Losing the Intimacy of Life in a Fast Paced World
A Reminiscence and a Practical Pump of the Brakes
As a writer, I’m ever amused at the speed of our world around us. Rarely does anyone casually stroll to the mailbox at the end of a satisfying work day to find a handwritten letter with blue ink, in cursive, distinct to a close friend’s hand. We now receive modern day hieroglyphics on handheld computers that vibrate in our back pocket upon their arrival. 🤔😆😉
Writing for me is a sacred space; like a holy prayer closet where I pour out my soul through my pen and pad, keyboard and computer. Like a personal journal, some writing evokes deep emotions; while others bring out the poet, the philosopher, and the humanitarian trapped deep within. I often think about the speed at which the world propels us and how it has caused us as humans to lose aspects of the intimacy of life that once were not just familiar — were ingrained in the fabric of society.
The excitement of reaching into the mailbox and pulling out a handful of junk mail, a couple of over due bills, a local city council member voter promotion, a National Geographic, Pennysaver, a Readers Digest, and that handwritten letter from Grandparents who live two states over, has now all gone digital in our modern fast paced 21rst century world.
The walk to the mailbox is nearly non-existent now; as we visually scan our Outlook, Gmail and Yahoo accounts in seconds; each app on the home screen of our Android Phone, Ipad and Dell laptop; for quick and easy access so we don’t miss any 70% off, three-hour sales from our favorite online department stores that offer free shipping and returns if we are at all dissatisfied with the product made by another countries near ‘slave’ factory labor.
Perhaps I romanticize my own childhood more than I ought. Every person has their own sentimental, youthful fond memories that we hold onto as we advance in years, reminiscing on the sweetness of youth and the innocence we knew before the harsh reality of a stressful fast-paced world knocked the wind out of us.
When I was young, and my mind a sponge for the newness of the world around me; I would walk to the mailbox eager to see if a letter from a pen pal in another country, a grandparent in another state, or a postcard from a friend on vacation awaited me. I would walk down our bumpy half paved, potholed drive to the edge of Palomino Road in the sleepy, quaint little town of Fallbrook, CA — the Avocado capitol of the world before the Mexican Cartel got into the business of selling Avocados for Guacamole Sunday; driving down prices and bankrupting small farmers in the 90’s and 2000’s — some of them friends of mine — all unbeknownst at the time to me.
We lived about an 1/8th of a mile down a small drive with five homes all elderly retirees. My family was the only one with children, and there were as many of us in one household as there were elderly neighbors — proper balance of new life and old. I loved walking up the hill, through the S curve and down the bush lined single lane to the five mail and two newspaper boxes that stuck out from the base a large juniper tree, whose base was surrounded by jade succulents whose fingering branches ever reached out gropingly, slowly engulfing the row of mailboxes as each year passed.
Our mailbox wasn’t the oldest, the smallest, the biggest or the most dented — it was though, the rustiest. It sat in the middle leaning ever so slightly forward as if it knew my longing for a letter, and leaned over so I could more easily access the precious contents it held within. Each trip offered a different emotion. The most common one was ‘Oh, just a bunch a junk mail and stuff for mom and dad…’ a slighting disappointment as I stood for a few moments in my bare feet filtering through the mail that leaned against my left arm, while my pointer and middle finger flipped through each piece methodically. Letters from my grandparents were my favorite. Instantly butterflies at rest in my stomach would fly up into my heart and throat, pushing the edges of my lips into a smile giving me a burst of energy that made me think I could fly causing me to skip on the short walk home.
My reminiscences of those days brings back to mind the feelings of my bare feet on the asphalt throughout the changing seasons; burning in the hot summer sun I would alternate my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet and back again, or stand on one foot, allowing one the privilege of being raised into the air for a few seconds while the other suffered willingly in its place, knowing the favor would soon be returned.
Fall brought with it a cooling of the air and ground, the slight amount of morning dew lingering within the pavement throughout the day. Winter brought with it the squishing feeling of bits of mud between my toes from the frequent rains and prolonged overcast days. Springs newness of life was refreshing after the dampness of winter, baby bunnies rushing around looking for food, flowers in blossom everywhere; the asphalt warm and comfortable to my feet as if preparing them for the harshness and heat of the coming summer.
Walking back to the house with a letter in hand addressed to me made me feel like a king receiving news of a victorious battle in a war in some far and distant land; or like a soldier on the battlefield receiving word from a person and place he’d rather be at and with, then where he was currently. I’d wipe my feet off on the front mat outside the house, open the front door, step inside and wipe my feet on the mat inside the door. I would place the mail on the counter next to the portable phone charger and phone jack where the key rack hung on the wall and rush through the living room, through the den with the brick fireplace and mantle, rush up the stairs, grab my favorite jack knife from my top dresser drawer and sit on the edge of my bed and carefully open my letter.
My Grandpa and grandma always wrote on small lined pages in large distinct cursive that I struggled to read at times. Each page was single sided and never was an envelope sent with less than three pages filling me in on the life and times of Millers Mountain and the three story cabin overlooking the Rogue River valley in Grants Pass OR. I always looked forward to stories of the five dogs, the garden, the orchard, and what was baked in the kitchen over the weekend; how much wood from the 50 acres of forest had been cut, split and stacked; the leaves and mud removed from waterways, gutters, and driveways; my Grandpas Softball team the ‘Relics’ recent games; and wines and beers he and grandma enjoyed together that were brewed in the basement.
I still have many of those letters from my youth saved in a small cedar box under lock and key. They are precious memories for me; snippets of a time when simplicity and innocence, and a slower life reigned supreme — at least that is my perception of it. Now as an adult with children of my own; I try to slow the roller coaster I’m on, in a desperate attempt to give my children a taste of what I had in my own childhood.
My current fast paced life; running a couple small businesses, working full time with overtime to provide for my families needs; seems ever to try to remove from me the moments of slower serenity I once knew in my youth. To combat this, I make it a point to hand write post cards to each of my children every time, work takes me out of state or overnight out of town.
I write my children stories and read them to them on the couch before bed; then edit them and send them off to children publishers in hopes of a better future for them and myself; and a desire to see my children someday with a collection of books written by me they can read to their own little ones — children and grandchildren.
I help my children laugh and romanticize the beauty of life and youth and the simplicity it can be. I plan on sending handwritten letters to them; their children and grandchildren as long as I’m still kicking and can put a pen in my hand. My cursive may be large and visibly shaky on the paper, yet they will know they are loved, thought about and cared for every day of their lives until it’s my time to go and I can write them no more.
What is life without youthful emotional experiences that define who we are, and what we strive to be and become and are for those we love and care for daily? Our children aren’t going to remember the shirts, hats, and toys when they look back on there life.
No, they will remember what experiences connected them to this world those wrought and etched in their minds through their communications with others. How can they though with ever faster technology that removes the joy from the simple things in life like a letter or a postcard? Who do you wish you could receive a letter from right now? Who would appreciate one from you? Write one today, would you?
J.C. Miller
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