Life, Letters, and the Loss of The US Postal Service

It seems that the US Postal Service is in trouble. Big trouble. Some articles and news outlets say that the entire system could shut down, with a large number of closings as early as the end of this year. While snail mail is certainly taking a hit because of our ability to email most of our communications, it seems unfathomable to me that we could lose the system altogether.

I have to believe that won’t happen. There will more than likely be huge cuts, and the USPS as we know it will never be the same again. One of the proposed cuts is to end Saturday mail delivery. While I would hate to see that happen, I am willing to lose one day of distribution in order to save the service as a whole.

I may be of a dying breed, but I love sending and receiving true mail—in my mailbox. Although I admit that I don’t write the long letters that I used to, I do love sending greeting cards. There is something special about getting a real greeting card on your birthday…there always has been. But now, it is even more special as we all shortcut and wish our friends a Happy Birthday via Facebook or by sending an e-card. Most of the time, I go to the mailbox expecting bills or junk mail, and sometimes get the surprise treat of a card. Even the bills I once received in the mail have become few and far between as electronic billing takes hold. That is a good thing. I am all for saving trees. But I can’t let myself believe that the day is coming when there won’t be a mailbox to go to each day.

I think back to all the years of letter writing I have behind me. At the end of my senior year in high school, I met my first real boyfriend. He was already in college in a city about an hour away. We were able to see each other on weekends, and began writing letters in between visits. There was something magical about seeing him on a Sunday, and the next day, coming home from school to a letter waiting for me, his handwriting recognizable to me immediately on the outside of the envelope. Even though I had just seen him, I had the words he had written the week before, expressing his feelings on a random college afternoon. I kept his letters in a shoebox, and added to the stack, carefully preserving the creases in the stationery each time.

Then, he went home for the summer, all the way to Maine, and the real letter writing began. We both ran up huge phone bills that summer, but the letters never stopped. Phone calls were fleeting and precious, but his letters were lasting and permanent, and carried the added value of being there for me to read again and again.

As happens with many first loves, ours didn’t last. But our letters did. For years, when I would come across them, I would start to throw them away, but I couldn’t part with them. Through other relationships and more letters and mementos, his letters stayed in the box—a little patchwork piece of time in my life, frozen in tattered envelopes with a New England postmark.

As the years passed, and through several moves to other states, and across the country, I kept what I called “the boyfriend box”. Filled with letters and keepsakes from my past relationships, it was like a time capsule of my life- the love and loss, the lessons and memories, the goodbyes and heartbreak. Sometimes I would be unpacking or organizing and I would come across the box and revisit times gone by. More often than not, I would laugh at my innocence, my mistakes, and my choices. But it was all bittersweet and lovely.

A few years ago, I was in an antique shop, sorting through old photos and I came across a crumpled brown paper bag. In it was a stack of letters, yellowed with age, addressed in a lacy, fountain pen’s scrawl. I gingerly opened the first one, and after reading the first few lines, I almost turned away. The words seemed too personal, too intimate to be read by a stranger. The subject matter was not lewd or even inappropriate, it was just expressions of love, longing, and shared memories. All of the letters were from a young man in the military, obviously stationed away from his love. He wrote to her of missing her sweet smile, and holding her hand. He wrote of wanting to finish what they had started, to come back to her whole and healthy, and pick up where they left off.

Although the grammar and spelling were imperfect, to me the letters were beautiful. I asked the store clerk about the price, which seemed shockingly low to me-- mere pennies for pieces of someone’s history. I purchased them, and as I left the store, the clerk asked what I was going to do with them-- she assumed decoupage. I told her she had guessed correctly. But, really, I just couldn’t stand to leave them there. I came home and put them in my "boyfriend box", with all the other letters that were too treasured to become trash.

I still have the boyfriend box, although if I had to locate it, it might take an hour or two. The box is somewhere in another box in our garage, packed up with things that aren’t necessary to unpack, but that I still keep. 

I think about all the letters we have from one historical figure to another, or to their spouses. I think of all the precious war letters that have survived the various battles throughout the world, the letters people still cherish in their own boxes somewhere, tied with ribbon in a faded stack. Nothing can evoke an emotional reaction from me like hearing that an elderly person has kept every letter he or she wrote and received from their spouse through the years of a long marriage. All those words and memories to revisit. The choice of the stationery and the stamp. The postmarks from a well-traveled life. It can’t be replaced or recreated in electronic form.

I know the future holds a lot of changes in the way we communicate, and I am thankful for the quick exchanges of email most every day. But I will miss letters. I will miss the waiting (that I used to hate and complain about), and the race to the mailbox for the next installment with someone I care about, maybe from across the world. In a way, it is already gone. I hope we can keep some part of it going, and I am sure the nearly 600,000 employees of the United States Postal Service hope the same thing.

For that reason, though, I can’t part with the letters I have. Maybe someday, years and years and years from now, someone will be rummaging through an antique store and come across my old letters and take them home for safekeeping--for just the same reasons I did. No personal relation, no real attachment. Just to preserve a little bit of history and save the words and paper that once meant so much to someone out there.

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Just Write

I was looking back through some archived blog posts tonight, searching for inspiration actually. I love looking back one year from this day to see where I was, two years, etc—imagining where I was at that moment, what I couldn’t then see ahead of me—all with some amazing clarity, since I chose to write down so much of what I was feeling.

Before blogging, I was able to do that via my journals, but I always grew impatient when writing just for myself and often gave a shortened version of what I was dealing with, going through or experiencing at the time. I would write in a form of shorthand, knowing I understood what I was referring to and annotating.

For a long time, I had only seven followers on my blog- I remember all of their names even now. But, I was writing FOR someone; sharing things so personal that I would normally save only for my journal. But, I had to articulate things, make someone understand my warped thinking—in a sense—translate what was going on inside my head and heart for someone else to understand.

And it changed and improved my writing—actually made me a better writer. And for as long as I can remember, that is all I have wanted to be. About five years ago, I worked through a book that was supposed to help you map out your dreams, step by step, following a five year plan to get you to the place you wanted to be. What I liked about it was that five years didn’t seem unrealistic or lofty. It seemed sensible and levelheaded. I can’t count how many times I have picked up books like “Write a Novel in One Month!”, or “Quit your Job Today!”. All of that seemed so tempting, and the book flaps made it seem truly possible—even easy-- to turn a page from my current life and step into the one I really wanted. I have read stories of artists and writers who have done those things- with great success. But to me, especially being on my own and supporting myself, it was only a pipe dream, maybe a possibility if I won the lottery or came into an inheritance from some unknown relative.

So, the five year plan seemed doable. And long story short, if I had followed course, I would be working as a full-time writer right now. Maybe not a rich or famous one, but piecing my life together by one or more sources, making my living by being paid to write. And of course, hopefully making that novel I have been working on for oh, FOREVER, actually ready to submit to someone.

And then, the rest of my life took shape, blossomed actually. Nowhere in my five year plan did I see myself married, happy and living a five minute walk from the ocean. It was so clear to me looking back at the making of this five year plan, that I had undoubtedly given up on other things happening for me, things that I wanted, but just didn’t think were going to become a reality. I am so, so thankful that I was wrong. I am in a place now that brings me such peace with who I am, and with all of my personal struggles. I am loved by someone who knows everything about me, who I am completely myself with, who knows my deepest flaws, and my hidden dreams, and sees me as I have wanted to be seen. I am with someone who has made my life. He also wants me to have everything I want; wants desperately for my dreams to come true.

So, this is a great place to be. I wouldn’t change a thing. I have realized, however, that one of the reasons I was such a prolific writer for the last few years (even if it was only for seven people), was because I was on my own so much—quite frankly—I had the time. I had more time than I knew what to do with. More time than I wanted alone. And loneliness, for me, also breeds creativity. I have a new normal now. From this place of happiness, and a full life of real experiences, dinners with my husband, walks on the beach with our dog, time with our friends, weekend trips and plans—I have to carve out time to write—and at times, it seems almost selfish. If I say I need to write, my sweet husband will drop everything and rearrange time for me to have whatever I need. But, I have never been one to “plan” when I write. Things come to me, and I have to (like now at 5:28am for instance) strike while the iron is hot.

So, in looking back at my blog, and in seeing my tote bag full of the current Writer’s Market and a few (very dated) writer’s magazines, I realize I haven’t been writing nearly as much as I did a year ago, and not nearly as much as I want to--and definitely not enough to get me anywhere near my five year plan. And yesterday morning, when I woke up and looked across the room at my laptop and my red notebook of ideas I keep with me all the time, I thought—Why am I pressuring myself? No one is judging me; no one is giving me a deadline, I don’t HAVE to do this.

And then, this quote came across my feed on twitter: “Real writers are those who want to write, need to write, have to write.”- Robert Penn Warren.

I stared at those words, and read them again slowly and thought—yes. It almost isn’t a choice. No matter what success I achieve, no matter what the results, I want to write, need to write, have to write. It is as much a part of me as anything else.

I love how one quote can put words to my heart, and motivate me…one simple string of words that lights a fire somehow. I am a quote collector, with an arrangement of sticky notes with quotes meaningful to me that decorate my office and home. And every now and then, one comes along at just the right moment.

A friend sent me a note a few weeks ago reminding me that I needed to JUST WRITE. Stop worrying about if it was worthy, or perfect, or terribly interesting. Just write- put it out there. I DO worry about blog posts, especially, wanting the content to mean something, be true to myself, to give that feeling that I love—that I get when I read other blogger’s posts.

But, she is right-I need to JUST WRITE. It is really how I got started in blogging. Writing about whatever I wanted, truly thinking out loud. So, here’s to finding my way back to that place, in this wonderful “new normal”, where I live now, that five years ago wasn’t even in the plan.

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The Suitcase

Everyone experiences heartbreak. I can't say mine is worse or less painful than any other, I only know how it affects me. And last year, I experienced the worst heartbreak of my life. To make a long, complicated story as short as possible: I fell in love with a man I had known for two years, a dear friend, who lived and worked in San Francisco. We had talked and written and become so close during that two years that being together felt more like the next step than a risky venture. We met in person, were mad for each other from moment one, and after a few months, we decided I would move to San Francisco. We looked at places to live, made plans for a life together, and were both giddy at the thoughts of it all. And then, in the most cruel way imaginable, I found out he had been living with another woman the entire time we made all these plans, the entire time we had written to each other as friends, the entire time we were seeing each other.

After I found out, he abruptly cut off all communication with me, became someone I instantly did not know, and never, ever showed a flicker of remorse or sorrow. I fell apart in ways I am embarrassed to think of now. I completely lost my footing and my confidence.

A great deal of my sorrow was just over the fact that one person could do such a thing to another. Especially to someone who had shown them only kindness and love. And WHY? Why had he drawn me into his life, made these plans, while LIVING with someone? How could I be so stupid? What signs had I missed? Why would someone treat me this way?

I needed answers, and never got them. I wanted to understand how this could happen, but there was no explanation.

For almost a year now, I have felt like someone had pushed me off of a cliff, and I was continuously falling, falling...dreading the impact at the bottom, but never hitting it. Just staying in this never ending, horrible free fall, waiting for it to be over.

When I came home from that trip, my last trip to see him, I put my suitcase in my extra bedroom and ignored it. I felt that if I opened it, the pain would be too much to bear. Seeing the things I had packed for what I thought would be a wonderful, special trip. The things I bought while I was there, before it all came apart. I couldn't bear it. And day after day, I let the suitcase sit there, haunting me.

I replaced all the toiletries, my curling iron, and an electric toothbrush just so I wouldn't have to open it. Weeks went by and then months, until I was in another season, and didn't miss or need anything inside it.

And then, a few weeks ago, I moved to a new apartment. As I carried random boxes, lamps and other items out of the spare bedroom, the suitcase stood in the corner. I realized it had been almost a year since I left it in that same spot, in that same position. My heart hurt remembering how it felt coming home that night.

I looked at this bag, and thought of just adding it to the trash pile outside. But I remembered a few things inside it that I had loved. The French shoes I had bought in San Francisco that made me feel as though I was walking on cobblestones instead of concrete. The little black and white dress that made me feel beautiful, even sexy? The journal that I had kept for years before meeting him, knowing him. I took the handle in my hand and loaded the suitcase in the back of my car.

A few nights later, I finally screwed up my courage and opened it. The first thing that greeted me was the scent of the perfume I had worn, that I loved, but hadn't worn since then. I was determined not to cry, but it happened before I could think. I wept. For a moment, I thought again of just closing it and trashing everything. But I made myself keep going. I found the French shoes, the little black and white dress, my favorite bathing suit, my journal, jewelry I adore that I had almost forgotten about, clothing I feel my best in, and some writing I had done-some short stories- that are some of my most excellent pieces. I sat there with these things all around me, still in tears.

And slowly, I began to replace the things from the suitcase in my life. I wore the shoes to work, brought the perfume out of hibernation, and washed all the clothes and returned them to my closet. My necklaces, bracelets and rings returned to my mirrored jewelry box, and the writing to my desk with my other work. I performed the suitcase cleaning ritual I used to do after my business trips, vacuuming the whole suitcase, spritzing some Febreeze and returning it to my closet.

I was fine with the contents out, but the suitcase itself bothered me. I couldn't look at it without thinking of the pain of that last trip, the pain that took me a year to open. So, I tossed the suitcase in the back of my car, figuring I would happen upon a dumpster while I was out.

And then, while driving around for work, in a shopping center where I was visiting a potential client, I saw two women behind a table with containers and stacks of odd items surrounding them. A sign read DONATIONS, and listed the name of a women's shelter. I returned to my car and pulled out the suitcase and quietly added it to the stacks of donations. As I walked away, I thought of some woman, starting her life over, exiting from pain, heading somewhere new and safe. I thought of her packing things in this suitcase, beginning anew-- associating this suitcase with happiness. At least that's what I hope. It seemed to clear my head and my heart.

I also know that during the time I was in love with him, before the heartbreak, that I felt more beautiful, more amazing, more everything than I had felt in a long time. And the betrayal took that away from me for awhile. During the last year, and especially in the last six months, I have realized that I was not stupid or blind, and I was not part of the betrayal. All of the things I felt --love, excitement, happiness--were all true and real. So the way I felt because of those things- beautiful, worthy, confident--had to be true, too. The only part of the equation that was false was him. I have finally separated myself out of it all, forgiven myself, stopped punishing myself, although it seemed to take forever to get to this point.

And it's funny, I think in a way that the suitcase in my house, however hidden, was almost like he was still around. Breaking it open, taking the parts that were the best of myself out of it, and then doing something positive with it freed me. Maybe it sounds dramatic, maybe no one can understand, but it makes perfect sense to me. And it's been almost a year since I could say that about anything.

Artwork by Paul Compton, for this and more of his work, click here.

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