2003-11-28 - 7:22 p.m.
"Words, words, words."
If it is writing letters that people enjoy then I should be doing more of that.
I was asked to write a certain person as a way of getting to know them, or at the very least them getting to know me, since it does not look likely that we will get to spend much time together.
As I got ready this morning, I started composing and recomposing the first paragraph of this letter when I paused to consider: How could I be writing this person while my own family hardly hears a word from me? I shook my head. They need to hear from me too. Is that so difficult to do?
A friend of mine said that she feels she should set aside a box for “Cati’s (sic) Letters” separate from all her other correspondence because she finds mine especially moving. Others have gone out of their way to compliment my letter writing, until I must conclude—if I ever had bothered to think about it—that this, therefore, is how I touch people. If I have the gift of bringing pleasure even for the briefest moment of a person’s day, then I should be giving that gift.
Lately I have complained of not knowing how to communicate with love to the people around me; I wish that I engaged in systematic charity in my life outside of my work; and I have longed for my writing to be more than an indulgence. Could this, then, be my answer?
I can start with what I have, which is all the utilities to write; I can begin by writing the people I already know, which is many. Why did this not occur to me earlier? Do I forget what delight I take from personal letters in the mailbox, even if the letter itself is less than enjoyable?
The more I try to sell things, the more I stumble over my words, and the more I withdraw from the spoken word and await the hour I might hide behind the written. It is here that I am comfortable, and challenged, but nonetheless comfortable. This is one of the reasons I remain dedicated to selling retail, until I have learned things that will last me my whole life through. Meanwhile, let my charity begin.
