21 August 2013
Sedbergh, Yorkshire Dales (but pretty much the Lake District still)
I just spent 20 minutes typing out a letter to you on my phone’s keyboard which is smaller than the width of a stick of butter. Yeah, it disappeared into the ether over these hills. This one might end up being funnier, but it will be steeped in frustration.
It’s not really humor I’m left with as much as a sense of giving up and a slew of questions.
When did I get so dependent on technology, and when did I also start taking it for granted? When did sinking into the seat of a rental car start to bring more relief than walking on my own two feet? When did walking get so tiring where it used to be reviving? What will my walls of books look like when I finally settle down, and am I going to have to ship them in boxes to wherever that will be, or will I have to release them back into the world like once-caught creatures?
What would my life be like if I hadn’t discovered books, and the simple complex joy of writing, and the tender space of connecting to those I love through letters? Where would my mind be without all of these silences?
I think the frustration has abated, and I’m walking away from Sedbergh with “Good Omens” and “Words In Air”. My very own hardback copy. All is not lost.
I’m sorry these letters are clipped and apologetic (ah the irony). I wish you were here instead. I’m sorry about the floods, but I’m glad that you’re safe.