Getting the mail

I’ve sent and received dozens of emails and Facebook messages in the past week, but no written communications have been more satisfying than a four-page, handwritten letter and a homemade card and note I received in my mailbox.

They were terribly inefficient. The letter came from a Southern state, the card from the Midwest, and they were sorted, driven and flown to my local post office by numerous, anonymous people. A letter carrier in a fossil fuel-powered mail truck delivered them to the metal mailbox at the end of my driveway. From there, they were carried to the house and dropped in a wicker basket by the door, which is where I found them when I arrived home. The process from beginning to end took days. I cannot defend this long and sloppy chain of events on ecological or capitalist grounds, and the speed was turtle-like compared to the cyber alternatives, or even the telephone.

But they were such gifts. There among the bills and junk mail was something real, intended just for me, particular in its look and feel: hard-earned news from a friend. The frequency and ease of e-communications is astonishing, but their speed and scope diminish the importance of individual messages compared to hand-written pieces (or “missals,” as the late Jim Bledsoe used to call long, handwritten letters).

Cyber news is short and sweet, and often grammatically incorrect or filled with misspellings. We may choose to save these messages, but they are ephemeral, quickly obsolete. There is usually nothing to distinguish them but the moment. They all look the same, and exist in one dimension. (And let’s not forget that, like the posted letter, the delivery infrastructure of cyberspace is also hidden from us, and requires both people and energy.)

A handwritten communication is unique, with an intended audience of just one (or at most a few, a household). A mailed piece requires considerable thought and work on the part of the sender, from setting aside the time to write, organizing one’s thoughts prior to putting pen to paper (so as not to have to rewrite), addressing and stamping an envelope, then taking it to a mailbox for posting. Add the work involved in making a card, and the letter or note symbolizes a gift unrecognizable online: the gift of time. Someone is actually thinking about me—warm thoughts—and they want me to know something about their experience and what they are thinking.

The letter takes time to read, too. Its font is unique, not just to the author but to his or her emotional state, even to the choice of pen or other writing implement. The paper, the envelope, and the stamp on the envelope are distinctive (stamps are an underappreciated, miniature art genre). The handwritten letter or card arrives infrequently—it is impossible to replicate the speed of the keyboard and communicate with many people simultaneously—adding to its unique value. It is special, uncommon, to receive a letter by surface mail (now there’s a term worth unpacking!).

Like most everyone these days, I do most of my writing online, including this blog and word processing some of the snail-mail letters I write and post. But this week brought two treasured reminders in my mailbox that the time invested in sending cards and letters is always worth my effort, and handwriting should always be a part of my communications repertoire.