Back from the Living

For the Archives is not dead. I’ve just been living.

For those following the postings here (though many may have moved along to blogs that have actually provided fresh content in the last month), the Archives has been my place to chronicle life’s everyday moments. But recently, due to a variety of circumstances, I found myself living more than chronicling. Experiencing, not recording.

And this summer was full of Life. The Bohemian, Jeb, and I, explored new terrain with a family adventure that took us on planes, trains, automobiles, ferries, buses, metros, and a vintage VW van. We tested the Bohemian’s US permanent residency card at the Canadian border (it worked, round trip!).

The day before our travels, my laptop’s hard drive crashed, leaving me with virtually no link to the internet. I took it as a sign, left the computer at the shop, and departed with a camera, composition book and a pen. For the next 19 days, I did not miss cyberspace.

Instead, I slowed down to an island-time pace even more quiet than the one in which I usually dwell. It was ten days on a Canadian gulf island, 1200 inhabitants, two small village markets, plenty of forest, no bank.

Upon returning, we learned that two hurricanes were heading toward our own island chain. Suddenly, I was thrust into disaster preparation mode, shopping at a big box store with a multitude of nervous patrons vying for 20 pound bags of rice. Ready for anything, with boards on our windows, we were grateful when the first hurricane only brought our island some wind and rain. Even more relieved, when the second hurricane decided to turn north and avoid us altogether.

With the threat of weather behind us, it was on to our family’s first foray into AYSO soccer. Somewhere between Jeb’s practice, cleat shopping and shin guards, his school supply list, and starting fifth grade, I’d retrieved my repaired computer and managed a successful transfer of data to my new hard drive. It was downright disturbing to realize how much of my world depended on that little black, back-up box.

And maybe that’s why I enjoyed being away from the digital realm for a while. Why I’ve been a bit reluctant to return. For that time away, I held a different currency. Virtually nothing was virtual. Nearly everything was tangible.

The only mailboxes I saw were metal and aging. The only maps I used were the ones I could unfold in my hands. The communications I had were face-to-face, infused with sound waves and intonations.

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And there was freedom, too, as I floated in vacation-land, where nothing was expected of me and everything was new. I free-fell into that untethered place so deeply, I even forgot the user password for this blog. Locked out, I was released.

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But I’m back. Attempting to strike the balance of living and Archiving. Seeking solace in the moments and inspiration in the sharing. Still following the Thread. Tracing new routes on the map.

Note Card of the Week- Uluhe

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uluhe

Potential unfurling.

A fern, spiraling into fullness.

Uluhe in Hawaiian.

A discovery on the forest floor found in the highest altitudes of my island home.

As many are readying themselves to close one chapter and begin the next (graduate to the next level or step out into the world), this plant friend is a reminder of all that is unfolding.

This particular moment was captured on a day when the Bohemian and I took a pause from the routine. We hiked hills and beheld vast vistas. We meandered the forest and leaned closely to magnificence in minutiae. (More photos from our island excursion here, “Top of the World”).

Congratulations to all of the graduates!

May this week’s Uluhe Note Card photograph gift you the perspective of solid work accomplished, and the promise of possibility that awaits you.

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Creating these cards makes me smile. Sharing them with you brings me happiness. Knowing that you may pass them on to someone you love, well, that’s just a beautiful thing.

All cards are hand-made, with care, on recycled paper.

Letter Love

A few days ago, the lid was lifted from the cowry-decorated letter box, filled with my collection of favorite letters from special people. For days, I’ve been passing by the air mail envelope sitting on top, author not revealed.

This morning, I slide it out and flip to read the sender. It’s only her first name in the upper left hand corner, as my life-long friend was backpacking through Costa Rica and had no return address to offer.

Eleven, hand-written pages, front and back, torn out from a travel-sized spiral notebook. I read the words 17 years later, her careful cursive penmanship, ever-familiar. She’s at some vegetarian cafe, traveling for weeks on a budget, sweating in the humidity and hammocks. The frozen yogurt in the nearby cooler is tempting her as she writes.

She is mourning the separation from one of her greatest loves (he is not the one she will eventually marry). She is listening to Rickie Lee Jones on a Walkman and writing to me of her eight mile hike through the jungle with a “monkey researcher,” which landed her in a desolate locale, surviving on plain pasta and dry bread for days.

Her words stay in the lines, but edits are added with small inserts, sometimes accompanied by smiley faces. She adds random hearts by a phrase, underscores and capitalizes special points. Her signature sketches itself outside the lines, moving diagonally across the bottom of the last page.

Wrapped up in this air-mail package, is an essence. I can almost smell the palm fronds steaming in the Costa Rican sun. Her hearts and smiley faces, hand drawn, long before emoticons existed. In this letter, I feel my friend – even as I read it now, nearly two decades later.

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These days, I’m an active participant in cyber communications. I appreciate the multitude of boons it offers. But I do miss the era when I was a much more avid letter-writer, sharing mail with good friends.

Letter-writing entails taking a pause. Stopping long enough to put pen to paper and share. It’s no text message on the go. No email sent from your smart phone. It’s a true gift of time and reflection.

And when you receive that letter, it’s not a glance to a screen. You stop. You sit down. You open it. Inhale the scent of paper mixed with ink and postal carrier bags. You read words written that have no official font name. You soak in the story that was penned just for you.

I have folders of archived digital communications on my laptop. Filed away are some great words exchanged, some real email gems. But they’re lost in the hard drive. Ethereal in nature, untouchable. Filed by subject in orderly lines, homogeneous and easily forgettable.

But those letters wrapped up in that red ribbon, now those I can hold. I can literally feel their heart and soul, inside jokes, broken hearts, and wishes all burning to come true. Those letters are infused with moments intentionally carved by human hands, recording what was real and bursting. Hand delivered at the post, using spare change to buy the stamps.

They are tangible.

Love that traveled a true distance.

Treasures.