An email? I typed an email yesterday to end a relationship? A part of me feels a tinge of cowardice in such. Another part of me knows it was the best way for me to at least set the stage for face-to-face conversation. And yet another part of me understands and aches over the ways in which I’ve learned to express my heart. Through the years, I’ve apologized for this. I’ve made excuses. And yet, writing has been the predominant way in which I’ve communicated…not just because it’s how I’ve known to best express myself, but because it’s the way in which others have, as well. No judgment or anger. Just my reality:
Letters from my mom while in college – only 20 minutes away – telling me of her fear for me and articulating a Scriptural perspective on my relationship with the first man I’d ever loved…and may have ever been loved by.
The notes on the piece of paper I watched my dad pull out of his shirt pocket when he began a 3-point “sermon” on all the reasons why I should break up with this guy. (The notes were so convincing that I immediately drove back to college and broke up with him.)
Notes written and pictures drawn by my 11-year-old sister trying to comfort me when I stayed in my room and wept of a broken heart.
The letters I wrote my parents explaining my need for their acceptance and their trust in my judgment when the amazing man and I got back together not weeks later.
And years earlier:
Notes I wrote as early as five or six, trying to express my sadness or happiness. And the notes I wrote at the same age, trying to cheer up my parents – offering to help, telling of my love, wanting them to be happy.
The note I wrote my parents asking for a new bike.
A letter I wrote begging to get my ears pierced. The letter my mom wrote in response telling me “no.
The words written on cards for Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Birthdays, an Anniversary expressing gratitude and love unspoken at any other time.
And many, many pages saying I was sorry for not cleaning my room, for making my dad angry, for not being thoughtful enough, for upsetting my mom.
When I turned 30, my mom gave me a beautiful, bound scrapbook filled with notes she’d saved, cards I’d written, letters I’d sent. I kept it in a drawer for a long time. I got married. I packed up houses and moved – 5 times in five years with the Army and 2 more times after his retirement – and still never looked at those words. Two-and-a-half years ago I divorced. I cleaned out the attic. Still, I didn’t return to its pages…until three days ago. I climbed up the drop-down staircase to find it. I needed to remember. I sat at the top of the stairs and wept. I remembered the young girl and the young woman whose heart cried out to be heard – who was saying everything she possibly could – always in written form.
So much unspoken. But today I realize, never silent. I have been speaking – sometimes screaming – through my actions, my body, my tears, my choices, and yes, still, through my written words. No apologies for such. My words matter. My voice matters – regardless of the medium or form.
Today, writing is no less significant, no less powerful as a means through which my voice takes flight, moving from my heart and soul into my world. And these days, I also speak – out loud, boldly, unapologetically, truthfully. No, hardly silent. And always so much more to say…
I do have some regret that yesterday’s email wasn’t accompanied (or better yet, exclusively communicated) through my voice. Still, my words are no less true, no less meaningful, no less heart-felt – even if painful.
This is important for me to acknowledge and articulate. My writing is not a “lesser” expression of who I am, what I think, all that I feel. I have spoken. I do not need to apologize.
Today is the start of my 49th year. Undoubtedly, I will speak much – out loud and in written form – in the days, weeks, and months ahead. And I know something now I did not so many years ago: my words matter – no matter their form.
Hardly silent.
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{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }
I have often thought of the beautiful letters exchanged by people living apart when there was no other option for communication. As your scrapbook shows, the written word captures and keeps moments for us like nothing else really can. From someone who wishes I had captured more of my life through writing, I’m glad you’ve stopped apologizing. It’s a gift.
Thanks, Lianne. Those letters are a mixed blessing: a lovely capturing of who I was in the past as well as a painful reminder at times of words that needed to be spoken. But at this point in my life…more than anything…validation that what I say matters no matter the medium.
Maybe those words ended up in that scrapbook because they needed to be heard by your 49 year old self more than anyone. Just a thought.
I wonder if I would even have the privilege of reading you now if you hadn’t been the girl who wrote? Just another thought.
Mmmmm. Thank you for that. I do believe you are right. These are important days for me to reconnect with that young girl. And yes, her writing has set the course for mine. No doubt. Your words are a gift to me, Lianne. Thank you.
You are such an insanely beautiful woman Ronna Detrick!
.-= Dani´s last blog ..I Did It! =-.
Thank you, my insanely beautiful friend.
i am a note and letter writer. i begin each (well, almost each) day by penning 3 thank you notes then walking them to the mailbox. my husband gives me cards, and for the longest time, i threw them away, finding them less meaningful because he picked them off the rack in some store. but then i smarted-up and realized that he spent time searching for a card that would say what he couldn’t quite articulate. he uses greeting cards like writers use quotes from others.
.-= wholly jeanne´s last blog ..denver or bust (aka: best road trip) =-.
Sometimes, writing is like escaping, true. It is easier to deal with; actually one doesn’t have to really *deal* with anything at all; it is more like one says their say and not necessarily anticipate a sneer, a shouting, a sarcasm, a worry, a warning, abuses or such from the other side. It is not instantaneous, however, it does have a great impact.
This reminds me of a friend who was very close few years ago. He was a great support in times of trials. He always said, “Don’t communicate in writing, go to them and speak whatever it is. Don’t even resort to a phone call, Go to Them And Say It Face to Face! Writing doesn’t have the same effect.” May be he was right, but I never took him so deep down. I continued to communicate in tough situations through writing.
He didn’t realize, I had fallen in love long back–with writing.
Thanks for the share. Loved it.
-BrownEyed.
Thank you for this. I’d written the post a while ago, but seeing your comment here today took me back to that space and made me wonder if I’d do it the same if given another opportunity. Sometimes spoken words are merited but always, at least for me, the ones spoken and written carry a weight and power all their own – unmatched by voice. I’m grateful you’re here; reading, commenting, sharing yourself.
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