

Not 10 minutes into my trek along the wooded trails by our house, the tears began to spill … and before I registered where my legs were carrying me, my walk had turned into a full out run.

The Immeasurable Feeling of Loss

I’ve lost three uncles since January of this year: Uncle Clem, Uncle Carl and now my Uncle Erwin. Over the years, these three men (along with my uncles who are still living) have helped – in one way or another – fill a void in my life left gaping open from growing up without a dad. In different ways I’ve clung to each of them, feeding off the love and kindness they’ve consistently shown me – a love that felt the closest to that of a father. Though time and therapy have healed my wounds, the immeasurable feeling of loss still lingers. It’s times like this that remind me of its stronghold,  how it can still so easily pounce on me and take advantage of my excessive hunger for a father … that yearning that still wraps its fingers around my throat, leaving me with a hallow feeling in the pit of my stomach that nothing on this earth can come close to taking away.

Accepting Who I am

But all these emotions that I carry on my sleeve make me who I am – and who I am yet to become. Without what I have gone through, I’d probably be living an ordinary life, working an ordinary job, with ordinary dreams – at least by my own interpretation. I would not be here talking to you like this and laying everything out on the table. I wouldn’t be living a life of blind ambition, believing that God wants me to make good on the gifts he has given me to reach my highest potential – a potential He set for me long before the beginning of time.

So as my family and I make the trip tomorrow to my uncle’s funeral in Louisiana, I will remember once again how and why I’ve come to be who I am. But on the other side of that, the side that my mortal mind cannot yet comprehend, my uncle is now in a place that transcends anything that we will ever be able to imagine here on earth. You see, my Uncle Erwin, God rest his gentle soul, had his first death about 14 years ago.  That’s right. He flat-lined for 10 or so minutes while doctors and nurses frantically worked to bring him back. And he did come back, because that’s what he said God wanted. “You’re work’s not done yet,” God told him. God then gently turned him around and sent him back the way he came – in a horizontal position, gliding on air as thin as the clouds. He indeed came back to us in full mind and body, although he would tell me later how he had desperately wanted to stay.

Angels in the Bedroom

About a month ago, my mom had the opportunity to spend some quality time with Erwin, the brother to the husband she lost more than 30 years before. During their visit, Erwin told my mom of the angels who visited him each night. “They come and lie down on my bed, so I sleep in the chair so I won’t disturb them,” he told her. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you Erwin,” she said. “I believe you.”

And I believe, too. Because at the end of our lives, we’ll have no choice but to follow and believe.

Obit for Erwin W. Saye

***

Me and my boys with my Uncle Erwin and Aunt Nan, his beloved wife who passed away last year.

My boys and I with my Uncle Erwin and Aunt Nan. A published author and poet,
Nan passed away in early 2011.

Blood of Life

Earlier today our family received an unexpected gift.

What we thought  last night was a dead caterpillar, actually turned out to be a glorious butterfly by the time we woke this morning.

A couple weeks ago, we received a long-awaited order of three caterpillars (butterfly lavre) and a butterfly habitat from Ribbits Galore. We followed the instructions carefully, making sure to leave the plastic container with the lavre undisturbed. As of yesterday afternoon, with hanging heads, we concluded that all three babies had died. One had managed to attach itself to the top, but a chrysalis never formed. The remaining two never made it to the top of the paper and laid doomed (or so we thought) at the bottom of the container.

Dawn of a New Day

But low and behold this morning, as I lumbered sleepily (and somewhat grumpily) into the kitchen, I glanced at the container and saw a glorious new butterfly clinging for dear life to the paper on the underside of the lid. I stood there staring in disbelief, while a surge of energy sparked through me from my head to my toes.

Giddy and somewhat flustered, I called to Rick and the boys. With the family gathered and wide-eyed, I opened the container and, with a shaky hand, carefully transferred the paper on which the butterfly clung to the habitat. Following directions, we then pinned the paper to the side of the mesh enclosure. And then the butterfly started to bleed.

But this wasn’t the blood of death – no. This, my friends, was the glorious blood of new life.

In 6-7 days your butterfly will begin to emerge from the chrysalis.  The wings will be crumpled and there will be red liquid released.  Don’t worry!  This is not blood, just metabolic waste.  You can place a paper towel in the bottom  habitat to absorb this liquid.  ~Ribbits Galore

How many times have we given up, thinking that a dream has died? How many times have we let fear and doubt rule our thoughts, words and actions? How many times have we failed to see our own transformation through the trials and tribulations that mark our days?

For me, this bloody butterfly represents a miracle – and a powerful message of hope.

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.” ~ Maya Angelou

Have a wonderful week, my friends. And remember to believe – always.

In the midst of death, life prevails.

Lucid Dream: A Poem

As a writer and artist, you must always push yourself to evolve your craft. Whether it’s exploring different points of view, writing a screenplay, trying your hand as a playwright, or tackling a completely different genre, any exercise that “stretches” your skills is a way to open your mind.

In January when I launched my blog, I had never blogged before. It’s taken some getting used to, yet I’m enjoying the process of finding my voice. Lately, I’ve also been drawn to poetry, which has come forth through stream of consciousness writing that I sometimes fall into during my morning pages. Poetry to me feels very refreshing. I also believe that it’s helping to rejuvenate my overworked creative muscles.

Here’s something new: I’m also using poetry to prepare myself once again for writing my next novel, which will be another herculean effort. Like a runner prepares for a marathon, I am getting my mind and body in shape to take on yet another story that has been placed at my feet – one that I am called to write, just like the other two. Meanwhile, here’s my latest work of poetry. Please enjoy and thank you always for partaking in the musings of my mind.

Lucid Dream

Restless energy, you stir my soul,

In my cauldron, you madly swirl,

Bubbling up, your heat rises to my lungs,

Licking the crevices and filling the holes,

Hollowing my breath,

My mind a convulsion of being,

The fibers tighten and fray at the sides,

Anxiety, you roll upon me,

Snapping my brittle bones under your weight,

You crush me, mashing my flesh,

Draining my blood,

Stealing my sight,

A knife, you rip through my nerves,

Darkness swallows me,

Draining all hope from my soul,

You call this a life? Count me out,

Unlock the steel trap that tears my flesh,

Splinters my bones,

Infiltrates my mind,

Leaves me for dead,

So I ask and it is done,

I become death and death becomes me,

Like old, tattered clothes, I shed my shell,

I am a gush of wind whistling through the trees,

Sailing through the air,

Away from the darkness that once smothered my soul,

A bird on a wing,

A breeze through your hair,

A passing presence, drawing your gaze,

Invisible I am to your mortal eyes,

A figure in the mist, I graze your ear,

A whisper that is no whisper at all,

An inclination, an idea, a once-thought-of phrase,

Settling in, I store myself away,

Prodding you gently,

In a lucid dream.

So, what did you think? How did it make you feel? Do you write poetry? Let me know!

In case you missed it, here’s another poem called Stumblings On.

The End

Thank you, Julia Shepeleva, for the lovely sunrise.

In just under 8 weeks, two beloved uncles of mine have passed from this life and moved on to the other side. Read more

The Life Of An American Farmer

This week, I had the privilege to use my writing and speaking skills in an unexpected way — to honor the life and legacy of my beloved Uncle Clem, who died Monday from a heart attack while walking along a dirt road leading to his home.

When my mom asked me to give a eulogy at his funeral, I was humbled — and apprehensive — all at the same time. Would I be able to find the words that would do his life justice? Am I worthy and capable of such a feat? Would I be able to control my emotions without breaking down mid way through my message? Read more

Turning Tragedy Into Strength

Tragedy.

It will happen sooner or later to each of us, in one way or another.

And when it does, you can either learn from it, pick up the pieces and move on.

Or, you can carry it like a crutch, letting it slowly break you down.

Here’s how I dealt with a tragedy in my life more than 30 years ago. Read more

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