A lost art in the digital age
Figure #1 – Well-worn, but wonderful.
The Waiting Game
Another day passed, another day of fruitless longing.
Quebec City is a magical, romantic place. Cobble stone streets echo with the sound of horse hooves as they carry their passengers around the delightful old downtown core. Finely detailed stone buildings continue standing, a surviving testament to a proud history. Crowds whisper a sonorous hum, the French language floats through the air.
Figure #2 – Oh Quebec…
There was one thing missing to complete this inviting scene.
My old college sweetheart.
Before I met Denisa, I had already applied to study at a French summer language exchange program. Quebec City was my preferred destination — it had an old world beauty and sense of the past I had never fully experienced before. After I was accepted, I was elated. But I also quickly became deeply concerned — this academic program would mark the first time I ever lived in a place where I could not speak the native language fluently. Doubts started to plague me.
Could I function on a daily basis in a French-speaking environment?
Would I meet any new friends?
And most importantly, would I be able to maintain my relationship with my beloved Denisa?
As my departure date inevitably approached, I became deeply divided. Going to Quebec would be a fantastic experience.
But at the same time, this opportunity pulled me away from someone I cared deeply for.
While I was in Quebec City, days passed into weeks. I could feel us starting to grow apart. Desperate to reconnect in a meaningful way, I wrote Denisa a heartfelt letter expressing my affection…
Figure #3 – A fan of letters.
Struggling to Keep in Touch With His Little Girl
My sister Cynthia had moved away from home to attend college. But my father, Papa we called him, wanted to keep in touch with his little girl. He was often gruff and had a quick temper. Financially supporting seven children must be an unrelenting pressure. But despite these flaws, Papa was emotionally transparent. Underneath his hyper masculine demeanor you could sense that he cared deep inside.
When he missed his daughter most acutely, Papa would write Cynthia at school. He was born in Italy and didn’t move to Canada until adulthood, well after the end of his formal schooling was interrupted by war and poverty. Although Papa could speak and write functionally in his adopted language, his English was rough hewn. For example, instead of writing the word phone he would scrawl fon instead. It made sense to him. Italian was more direct. Why would you spell such a simple word in any other way?
Cynthia shared her cherished letters with the rest of the family. We would smile together in celebration at her good fortune. A person who was literally a bull of a man — solid, big, and powerful — exposed his fatherly emotions so honestly. But we didn’t laugh at this sharing as a weakness. It was just a way to gain some relief from our collective pain after his death.
Something Lost?
Letter writing is a practice that harkens back to a simpler, more earnest, era. The intense emotional labor it requires betrays the honesty of its intentions. Find a pencil, search for paper, sit quietly at a wooden desk to write, crumple up the paper, and start anew; always hopeful that this time you will be able to capture what your heart deeply feels. Eventually you walk gingerly to the post office toting a slim envelope teeming with the purest expression of self.
All these acts are the result of purpose, intentionality, caring.
~
We are flooded by e-mail, text messages, and social media posts. Unfortunately, this deluge of digital correspondence doesn’t waver depending on season. It is constant, unremitting, unrelenting. This type of communication knows no boundaries. And despite its incredible affordances, it also comes with an almost invisible, unnoticeable cost — the flow of letters has dwindled to a thin trickle.
Today, sending an e-mail or tapping out a text makes the most sense regardless of the content. The cost is negligible. Delivery is instantaneous. Assurance of reception is a conclusion. It is simply more efficient.
Being human, we tend to project our agency into everything around us — even technology. Our devices give us a kind of Manifest Destiny for the digital age — we use their power to stake a claim on the seemingly limitless frontier in front of us. The confines of the physical geography that limits us has been replaced by the infinite expanse of the virtual plane. But our devices inevitably shape us more than we could ever think of changing them. And these changes are not exclusively beneficial. As our delivery mechanisms become more efficient, we think less about the context that drives the communication. Time and distance become a nullity, just another obstacle left in our wake, overcome by the awesome power of our digital tools. Who cares how far away someone is, how long our message will need for consummation?
But in the not-so-distant days of yesteryear, the act of letter writing was infused with an emotional element that cannot so easily be subsumed within digital tools — especially with regards to affairs of the heart. Time and distance were an inherent part of the courtship — something to be overcome by want and longing and desire. The ancient ritual of putting pen to paper, walking to the nearest postal box, and dropping the letter through the slot was just the beginning of a longer, slower, more drawn out process of connection. After this difficult process, the real labor was about to begin.
Waiting, just waiting, especially for something of importance, was an emotionally fraught experience. It was hard to even think about. The passing of time reinforced the nagging sense of self-doubt and longing.
“Did she receive the letter?”
“Did she read it?”
“What did the letter make her feel?”
“What is she writing in response?”
In the past, letter writing was often a necessary part of courting and caring. Like my father, the simple act of scribbling on a page, imbuing it with a sense of hope, makes us emotionally vulnerable. In the digital age, where geography and time have become inconsequential, who knows if the space between us will ever be overcome?
dino sossi 