It wasn’t too many weeks ago when I stood in the living room of my father’s house, sifting through the tangible remains of my childhood – and the lives of my parents and brother. There was a lot to go through and much of it was discard-able. But as we continued to uncover layer upon layer, I discovered a box full of letters from my father. My mother had saved dozens of them. She must have collected them together before she passed.
In it were letters exchanged between my mom and dad while they were dating, their long distance relationship propelling them to write – often daily – as they lived apart. The letters from my father included dreams, fears, recounts of moments in nature, the hum drum of work life, and always expressions of love and longing. They were faded, tattered, and some were even unsent. Pages had been lost. Words had disappeared as time had passed, and sometimes it was clear that he simply scrounged up a scrap of paper to jot a quick poem or sketch on because that’s all he had available.
But it didn’t matter whether it was beautiful stationary, the backs of telephone company letterhead, or what I can only imagine were paper wrappings for fish from the cannery in Alaska.
Each paper I touched; each word that had been lovingly put down and sent, was touched by each of their hands, and sometimes their tears. And it didn’t matter if they were beautiful or ornate. In fact, the ones that were rough and torn, crumpled and smeared. Those were the ones that felt the most alive and seemed to have the most to say.
The letters from my father offered me a snapshot of their lives frozen in time – their troubles and their joys. It felt as if I had a living history of a paramount moment in time that would inevitably impact the rest of their lives together… and undoubtedly, mine. My mom talked about her need to be a mother; to nurture children for a living and to change the world through them. My dad talked about his passion to become an artist or musician – to follow his creative heart. They hashed out how to weave a life together while also following their dreams, and they told one another that their dreams must include one another.
I had been given so much more than a time machine. The letters from my father acted as a portal into my parents hearts and minds at a time that I was never able to know them, and it filled out their lives in a way that no other tangible remain could.
And this is why I write.
It’s why I find such quiet passion for letter writing – to my friends and family and to my husband and children. It’s why I leave hand written thank you notes on the backs of receipts at restaurants, and it’s why I always carry a pen… just in case. It’s why I’m so enchanted with small scraps of paper and it’s why I too have boxes full of letters and snippets of life recorded on paper. It’s why I am here – on this digital scrap of paper – quietly ensuring that we remember to savor the little things in life. Because in the end, the end up being what matters most.
Write. Share. Savor. And know that with each mark you put down, someone out there will find comfort in knowing more of your story.
If you’re looking for some tips on how to begin a letter writing practice, subscribe for access to my S.E.R.V. library of downloadable resources including 5 Tips for Beginning Letter Writers.
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