Inspired by an e-mail from my grandmother, I posted this note to my Facebook today. World's longest status update? Perhaps.
Dear friends and family,
You should know that I smell my mail. Yes, that's right, whenever I receive post--weather I'm living in Africa, Europe, or at home in California--I deeply inhale the materials that have been sent from a person I love, and I'm overwhelmed with a sense of warmth and nostalgia. Being my most consistant correspondent over the last 20 years, my grandmother sends mail with unmatchable smelly-powers.
Every time I receive a letter from my grandmother I'm moved to tears. When I talk to her on the phone I usually laugh a lot during our conversation and then depart with a big smile. But for some reason, whenever I see the unmistakeable cursive writing that is my grandma's, I can hear her voice in my head, smell the hazelnut coffee on her breath, and recall in an instant the exact texture of her skin. Her letters are living things that stir me in a way a phone call just doesn't, inexplicably so.
There's a certain rhythm to her writing, an order of events that habitually occurs in each letter. There's a greeting and a witty opening line, followed by a detailed description of the particular season hanging over Colorado (and subsequently her garden); then a summary of her life's current events, only briefly touching on the subject of her health which is always shadowed by a cheery update on my little cousins. Everything is finely laced with humor and compassion, and the letters always end with a kind of, "Must go--sending my love, Grandma." Sometimes she includes articles clipped from newspapers, comic strips, or bizarre trinkets such as buttons in the envelope with her letter.
Today I received my very first e-mail from Grandma. I'm living in France now, and while any communication from this woman feels like a winning lotto ticket to me, an e-mail simply wasn't the same. The words meant just as much to me yet the standardized font in place of her elegant script didn't galvanize my senses in the same way. I wanted to smell hazelnut coffee from the threads of stationary, and feel the smoothness of her hands through the waves of her words, each character gracefully dancing into the next; but my computer didn't offer me that kind of nostalgic invigoration.
I was still grateful to receive word from Grandma, even if digitally. I was still moved to a warm, teary-eyed state, especially at the conclusion of her message: "Sweet One, I will try to write [as in pen and paper] soon. I think of you often and send you my love."
In not-so-short, please remember this: The relatively cold interfaces of technology are extraordinary, efficient, convenient, affordable, and without a doubt enabling the world to do great things. Still, our human senses remain the vessels to our hearts. Nothing is so personal as material you've handled, embedded your scent into, and spent time preparing.
So go on, then--send me some mail to smell.
You should know that I smell my mail. Yes, that's right, whenever I receive post--weather I'm living in Africa, Europe, or at home in California--I deeply inhale the materials that have been sent from a person I love, and I'm overwhelmed with a sense of warmth and nostalgia. Being my most consistant correspondent over the last 20 years, my grandmother sends mail with unmatchable smelly-powers.
Every time I receive a letter from my grandmother I'm moved to tears. When I talk to her on the phone I usually laugh a lot during our conversation and then depart with a big smile. But for some reason, whenever I see the unmistakeable cursive writing that is my grandma's, I can hear her voice in my head, smell the hazelnut coffee on her breath, and recall in an instant the exact texture of her skin. Her letters are living things that stir me in a way a phone call just doesn't, inexplicably so.
There's a certain rhythm to her writing, an order of events that habitually occurs in each letter. There's a greeting and a witty opening line, followed by a detailed description of the particular season hanging over Colorado (and subsequently her garden); then a summary of her life's current events, only briefly touching on the subject of her health which is always shadowed by a cheery update on my little cousins. Everything is finely laced with humor and compassion, and the letters always end with a kind of, "Must go--sending my love, Grandma." Sometimes she includes articles clipped from newspapers, comic strips, or bizarre trinkets such as buttons in the envelope with her letter.
Today I received my very first e-mail from Grandma. I'm living in France now, and while any communication from this woman feels like a winning lotto ticket to me, an e-mail simply wasn't the same. The words meant just as much to me yet the standardized font in place of her elegant script didn't galvanize my senses in the same way. I wanted to smell hazelnut coffee from the threads of stationary, and feel the smoothness of her hands through the waves of her words, each character gracefully dancing into the next; but my computer didn't offer me that kind of nostalgic invigoration.
I was still grateful to receive word from Grandma, even if digitally. I was still moved to a warm, teary-eyed state, especially at the conclusion of her message: "Sweet One, I will try to write [as in pen and paper] soon. I think of you often and send you my love."
In not-so-short, please remember this: The relatively cold interfaces of technology are extraordinary, efficient, convenient, affordable, and without a doubt enabling the world to do great things. Still, our human senses remain the vessels to our hearts. Nothing is so personal as material you've handled, embedded your scent into, and spent time preparing.
So go on, then--send me some mail to smell.
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| Grandma and I shopping for new glasses. |
I know I haven't sent you a letter yet, but don't worry it will be worth the wait! TRUST MEEEEEE. I got some plans brewing. best blog on this one more!
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