{"id":306,"date":"2008-04-01T15:17:29","date_gmt":"2008-04-01T19:17:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Trees\/?p=306"},"modified":"2008-08-02T12:09:56","modified_gmt":"2008-08-02T16:09:56","slug":"letters-half-written","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Trees\/?p=306","title":{"rendered":"Letters Half Written"},"content":{"rendered":"

April 1, 2008
\nTuesday<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nights in white satin, never reaching the end.
\nLetters I’ve written, never meaning to send.
\n<\/em>\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 \u00e2\u20ac\u201d Justin Hayward, b. 1946
\n\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 English singer-songwriter
\n\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 from “Nights in White Satin”<\/p>\n

\"NaBloPoMo<\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

When\u00c2\u00a0I learned that the NaBloPoMo theme for April was “Letters,” the Moody Blues immediately began playing in my mind. “Nights in White Satin” is a song of yearning that alludes to lost times and missed opportunities. Every single lyrics source I checked gave the second line as “letters I’ve written.” But I’ve always heard it as “letters half written.”<\/p>\n

The idea of writing letters never meant to be sent is a component of most “writing to heal” plans I’m familiar with. Writing to<\/em> instead of merely about <\/em>the boyfriend <\/a>who broke up with you by simply ignoring you every day or the fourth grade teacher <\/a>who wouldn’t let you have a perfect attendance certificate or the writing workshop leader<\/a> who treated you like a nuisance is thought to help you\u00c2\u00a0access your feelings more directly and speed the shedding of your anger and hurt.<\/p>\n

For about the last ten years I was in the classroom I ran an annual letter-writing assignment. I often did it this time of year, when both the students and I were thoroughly bored with the standard academic exercises of five paragraphs about symbolism in The Great Gatsby <\/em>or the sonnet form in the work of E.E. Cummings.\u00c2\u00a0Letters are essays, I told my students, and the\u00c2\u00a0most valuable\u00c2\u00a0writing they can ever do is that which keeps them in touch with others. I gave them\u00c2\u00a0suggestions\u00c2\u00a0(ten in all) such as writing to\u00c2\u00a0a non-famous person they admire, to a teacher they had in elementary school, to someone who once\u00c2\u00a0gave them a particularly treasured gift, or someone who gave them something less tangible, such as hope or encouragement. The letters had to be of positive focus, they had to be at least 250 words, but they didn’t have to be sent.<\/p>\n

The assignment proved to be popular. It was easy to do, easy to evaluate, almost impossible to get a bad grade on. I often did the assignment along with the students, but I have to say most of mine were “letters half written” instead of “letters I’ve written.”\u00c2\u00a0<\/p>\n

The April NaBloPoMo suggestion coincides with a renewed desire in my own life to follow up, follow through, make contact. Last week I gathered all the pretty writing paper I have that so seldom gets used in this age of e-mail and word processing, the specific-occasion cards and beautiful blanks I’ve bought and never used, the “Love” themed postage stamps I’ve acquired every time I developed the urge to write surprise thinking-of-you letters<\/a> to people.<\/p>\n

As I wrote in that piece,<\/p>\n

I miss the depth and the heart that a genuine letter can carry. I miss the decorated letter sheets (although some of my most cherished missives have come on lined loose-leaf notebook paper), the feel of unfolding the little packet, the awareness that you are holding something the friend or beloved has recently touched.<\/p>\n

And I miss communicating with some of the people I wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t dream of phoning, people who were once part of my life, who gave me joy and encouragement, whose presence in my history is part of who I am. And I haven\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t the moxie usually to say<\/strong> deeply-felt things to people I see every day.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I don’t remember now how many of the one hundred letters I so confidently\u00c2\u00a0announced I would\u00c2\u00a0write I actually produced. If my stash of postage at several bygone first-class rates is any indication, it wasn’t many. But I wrote three last week: a “thinking of you” note to a friend who had to drop\u00c2\u00a0out of our writing group to care for her terminally ill father, a teenager of my acquaintance undergoing treatment for Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and a thank-you for a birthday gift. That one does have a letter half written in draft in my notebook. I’d delayed long enough in sending the thank-you message itself, and suddenly I was too shy to say more. \u00c2\u00a0<\/p>\n

I have 125 special stamp sets left, and a basketful of pretty papers and cards. Let’s see how many I can use before I need yet another “helper stamp” in May, and let’s exhaust the supply by this time next year.<\/p>\n

To be included on the notify list, e-mail me:
\nmargaretdeangelis [at] gmail [dot] com (replace the brackets with @ and a period)<\/em><\/p>\n


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