Pretty Paper

The way to my heart is through the US Postal Service. The most hopeful part of my day is when I check the mail, because just maybe in the midst of bills and advertisements and things addressed to people who don't even live here, I'll find an envelope with my name on it, written by the hand of a person who knows me and wants to share words with me.

Because letters are not a face-to-face, live-action event, facial expressions and body language don't contribute to the reading or writing of a letter. Words are the only conduit of information from the writer to the reader, and this is a big task. It means the content of the letter is condensed down to just the words that the writer finds valuable and most fitting for what is being described, and the things described in a letter are not arbitrary or something to talk about to bide time. No one writes a letter on accident, and that's why I like them. Even if a letter (sent or received) is weakly worded, it's still genuine and intentional.

The thing about writing letters is that it calls for stationery. And the thing about stationery is that it's pretty paper. Good stationery is intricate and colorful and endearing. When I write on good stationery, I imagine that my writing is award-worthy.

But once I've used most of a set and I only have a few sheets of stationery left, I turn into an anxious miser. I clam up and choose to not write any more letters ever, because I want all the stationery in the world to always be pretty and perfect and unblemished and mine.

If I save beautiful things like stationery for only myself, I'm depriving everyone else of it. And if I am stingy with what I decide is beautiful, I'll see fewer beautiful things outside of what I possess.

When I become an anxious miser about my stationery, it really isn't about the stationery, but about my heart. The heart wants what it wants, but the brain knows it isn't right.

Pretty things are to be shared. Stationery is meant to be used, not hoarded. I learned at Camp a lot of things, but one I think of almost daily is: die empty. It means to not be parsimonious with joy and while it acknowledges that the giving of self requires sacrifice, it requires the giving of self, and rewards it.

In terms of writing a letter, dying empty means I take stationery out of its pristine box and write on it, and that means the stationery is less perfect because my handwriting is lopsided and loopy and I cross words out often. It means I invest my heart into my words, even though it's scary to put my heart on paper. It means licking the envelope (and thus investing my saliva, too) and blowing a kiss to the mailbox before I send the letter on its way.

Letters are read and re-read. They are used as bookmarks and placed in shoeboxes under beds for long-term keeping. Letters become dog-eared and coffee-stained. Letters are cited in biographies, or they are thrown away without a second thought after being read.

Sending a letter is like saying, "I love you," in that it comes from the heart, and things that come from the heart are scary but worthwhile. Letters and "I love you" don't always get the recognition the sender may think they should, but that doesn't mean letters should never be sent or "I love you" should never be said. If no one sent letters or said "I love you," the USPS would run out of joy and color and the world would slowly turn to ice.

Love,
Lauralicious