Take Two...

So... I'm thinking I'll give this blogging thing another go round. No apologies. No explanations. No caveats.

I don't remember whether it was when I was in high school or college... probably college... but at some point I started writing letters, long letters, to people. Not just to friends from home, or pen pals from childhood, but people I saw every day. People I talked to regularly. Usually it was because something was wrong, and I wanted to talk, but couldn't form the spoken words. Armed with a messy piece of carbon paper, yes carbon paper (so I would always know what I said) I penned at times tortured missives to those closest to me. Or, to those who had at one time been closest to me. It was almost like writing in my journal... only with the possibility of actual conversation, dialogue. I think some of my friends enjoyed it. Others tolerated it. Others ignored it completely. I found it almost exhilarating. On the one hand, it was cathartic -- an opportuntiy to say what I wanted, and needed to say, just the way I wanted to say it. It opened up a space for me to process joy and sadness, frustration, confusion, even rage. It was almost intoxicating. I would let the language spill forth, all over the page and then some. Then, I would fold it up, tape it shut, staple it, put it in an envelope (I was never one to pass notes in school, so I didn't know how to do all of the cool origami folds, oh well) and, yes, drop it in campus mail, slip it under a door, or tack it on a memo board. Or, put a stamp on it and send it to someone I didn't have to see the next day. Depending. And then... I would get a flutter in my stomach. "Did I really do that? Really? Why did I do that?" Granted, some letters had the capacity to get me into much more trouble than others. We won't go there tonight. Point is, I would nearly panic until my phone rang, or there was a knock on the door, or a similar piece of paper awaited in my own mail box. It was wonderful to be heard, if not always understood. I miss that feeling.

Truth be told, I still write those letters. Not all the time. Just sometimes. Sometimes they are e-mails. They generally aren't handwritten anymore. I've given up the carbon paper, opting for photo copies instead. I don't necessarily anticipate a response, as a rule. Truth be told, I suppose that disappoints me. But, it still feels good to write the words I may be afraid to speak.

Maybe this is why I am intrigued by this whole blogging idea. Maybe I still want to be heard -- by whoever will listen. I feel like I do a lot of listening. To a lot of people. Nothing wrong with that -- I tend to think that is a good thing. It's part of what I do. But, maybe the time is coming, maybe the time is here, for me to do a little more speaking.

As I write this, I am listening to one of my favorite, perhaps little known, singers -- Ann Reed. One of her songs that just played, "No Time Like the Present:" ... Notes to you, I'll write 'em down while one of us is not around, let's put 'em in a book that's bound called 'Things that Matter,' Yesterdays the day I thought Would never come and now it's gone Thats how years roll away Tend to what I've planted If I take it all for granted it'll fade..."

And, on that note...