It is written
I’ve spent the morning writing letters – real letters, hand-written letters. And I am convinced that nothing is better for the soul. Lord Byron has a great quote: “Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.” That man is speaking my language.
There is something so special, so personal, about the exchange that happens when people take the time to hand-write a note, stamp and address it, and send it physically across the miles.
When I get real mail, it feels like Christmas morning.
When I write real mail, my heart overflows.
Someday, when I’m an old woman and my great-grandchildren find my boxes of letters, they will read words written to me when I was 6-years old. And 12-years old. And in college. And in love. And heartbroken, and confused, and happy.
And should anyone come across a note that I have written and sent out, they will know a piece of my heart that cannot be conveyed in emails, or even in face-to-face conversations – because the part of me that exists in written words may be just a sliver of who I am, but it’s a sliver that is very close to my soul.
Plus, I’m really good at writing in cursive.