Saturday, October 15, 2011

It's Growing As Big As Texas!

Do you ever go where an urge takes you? Do you ever listen to the still small voice that whispers so loud you can't help but pay attention? Do you ever do what comes into your head--with nary a thought for its origins. Well, I do. All the time. Like yesterday, after a visit to the postoffice. Want a hint that you might be going to often? Here's one: The clerk says, "You're in here a lot, aren't you? You sure are supporting us." Nonplussed, I tried to explain one more time about pen pals, pen friends, the love of letter writing, and mail art. 

Once again, the same clerk asked if she could see the mail I held. They always hold up the line when they do that; they pore over it front, back and sideways. There's always a Q & A moment. Then they want to know what I send, what I receive in return, and I get a look. Not sure what it means, but . . . 

So. Yesterday I responded to the urge to use a sheet of watercolor paper I bought at least seven years ago. Made in India. It's some of the worst in my history of buying watercolor paper; I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. For every thing I save, there is a reason.

Have you ever sat down with a sheet of stationery, and all you could manage was to think of writing? With me, it happens when I think I have to write because I owe someone a letter. It happens when I write without the spirit of the letter moving my pen. The funniest thing about it is, it doesn't happen all the time, with everyone I write to. Yet, it never happens to people I am moved to talk with. Know what I mean?

Like . . . Okay, it's like me looking at Cole's photograph countless times, yet never writing to her. Then one day I knew it was time, so I did. Before that--before the Spirit moved me--I could only look at her eyes, and wonder how she could stare into a camera like that. I think I might have mentioned it in my first penned words to her. Such an open, uninhibited look. Not sure I've ever had it myself. But, still, I am compelled to write to Cole about things I don't write about to anyone else. 

I don't write to her that often either, but I compose letters to Cole in my head on any given day. In fact, I owe her at least two way-past due letters. The recent postcard doesn't count. 

I also have the habit of writing letters in parts. Part I goes out with a promise for Part II; then I forget, and the reader probably thinks I've made a liar of myself. It's not true, okay? Honest. I just lose the thoughts that hovered over Part I. Forgive me. Thanks for your forgiveness. My intentions are always good. And honorable.

This thing that began, and almost ended just before dawn, hasn't been touched all day. Except for being photographed at 30 or so different angles. It has to rest. I have to rest. It remains unfinished. Feist hasn't tried to eat it. Minuet hasn't tried to steal it, and Simon just wants my lap, but it's finishing touches are being designed even as I write. It began as a mystery, even to me, but here are peeks:

This was the very first part that claimed my canvas. It reminded me of the notecard Suddenly Susan sent. Just look for now. I will share her work of art tomorrow.

This part is all about Misty's covered bridges. Good mail is a lot like a bridge over troubled waters. Don't you agree?

Someone I know frequently signs off with this word. I love peace.

I missed a dear friend's birthday. She's 27 now.

All this is just a drop in the water 'neath a bridge but you might guess where this is going. If you do, put a clue on layaway for me, okay? Hope you like it, or might even get where I'm going with it. And, yes, it's all about mail. So, write on.

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