Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
– A Light Exists in Spring

I find myself reading Emily Dickinson’s poetry, not because of what she does or does not say, but because she said it without an audience. She never really had one in her lifetime, writing her poems in a vacuum. Eventually all but entombed in her home, she carried out friendship through correspondence. That must have been exasperating.

Or exhilarating.

The post office doesn’t deliver in a vacuum. (Or even reliably to Wichita, Kansas, as I recently discovered.)

At least, with a letter, there is a reason for the wait in reply, and there is something tangible to hold onto. There’s geography of the moment.

The internet is a poor excuse for a friend, training you for instant return and exaggerating the passage of time when a reply is delayed, even by moments. Hours are eaten up. We write for audiences, whether it be blog readers or Twitter followers. It’s more about catch-and-release with very little about keeping. You don’t have to keep. You only need log off. It’s the transient 0 and 1, very quickly going down the list in descending order.

It’s tempting to be so removed.

In various forms on this blog over the years, I’ve preached and cajoled the splendors of the hand-written letter. I had the Today’s Mail feature. I gave away one-of-a-kind postcards to random readers. I’ve given away artist trading cards, laser-etched pencils, mock Christmas letters, laminated get-out-of-jail-free cards, free downloads of cards and stationery…all in response to letters.

I understand that most people just don’t write anymore.

I once sent a hand-made booklet card to former blogger Dawn Eden; she’d called me on the phone after reading a blog post I’d written.  ”Are you OK?” she’d asked, and I responded yes, somewhat stunned to hear her voice, following that up with some paper mail. She was a real person, after all, behind the digital wall.

I think of Emily Dickinson’s poems and her life — how things pass by and we stay — and the feel of paper and think that winter might be a little less long with just one card, and who should I send it to? Or, how the best way to show a person you care about them and their life is sitting down and giving up time in a busy schedule to write them a letter.

I let a lot of time pass in exchange for things that do not stay, sitting in front of the computer. I watch virtual trends come and go, straining to stay on top of them. I turn the computer off, and it all dissipates in fading blue-into-black.

Nothing tangible, really.

There’s a connection here about books, too, and what it is to feel paper in your hand, turning pages, in silence. Reading and writing, when you have the life I have (alone, quiet, apart) is the cool drink of water to the salt of perpetual running to the computer to see if there’s a new email or message. The internet doesn’t make a person feel less lonely, but the reverse. It feeds loneliness, tricking you into thinking otherwise when hoped-for response doesn’t come. The return is not the same. I would be more aware of the passing of the day, and how I fit into it, without being online so much.

As Dawn said in her last blog post:

St. Thomas Aquinas had a word for this vice that causes one to fail to moderate one’s quest for knowledge: curiositas. With all the years of my life that I have spent in online curiositas, I have precious little wisdom to show for it.

The internet does not sit with me on the front deck at home and hug me when I am crying, though my mom and dad do. I still read the letters my grandma wrote to me when I was in college. Her hand touched the paper, and I repeat the moment each time I read it.

Jumbled thoughts, maybe.

I’m better on paper, because I’m more honest without an audience.