Vox Meditantis

Ranger Cottage, Kinnikinnick Road, Boulder, Colorado
15th October, 1938

My Dearest Nellie,

The autumn light slants through my cottage window as I write these words, casting the familiar shadows of evening across the pages before me. There is something about this particular quality of light—golden, yet touched with the melancholy of shorter days—that brings your presence so vividly to mind that I find myself listening for the rustle of your skirts in the next room, though nearly two thousand miles separate us still.

Your last letter arrived on Tuesday morning, and I confess I carried it unopened in my breast pocket throughout the entire day’s survey, like a talisman against the growing chill of these Rocky Mountain mornings. There is a peculiar torment in knowing that your thoughts, your laughter, your gentle reproaches about my tendency towards solitude, all rest there against my heart whilst remaining sealed from my eager eyes. Yet there is comfort in it too—the weight of connection, the promise of communion delayed but certain.

When I finally broke the seal by lamplight, settling into the worn leather chair that has been my evening companion for more years than I care to count, I was struck anew by that sensation which has become as familiar to me as the weight of my surveying instruments: profound gratitude. Not merely thankfulness, my dear Nellie, but something far deeper—a gratitude that seems to emanate from the very core of my being, radiating outward until it encompasses not only this unexpected gift of your affection, but the entire architecture of circumstance that brought us together.

How extraordinary it seems now that Dr. Finch’s casual mention of “a lady librarian in Hartford who shares your passion for astronomical observation” should have proved the catalyst for such transformation. At fifty-three, I had grown comfortable with the assumption that the deeper chambers of the heart were permanently shuttered, that whatever capacity I possessed for tender feeling had been sublimated entirely into my work with rock formations and mineral deposits. I had made my peace with solitude, or so I believed.

Yet here I sit, my geological charts pushed aside to make room for writing paper, my evening’s planned reading of Lyell’s Principles abandoned in favour of this correspondence that has become as essential to my daily rhythm as breath itself. You have awakened something in me, Nellie, that I scarce knew existed—not merely romantic feeling, though that burns bright enough to rival the kerosene lamp by which I write, but a profound appreciation for the intricate machinery of human connection.

Your description of the autumn preparations at the Atheneum—the way you’ve organised the harvest poetry readings, your gentle coaxing of Mrs. Winship to share her late husband’s war verses—fills me with such admiration that I find myself speaking your name aloud to the empty rooms of my cottage. There is something magnificent in your ability to draw forth the hidden treasures of human experience, to create spaces where souls might meet across the barriers that so often divide us. In a world that grows daily more fractured, more uncertain, you stand as architect of connection, builder of bridges that span not merely geographical distances but the more treacherous gulfs between heart and heart.

This brings me to the second theme that runs through my thoughts of you like a rich vein of ore through granite: protection. I know this may seem a curious sentiment to express across such vast distance, when I cannot so much as offer you my arm to steady your step or my coat against an evening’s chill. Yet the feeling persists, growing stronger with each letter, each shared confidence, each glimpse you afford me into the daily texture of your life.

When you write of the increasing tensions in Hartford, of the young men who speak too boldly of European conflicts and the possibility of America’s involvement, of the way uncertainty seems to seep into even the most innocent conversations, I find myself gripping my pen with such force that the knib leaves deeper impressions upon the page. I think of you walking home alone through streets that grow darker earlier each evening, of you managing not only your own household but shouldering the emotional burdens of your library patrons, many of whom treat you as confidante as much as librarian.

There is something almost primitive in this protective instinct, Nellie, something that transcends the rational boundaries I have spent a lifetime constructing. I find myself studying weather reports from your region with an intensity usually reserved for geological surveys, imagining the texture of Hartford rain against your windows, wondering if your furnace draws properly, if your larder is well-stocked against winter’s approach. These concerns may seem trivial, even presumptuous, yet they occupy an increasingly significant portion of my waking thoughts.

I have begun to dream of bringing you West, though I hardly dare voice such hopes even on paper. The landscape here possesses a quality that I believe would appeal to your romantic nature—not the gentle, cultivated beauty of New England, but something wilder, more immediate. The mountains stand as constant witnesses to forces so ancient and powerful that human troubles, however pressing, assume their proper proportion. There is healing in such perspective, and protection of a different sort in these vast expanses where a soul might expand to match the grandeur of its surroundings.

Yet I am equally prepared to journey East, to abandon these familiar peaks if it means securing your happiness and safety. The railroad has hinted at opportunities in their Connecticut operations, positions that would utilise my geological expertise whilst placing me within reach of your beloved library, your community of friends, the life you have so carefully constructed from the ashes of loss.

Perhaps this reveals the true nature of my protective feelings—not the desire to shield you from all of life’s vicissitudes, for I have learned enough of your character to know you would chafe against such restrictions, but rather the profound wish to stand beside you as you meet whatever challenges await. To add my strength to yours, my devotion to your causes, my companionship to your solitary evenings.

The darkness has deepened whilst I write these words, and the familiar silhouette of the Rockies has dissolved into the general blackness of night. Yet I feel illuminated, Nellie, by the warmth of expressing these sentiments, by the knowledge that tomorrow will bring the possibility of your reply, by the growing certainty that whatever path we choose to walk, we need not walk it alone.

With gratitude beyond expression and protection offered freely,

Your devoted correspondent,

Charles

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.