My 9 year old daughter has joined the Scouts. One minute she was in the car and the next we had pulled over half way up a mountain and she was stomping off to join her troop with 40kg of orange T-shirts and mess kit strapped to her back, calling back over her shoulder, “I love you. But you can go now.”
The camp is 10 days long, and there is no contact. No Skype, no time-limited calls from pay-phones, and no emails or texts obviously. But we are allowed to write to her, and she is allowed to write to us too, should she have the time and inclination. She has been equipped with SAEs (remember those?) and pencils. And a sharpener.
I have no idea if she will miss us – I suspect she will a little, 10 days is a long time when you’re that age – but I’m already missing her. I’m used to us being apart when I have to leave home for a few days to go to work, but I do get to speak to her every day, and anyway it’s somehow different when I am still here and she is gone. The mess she has left randomly around the house – drawing books on the kitchen table, sandals in the courtyard, discarded pyjamas on the bathroom floor – is much less annoying than if she were here for me to ask her to pick it up. Her absence has given it a sentimental value. And so I have already written my first letter to her (see below). Actually, I confess that I did also write one the day we packed her rucksack. While she hopped about fizzing with excitement, I was writing to tell her how I hoped she would have a brilliant time, and posting it so it would arrive after her first couple of nights away.
When I was younger I wrote letters all the time. To absent parents, to penpals, to friends I missed in the holidays, to people I saw every day. They provided a moment of concentration, of catharsis, of closeness in absence, of amusement and crafting. I loved writing letters in a way I don’t love writing emails. And in putting pen to paper today I realised that I still love the way that you have to let the writing flow. There’s no going back to delete bits, and there’s no spell check, but you can express yourself in handwriting in a way that type doesn’t permit. You can sidle off up the side of the page or add in drawings or flourishes. You can be more authentically yourself than in a well-crafted email. It’s closer to speaking than typing, except you can hold it and re-read it, if you were that way inclined.
My challenge to anyone reading this post is to get out a piece of paper right now and a pen of your choice and in one sitting write a letter to someone you miss. Maybe you’ll enjoy it too…
So, then, that’s the first day without her over with. Just nine more to go.
It’s OK, I have PLENTY of pens.