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#TBT Throwing it Back

never grow upToday I indulged in TBT, tagging my best friend of nearly 30 years in one of my favourite photos.

We were sitting atop a huge boulder in the northern Ontario wilderness, each wearing our high school sweetheart’s sweater, and sporting late 1980’s curls.

Our body language and shy smiles told the world that we were unsure and dreamy; unsure about what the world had in store for us, but sure that it was wonderful.

Flipping through my old photo album, I found another gem. It was a photo of a group of eight of us posing in someone’s living room in our prom finery.

One of the boys and I have kept in touch, and we recently had a conversation about adult things; careers, children, lovers and just how very difficult it is to schedule time for fun.

Throughout the years friendships have waxed and wained. As spouses, children, divorce and death have visited, many of us have forgotten who those fresh-faced kids were who stare back at us from our shared TBT photos.

As my conversation ended with my guy-pal from that old, prom photo, I wished that I could give him back his mischievous smile and take away the pain that he has come to know as an adult.

I wished we could go back to the days he shyly delivered truckloads of ice to the quaint village store where I used to work, barely raising my eyes to meet his,  offering a small wave by way of acknowledgement.

Social media may be flawed, but the older I get, the more I appreciate being reminded by these friends, of the magic we all carry within us. Our news, updates and loll’s  breathe life into our still-young-at-heart-hopes-and-dreams.

Celebrate TBT and throw it back out there. You never know who you may inspire to seek out their young school-kid heart and remember what it’s like to be silly.

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When You’re Too Busy to Write About the Important Stuff

woman-reading-letterBefore I settle in to do some serious creative writing today, I must fulfill an obligation of friendship. I must escape the keyboard, and put pen to paper. I’ve been negligent of my duty to keep my friends abreast of my girl-news via proper letter writing.

My mailman hates me. You see, my mailbox doesn’t get the attention that it deserves.

I only make visits bi-weekly to clear out the junk mail; real estate flyers, fast-food coupons, and annoying letters from our Conservative political rep. Buh-arf.

On occasion there’s a little treat in the mailbox.  My friend in Newfoundland will take time to write a letter, despite her aching hands, and my gal-pal in the great-white-north, The Amazing C, will take time from her busy family life, writing to me about the things that matter to her (on sparkly paper no less).

There is something about the feel of a hand-written letter that’s so much different from something we type at our worn-out keyboards. There’s something about anticipating what’s inside the envelope, taking time to sit and savour the words that someone dear to us has thought to put on a piece of paper. There’s something about knowing that someone cared enough to get off their spectacular tushie and find a mailbox.

Perhaps it’s because I’m such a tactile person that I so enjoy holding that letter in my hands. Perhaps it’s because I’m a lover of words that I take so much pleasure from being able to read a dear one’s thoughts. Regardless, I do believe that the alchemy of letter writing is a stronger connection than digital light flashing and dying, being able to be turned off instead of being placed in my bedside drawer where a letter can be unfolded and read during those nights when sleep is somewhere far, far away, and my mind won’t be still.

The problem with letter writing is that it takes a bit of time. Not only do I type much faster than I write, but letter writing requires stationary, a pen, a stamp. It requires getting out of the house and finding a post box. It requires the person on the other end to  get their mail, open the letter, and pause to take in the news that was so important it had to be written down.

I’ve been terrible with my letters during the past two months. The speed of life has whisked away all but the essential functions; work, eat, sleep and work again. This is the first weekend I’ve been able to stop for more than 24 hours and catch my breath.

When my Newfie friend sent a text saying he was in town, I realized that I’d yet to write to his wife about the new love in my life. I kept thinking; This requires a letter. This requires her to stop, get a cup of tea, snuggle up in her chair, and take in the words that I had married together to tell her my thoughts and feelings, and how my life had changed. Communicating in a letter is the closest thing that I could do to sitting down together in her living room and seeing her eyes light up or fill with tears as I told her about my losses and my love.

Alas, time passes quickly when it’s not my own. Before I could do a damn thing about it darlings, her hubby was at my door and shaking hands with Mr. Wonderful. Mr. Wonderful of course thinking that if he were indeed that wonderful, why hadn’t I mentioned him to some of my closest friends.

I’m sure my pal on the east-coast is wondering the same thing.

All I can say is, sometimes it’s worth waiting to spread really good news. Sometimes, when it comes to the kindred spirits of true friendship, it’s worth making the effort to make the news as special as the story of your life actually is.

This rainy Saturday is a wake-up call, shaking me and telling me to catch up on some of the things that I’ve been too busy for, for far too long.