Read Between the Lines

Read Between The Lines.

"Read between the lines, then meet me in the silence if you can" (May Sarton)

www.LifeLineswritingservice.com

Letters, cards, paper things - remember them ? I’m happy to be called old-fashioned if it means that I care about some of the things, usages, habits that are falling into disuse in the rush to take advantage of the amazing technology now at our disposal. Don’t get me wrong, I happily use much of it - I’m using it now to write this and am glad to be able to google for quick information.

But - and it’s a big but for me, aren’t some of the ‘old-fashioned’ things worth hanging on to because they serve a unique purpose, an added dimension which touches something different and more human in us.

I was searching through some personal papers recently and unearthed my father’s hand-written, hen-scratched pages of our family tree. Almost as indecipherable as when I first received them perhaps because I no longer receive cards or letters in his easily recognizable, but hard to read writing so that now I am unfamiliar with cracking the code.

I also found the last letter he wrote me before his death. The pale blue standard airmail form with the small, tight handwriting making maximum use of the allotted space, instantly connecting me to him as if the postman had just popped it through the letterbox and it had plopped onto the mat; shrinking the miles between England and Canada as soon as my fingers touched it. The smell and familiar feel of the paper, the colour of the ink, the fact that a human hand had taken the time and given careful thought to the message seemed to make it so much more intimate. I could hear his voice, see it in the words and  envision him sitting at his desk or the table taking his time, making his time, for me. How important and eagerly anticipated were those missives then keeping me glued together far from home and family as I imagined him sealing the letter and walking it down to the village post office. And I spent many an hour writing ten page epistles back - somehow we found the time to make a space in our busy lives because the act of connecting mattered. Now we say we don’t have time - even with all the apparent time-saving technology at our disposal - to sit down for as long as it takes. We throw whole sentences into the waste paper basket, click an emoji or a gif and reduce life to a symbol.  

I still occasionally receive cards and postcards from all over the world - and love the anticipation of going to the post office, feeling a deep pleasure pulling out an envelope with its foreign stamp, its scuffs and creases silently telling me the story of it’s lengthy journey - then avariciously tearing it open as fast as I can to read.

I love my computer, can’t live without it, but anticipating a personal e.mail doesn’t cut it in any way shape or form. Cold and impersonal, no matter what the words are saying, the black letters marching across the screen like a column of ants are not going to elicit the same response from me. I want that tactile sense engaged, to see the flow of the ink. I want to experience the touch, feel, smell of the paper, a sensual awareness so that I can see and hear the author through the individual strokes of the pen, the unique whirls and flourishes which put that person right in front of me, warm and human and, for a moment, I can imagine they are sitting right next to me sharing and breathing in my space. 

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