It's not where I thought I'd go, as I read your thoughts, as you wandered through the details...it's not where I imagined you'd take me, as my own memories of that crash-news came rushing out, and thought progressions sorta pre-arranged themselves in my mind---
I thank you for those slowed-down moments, of hands holding so tightly to other hands, and the way you unfolded the seconds into longer and longer minutes...
I was there because you put me there---and thank you, thank you for somehow leading me to understand that something of this scene is my life, however many seconds or minutes or years I have, crazily tumbling forward. And what notes have been left me? Will I take time, will I notice? Am I searching to find them? And what notes am I leaving, or not leaving?
You wrote:
"The whole thing right there. In the heart of a fireball."
They held each other’s hand like children and said thank you."
Right then I stopped wondering what the pilot said, and began to wonder what my life is saying---what I love yous and thank yous from others have I ignored or missed? What creative I love yous and thank yous are still to be said?
The letter...all of us searching for ourselves...
Out of all the things you could've chosen, I love the things you chose to name---like a poem you are still writing...
Thank you for this warm and generous note. I’m on vacation for a few days and have been slow to rise in the mornings and slower to even hit the ❤️thank you reply button. I do mean writing these notes literally as you’ll see but I think we are leaving them figuratively all the time. Your note to me here is one. My response to you is one. Our best selves I believe leave them when they turtle 🐢 out into the world. My best self, whose appearance is spotty at best in the regular world, is more accessible to me here. You may know the Love Languages idea. Like many of us here on Substack “Writing” is our love language. It’s where the figurative business of love just happens to take place on the page. I have made a HUGE attempt in my life to leave words to my children in particular, as did my parents for my brother and me. Lots coming on that if this theme connects with you.
I’m really rambling on tapping away in the dark of a heavily curtained vacation on Friday morning room. 😂 my wife is going to snap at me if I don’t turn the brightness down.
Last thought: I take deep comfort that it is possible to hold someone’s hand and say it’s been a good life in those circumstances. I don’t know if I have what it takes to do that, but it’s a balm to know it is even possible. Those handholders are heros, too. My heros certainly.
Although they’d be confused at the misunderstanding.
Yes---I spent quite a while after, opening up to the figurative letters we write and leave lying around in the open, or tuck away. I like knowing that someone may look closely and discover the less obvious.
Love the 'leaving words' tradition you are continuing.
Yes---my heroes, too.
And I wonder, would I be the steadying RN person, or the terrified child---likely both...
Thanks for the link---taking my time with it, already have laughed out loud, smiled a lot, and teared up... I'll reply more later...
I'm back to just say "The Christmas Letters" read was a trip---what a peek into your heart. I have so much admiration for your tradition...beyond that, you let your readers so close in to your process---it was tender, hilarious, real-lifey and vulnerable. I only wish my father would have left me letters like that, out of intensity-of-love like that, to savor, cry over, laugh at, or hold tight. I only have one scrap of his writing: a few words about some flicker feathers he found in our backyard once while visiting. He stuck those beautiful red-shafted feathers in a slit between the porch roof and its support---and I left them there forever, until we moved. I used to brush my fingers over them, "Hey, Daddy...".
Now they are in my notebook, next to his few sentences about the Red-shafterd flicker. I have no literal notes he wrote but that, but my heart holds many many hints, and lots of knowings. Love-truths come soaring toward me once in a while, then fly on...
Arrested. Throwing up my hands now. Lines arranging themselves into my synapses, never to be forgotten. “A way of pulling out a few specific colors from the white light of gratitude, of orienting the fragile prisms of their hearts.” And the end. The end! What have you done?!
This was a perspective on tragedy I've not seen before and it's astonishingly beautiful and poignant, Adam. Breathtaking.
🙏💙
It's not where I thought I'd go, as I read your thoughts, as you wandered through the details...it's not where I imagined you'd take me, as my own memories of that crash-news came rushing out, and thought progressions sorta pre-arranged themselves in my mind---
I thank you for those slowed-down moments, of hands holding so tightly to other hands, and the way you unfolded the seconds into longer and longer minutes...
I was there because you put me there---and thank you, thank you for somehow leading me to understand that something of this scene is my life, however many seconds or minutes or years I have, crazily tumbling forward. And what notes have been left me? Will I take time, will I notice? Am I searching to find them? And what notes am I leaving, or not leaving?
You wrote:
"The whole thing right there. In the heart of a fireball."
They held each other’s hand like children and said thank you."
Right then I stopped wondering what the pilot said, and began to wonder what my life is saying---what I love yous and thank yous from others have I ignored or missed? What creative I love yous and thank yous are still to be said?
The letter...all of us searching for ourselves...
Out of all the things you could've chosen, I love the things you chose to name---like a poem you are still writing...
And you sure have a way with last lines.
Thank you for this warm and generous note. I’m on vacation for a few days and have been slow to rise in the mornings and slower to even hit the ❤️thank you reply button. I do mean writing these notes literally as you’ll see but I think we are leaving them figuratively all the time. Your note to me here is one. My response to you is one. Our best selves I believe leave them when they turtle 🐢 out into the world. My best self, whose appearance is spotty at best in the regular world, is more accessible to me here. You may know the Love Languages idea. Like many of us here on Substack “Writing” is our love language. It’s where the figurative business of love just happens to take place on the page. I have made a HUGE attempt in my life to leave words to my children in particular, as did my parents for my brother and me. Lots coming on that if this theme connects with you.
I’m really rambling on tapping away in the dark of a heavily curtained vacation on Friday morning room. 😂 my wife is going to snap at me if I don’t turn the brightness down.
Last thought: I take deep comfort that it is possible to hold someone’s hand and say it’s been a good life in those circumstances. I don’t know if I have what it takes to do that, but it’s a balm to know it is even possible. Those handholders are heros, too. My heros certainly.
Although they’d be confused at the misunderstanding.
https://www.adamnathan.com/p/the-christmas-letters
Yes---I spent quite a while after, opening up to the figurative letters we write and leave lying around in the open, or tuck away. I like knowing that someone may look closely and discover the less obvious.
Love the 'leaving words' tradition you are continuing.
Yes---my heroes, too.
And I wonder, would I be the steadying RN person, or the terrified child---likely both...
Thanks for the link---taking my time with it, already have laughed out loud, smiled a lot, and teared up... I'll reply more later...
I'm back to just say "The Christmas Letters" read was a trip---what a peek into your heart. I have so much admiration for your tradition...beyond that, you let your readers so close in to your process---it was tender, hilarious, real-lifey and vulnerable. I only wish my father would have left me letters like that, out of intensity-of-love like that, to savor, cry over, laugh at, or hold tight. I only have one scrap of his writing: a few words about some flicker feathers he found in our backyard once while visiting. He stuck those beautiful red-shafted feathers in a slit between the porch roof and its support---and I left them there forever, until we moved. I used to brush my fingers over them, "Hey, Daddy...".
Now they are in my notebook, next to his few sentences about the Red-shafterd flicker. I have no literal notes he wrote but that, but my heart holds many many hints, and lots of knowings. Love-truths come soaring toward me once in a while, then fly on...
Thank you for sharing this.
Arrested. Throwing up my hands now. Lines arranging themselves into my synapses, never to be forgotten. “A way of pulling out a few specific colors from the white light of gratitude, of orienting the fragile prisms of their hearts.” And the end. The end! What have you done?!
You are the first to ever mention the prism. 🙏 Thanks for bringing your energy to my work and to this little community here.
There was a lot (a lot) that took my breath away in here, but nothing more than "this creative world of I love you and thank you". Bravo, friend.
🙏