Two years ago, as part of my research for Bryony's still unwritten prequel, Before the Blood, I researched Victorian letter-writing, especially love letters, and read many samples, trying to get a feel for the style.
As I read, I realised that, with today's communication so easily available at the touch of a button, many people today had lost something priceless: the opportunity to read, re-read, and read again, the thoughts of people dear to them.
I grew up with letter-writing. Like Melissa's experience with Ann Dalton at Munsvonville School in Bryony, note-passing was a common classroom activity. In the eighth grade, a friend and I often mailed each other letters even though we lived across town from each other.
As an adult expecting my first child, I regularly corresponded with one aunt and one great-aunt. A number of years later, as I was contemplating entry into the Eastern Orthodox Church, a physician friend of mine, who had converted years earlier, shared his thoughts with me via snail mail (the only kind way back then). I remember how eagerly I'd open one of those letters, finally understanding how the early Christians must have felt receiving Paul's epistles.
Even as recently fifteen years or so ago, after making friends at a retreat with the pastor of a church six hours away, that friendship was developed and cemented through the regular exchange of handwritten letters. It's been ten years since he died of colon cancer; those letters are silver and gold to me now.
This past year, I took a chance on a former friendship. Because we both have grueling schedules, most of our back and forth communication took place through text messaging, which became voluminous as our friendship grew.
Being new to twenty-first century technology, it never occured to me to backup any messages or photos I wanted to keep or to delete a thread that had expanded to length of the Amazon River, that is, until one day the thread, in the middle of a conversation, unexpectedly shut down and refused to open.
Of course, such disasters only happen on holiday weekends; in my case, it was Thanksgiving weekend. I was already battling a corrupted document that had spread its errors throughout innocent documents, which necessitated a clean install of Microsoft Word and the reinterviewing and rewriting of several other stories. Sadly, not even my tech-savvy older son could open that phone thread. Alas, my phone was reduced to what phones were originally intended to be: telephones.
Since I was planning to switch providers soon anyway, we made the transition the next day. Unfortunately, any data on that thread resisted transfer. Mourning its loss and cursing my naivety, I resolved to be much more proactive the second time around, and I have been, well sort of....
Well, the new year brought changes as all new years do. In this case, the fullbodied frienship flattened out and grew unsatisfyingly anemic, not through anyone's fault, but because, perhaps, it's natural course had run, although the relationship is not unfriendly by any means. Two nights ago, as I fell asleep and began dreaming pre-dreams, I once again remembered frozen thread, wished it could be opened, felt confident it could someday, and zzzzzzzzz..............
Okay, here's the cool part.
Last night, after a particularly trying medical week at the Baran-Unland casa, Timothy came home from work and asked for the dead cell phone. Immediately, my thoughts from the previous night flashed, and I suspiciously asked him why he wanted it. So naturally, Timothy wouldn't tell me.
I sent Rebekah up the ladder for the said phone and charger. That's when Timothy, our resident cell phone guru, said he'd read complaints from users of that cell phone of "slow to open threads" (an understatement) and how a new ap had just become available to counteract it.
Within an hour, Timothy had the thread opened up.
Today, in odd bursts of time, I've been backing up messages and photos from that thread. Three quarters of a year's communication are contained there; the reminiscing, far from being painful as the relationship had negatively shifted dramatically and unexpectedly, actually made me smile and warmly glow inside. I'll probably never know what triggered the shift, much less be able to fix it, but for now, that's somehow not very important.
What's important is my "yes" to an opportunity that, had I been close-minded and full of excuses, I might well have missed. I believe there is nothing more worthy of my time on the face of this earth than relating well with another human being. That is the basis for my love of feature stories, and yes, even my fiction writing.
Relationships, unlike consumer items, don't come with guarantees, but that doesn't mean, when they break down, that they were worthless. On the contrary, their fragile and nuanced nature should make us value them (and protect and nurture them) even more.
And while I cannot keep growing what I'd like to keep growing, I have more than the memory of a great year. I have a literal transcript of it, and I can revisit it as often as I like. Personally, I think the Victorians have one up on us, even if I don't bind that old phone with a piece of lace or purple ribbon.
As I read, I realised that, with today's communication so easily available at the touch of a button, many people today had lost something priceless: the opportunity to read, re-read, and read again, the thoughts of people dear to them.
I grew up with letter-writing. Like Melissa's experience with Ann Dalton at Munsvonville School in Bryony, note-passing was a common classroom activity. In the eighth grade, a friend and I often mailed each other letters even though we lived across town from each other.
As an adult expecting my first child, I regularly corresponded with one aunt and one great-aunt. A number of years later, as I was contemplating entry into the Eastern Orthodox Church, a physician friend of mine, who had converted years earlier, shared his thoughts with me via snail mail (the only kind way back then). I remember how eagerly I'd open one of those letters, finally understanding how the early Christians must have felt receiving Paul's epistles.
Even as recently fifteen years or so ago, after making friends at a retreat with the pastor of a church six hours away, that friendship was developed and cemented through the regular exchange of handwritten letters. It's been ten years since he died of colon cancer; those letters are silver and gold to me now.
This past year, I took a chance on a former friendship. Because we both have grueling schedules, most of our back and forth communication took place through text messaging, which became voluminous as our friendship grew.
Being new to twenty-first century technology, it never occured to me to backup any messages or photos I wanted to keep or to delete a thread that had expanded to length of the Amazon River, that is, until one day the thread, in the middle of a conversation, unexpectedly shut down and refused to open.
Of course, such disasters only happen on holiday weekends; in my case, it was Thanksgiving weekend. I was already battling a corrupted document that had spread its errors throughout innocent documents, which necessitated a clean install of Microsoft Word and the reinterviewing and rewriting of several other stories. Sadly, not even my tech-savvy older son could open that phone thread. Alas, my phone was reduced to what phones were originally intended to be: telephones.
Since I was planning to switch providers soon anyway, we made the transition the next day. Unfortunately, any data on that thread resisted transfer. Mourning its loss and cursing my naivety, I resolved to be much more proactive the second time around, and I have been, well sort of....
Well, the new year brought changes as all new years do. In this case, the fullbodied frienship flattened out and grew unsatisfyingly anemic, not through anyone's fault, but because, perhaps, it's natural course had run, although the relationship is not unfriendly by any means. Two nights ago, as I fell asleep and began dreaming pre-dreams, I once again remembered frozen thread, wished it could be opened, felt confident it could someday, and zzzzzzzzz..............
Okay, here's the cool part.
Last night, after a particularly trying medical week at the Baran-Unland casa, Timothy came home from work and asked for the dead cell phone. Immediately, my thoughts from the previous night flashed, and I suspiciously asked him why he wanted it. So naturally, Timothy wouldn't tell me.
I sent Rebekah up the ladder for the said phone and charger. That's when Timothy, our resident cell phone guru, said he'd read complaints from users of that cell phone of "slow to open threads" (an understatement) and how a new ap had just become available to counteract it.
Within an hour, Timothy had the thread opened up.
Today, in odd bursts of time, I've been backing up messages and photos from that thread. Three quarters of a year's communication are contained there; the reminiscing, far from being painful as the relationship had negatively shifted dramatically and unexpectedly, actually made me smile and warmly glow inside. I'll probably never know what triggered the shift, much less be able to fix it, but for now, that's somehow not very important.
What's important is my "yes" to an opportunity that, had I been close-minded and full of excuses, I might well have missed. I believe there is nothing more worthy of my time on the face of this earth than relating well with another human being. That is the basis for my love of feature stories, and yes, even my fiction writing.
Relationships, unlike consumer items, don't come with guarantees, but that doesn't mean, when they break down, that they were worthless. On the contrary, their fragile and nuanced nature should make us value them (and protect and nurture them) even more.
And while I cannot keep growing what I'd like to keep growing, I have more than the memory of a great year. I have a literal transcript of it, and I can revisit it as often as I like. Personally, I think the Victorians have one up on us, even if I don't bind that old phone with a piece of lace or purple ribbon.
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