My Post Office Box (P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816) continues to be a source of inspiration, comfort and love for me, it has become such a cherished ritual in my life. There are letters waiting for me there every day, sometimes small boxes filled with fabric for Maria.This morning, Maria and I sat down to read some letters. She was in tears, I was close. I am grateful for this daily connection to goodness, humanity and community.
The first letter was anonymous, it was in a plain envelope and and hand-written (above) on white lined paper. “Dear Jon,” the author wrote, “your blog is a ray of hope and sunshine, every day. Thank you for your insight and your wit, for your clear eyes and full heart. This is my voluntary contribution for 2016. A Long Time Reader…”
Thank you back, that is a humbling message to get.
Outside of my life, I am not blind to the anger and hatred and division often raging in the world, it is so sad and disturbing. Even Pope Francis can’t seem to avoid being a target of it. To get these messages, to be mindful of the steps people have to take to get their money (many $5 and $10 bills), write and send their letters, lick the envelope. I timed it today, it takes three seconds to write a cruel or angry message on Facebook, it takes a few minutes to write a letter, put it in an envelope, wrap some dollars in paper, get it to the mailbox or the post office.
Perhaps that is the difference.
The letters are not easy or instant, they take thought and work.
They are a quilt, a tapestry of the good in people, of their patience and their generosity of spirit.
Could you imagine, dear readers, what this means to me – to us – sitting here on this beautiful cold winter morning with a cup of tea and Maria, feeling the connection and appreciation of so many people from so far away? Can you imagine, good reader, what this would mean to any writer, who lives for this with his words?
A woman from Oregon sent Maria a $10 bill so she could buy a cup of coffee at the Round House Cafe? “Take Jon if you wish, or one of the good witches,” she suggested.
Deb Bates wrote me from a small town in South Caroline. “I started this card at Thanksgiving time, then I messed up the envelope and didn’t send it ‘cuz’ it wasn’t “perfect.” I am thankful each day for the ability to read your words and see the awesome pictures. You’re a treasure to me and that’s why (for the lst time since I was 10 years old and sent Donny Osmond some cash) I am sending $ through the mail. And there was $25 inside.
It felt like a million to me, and it marks the first time I have ever been compared to Donny Osmond. Thanks, Deb, you are a treasure to me. Your message was beyond perfect.
The messages are often simple and brief, many are longer, typed out or hand-written over several pages. There are all kinds of cards, photos, images. I feel I know these people, it is as if I am sitting here having coffee with them, which is the same way they feel about me, and what a great compliment that is.
In careful handwriting, Fred send me a $5 bill and message: “Love your photos and e-mail.” Enough said.I had the feeling this was a hard-earned letter and hard-earned money.
It is not, of course, necessary to send me money, the letters are quite a gift. Letters are not e-mails, they are not Facebook messages, they can never be replaced by them any more than books can be completely replaced by e-books. We change, we grow, we learn, but we are best when we connect with one another on a human and personal level. That is something we all need, and I think I had mourned it and given up on it until my Post Office Box.
That is what we need, that is what we seek, that is what we can give. My letter writers are generous to send me money, but their true gifts come from their good hearts and souls. They make me feel worthwhile, they make me feel what I do is worthwhile, they tell me that there must be parts of me that are good to deserve to get messages like this.
(P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816).