Library daffodils

April is National Letter Writing Month, and yesterday I finally wrote a letter to M, with whom I’ve (sporadically) corresponded since November, 2016, when she took a break from social media. I’d last written M in February, soon after we’d gotten Toivo, and her response had been sitting on my desk for months, awaiting a reply.

Spring green

It’s easy to procrastinate letter-writing; on any given day, there are so many other things demanding attention. But it’s wrong to think that jotting off a letter takes a lot of time or requires having much to say. If you keep stamps and stationery on hand, as I do, it doesn’t take long to check in with a quick note, hoping its arrival will brighten the recipient’s day just as her letters have brightened yours.

There is something serendipitous about receiving something handwritten in the mail that isn’t a bill or advertisement. This is, after all, the central premise behind the Postcards to Voters I write: in our always-connected era of email, Tweets, and texts, it feels like a gift to receive a handwritten things that took days to arrive.

I keep M’s letters in a box with my stationery: folded moments of connection to cherish. I don’t know what I’ll do with these saved letters; they aren’t momentous or particularly literary, just the scribblings of two gray ladies exchanging snippets from our everyday lives. This, of course, is precisely why I save these letters: not because they are greatly significant but because they represent a kind of considered care. Years from now when I’m an even grayer lady, I’ll have a box of pretty notecards in yellowed envelopes as a kind of proof that Someone Once Cared Enough to lick an envelope and walk to the mailbox on my behalf.

Spring leaves

As I wrote this latest note to M, I realized my blogging is also a kind of letter-writing, albeit in a different medium. Emily Dickinson described her poems as her “letter to the world, that never wrote to me,” and that describes my blogging as well. When you have a penpal, there is a particular person you imagine walking to her mailbox to find a handwritten note. When you post a blog entry, you have no idea who will receive your words: there are certain readers or commenters you might have in mind, for sure, but your words might find an audience–a receptive one, you hope–in anyone. A blog-post, in other words, is like a letter with no envelope whose address is the entire world.

When I write my Postcards to Voters, I’m mindful that bored or curious postal workers might read them: I’ve followed PostSecret long enough to know that postcards are not an entirely private medium. But just as you cherish the confidence of a trusted penpal, with the unspoken promise that what is mentioned in your letters stays in your letters, I hope my postcards (like my blog posts) will spread a spot of good cheer beyond their intended recipients.

Perhaps I’m as much like Walt Whitman as I am like Emily Dickinson. While Dickinson sent out unsolicited letters, Whitman sent out lines like spider-silk, an ephemeral and even invisible medium in perpetual search of connection.