Jean Allen was at church in North Carolina one recent Sunday and each person in attendance received an envelope that contained a small amount a small amount of money, and a blank note card to use to report to the congregation what they had decided to do with the unexpected cash. It was not a gift, the instructions said the money was to be used for creative energy to “pay it forward” in a way that fits the mission to:
“Celebrate life in all of its joy and mystery; inspire journeys of truth and meaning; and Engage in practice and service for love, just and peace.”
“It took only moments for me to decide where it should go,” wrote Jean in her beautiful letter to P.O. Box 205 (Cambridge, N.Y., 12816). “I can think of no enterprise that better embodies the above criteria than your blog, which I have been following for many years now.” Enclosed was the crisp new $2 bill she had been given in church, now in a place of honor in my wallet, to be carried around with me and to remind me what I am doing with my life and work. Thank you Jean, I do not quite have the words to say what that message meant to me.
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A letter from Iris Hoffert in Ocala, Florida contained $200 for my Kickstarter Project, “Talking To Animals.” “I don’t belong in this century,” she wrote, “I tried Kickstarter but could not quite get it to work. Enclosed please find my contribution to “Talking To Animals.” I look forward to the compilation of your efforts.” Iris did not need to send me that money, and she could easily have been discouraged by her technical troubles. That she was not meant a great deal more to me than the money, and the money meant a great deal.
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Jan Herbert from Oswego, N.Y., sent a $25 check, “seed money” for my new camera, in a card bordered by ink and designs. “You and Maria are such an inspiration to me – to live life to its fullest potential. God Bless You All.” And you, Jan.
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– Virginia Sasaki wrote me from Los Alamos, California, she included three $1 bills – “A Humble Thank You”, she wrote – and this quite gorgeous word poem:
“One morning upon reading your blogs,
My hand began to move with pen in place,
“Oh Goodness,” I said, “I’ve made them both a new face.”
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And Eunice Dowd wrote me a three-page typewritten letter chronicling the very powerful story of her life, growing up in Tennessee, hoping to buy a farm with her husband after her younger sister was killed in an airplane crash. The farm was a dream fulfilled for Eunice and her husband, bought Ellie, a border collie. They bought a beautiful small farm – 7.5 acres – it was the perfect place place for the dog, and they worked on it happily for five years. Her husband was suddenly stricken with cancer and died. He was 54. “It was as if a wrecking ball had shattered everything,” she wrote. The lovely little farm had become bittersweet, a dark, lonely and grieving place. She moved back to the suburbs. Eunice is 67 now, loving alone with Ellie, her border collie, a 17-year-old cat and a parakeet. Ellie is nine years old now, “she has her border collie quirks, providing quite a bit of humor to my life. I hope I have done right by her.”
I imagine you have, Eunice, I have no doubt of it.
This, she added, “brings me to my latest connection with you, Mr. Katz, and perhaps the best one. I have loved your photography Most all of it, and was particularly interested in the close-ups you do of flowers. When I settled back into the suburbs, I pulled up the carpet in one bedroom, and painted the subfloor, so I could make a mess if I wanted. It is filled with my paints and easels, none of which I have had time to use very much, due to my mother’s illness.” After her mother died, Eunice received a small inheritance, she bought a Canon T3i with an 18-35 mm lens.
I’d like to see your photos, Eunice. Your creativity is the spark of life, it burns in you through the joys, crises and mysteries of life.
“Thank you for the inspiration from your life with the animals,” she wrote, “and your love with Maria. I also thank you for taking the time to hear my story.”
Eunice, I thank you for your inspiration and for taking the time to send my your story. The creative spark shines through life and death.
The letters from my Post Office Box bring me daily wonders and treasures, laughter and tears, affirmation and connection, they are radioactive jewels of life, love, and the meaning of being human. As a writer, I am reminded again and again that letters are so different from e-mails and texts, they come from the heart, they are so real, they are the language of the soul.
– You can write us at Bedlam Farm, c/o Post Office Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. It is not necessary to send me money, I appreciate those of you who are committed to connecting in this way, I understand it and accept it in the spirit in which it is sent.