(Remembering) How to Write a Letter
“On exhaustion, snow, and sending something imperfect,”
Yesterday, upon arriving in the parking lot of a small business I had intended to visit, I felt exhausted — like I couldn’t walk in and mutter hello. The weight of the day left me wordless. We pulled out of the parking lot, me and Pearl, and I noticed a new-to-us trail sign and pulled into the snow-covered lot where a few other trucks sat. It was warm, despite the snow. Uncoated, we began our slippy hike.
The trail was unseeable — I followed footprints with rope in the sole and the sudden big-footed and barefooted tracks of a hopscotcher. Two lefts, two rights, then one of each side by side and wide — a big stopping.
As I began to feel more confident with my smooth-soled footfalls, my pocketed hands felt the pen and journal tucked away, and my thoughts drifted to letters. So many letters sent and unsent, the accumulation of both, and the fear and over-thinking of not getting them right. About five years ago in December, just after my mom died, (and just after we found Pearl), I received a letter in the mail from a writer and stranger with whom I was embarking upon a project. It was bewildering — the handwritten name in the upper left-hand corner, the signature. And the warmth. I wrote a lot of letters in response but sent none.
Pearl and I walked until I was lured by what looked like an untrodden path and she was suddenly overcome with the zoomies. I could barely contain her. We walked wobbly on the slippy snow until she found deer tracks to follow — the comfort of someone else. It was then I realised we were lost. Of course she’d known!
Is that when it started? The writing and the not sending? Writing to a writer and the feeling of not good enough? Oh, the ruminating!
I’ve been bumbling about, leaning into this unhealthy uncertainty.
In our lostness, we were hooked by clawed and grasping thorns of multi-flora rose and snagged by the red brambled arches popping out of the snow. Blast these ever-greens and ever-reds. Though not all that’s green in winter is unwanted. Last night I dug out vibrant sprigs of rosemary and added them to our dinner.
I sent a letter this week that upon reflecting I cringed at sending. It is so easy to text, to type, to go. To worry briefly but the worry in the deep sea of digital screen stuff is a thing to be swallowed. But paper — oh the agony of being stupid on paper! and smudgy.
Comfort found in footsteps. She isn’t a forest dog anymore. We’re found, Mama. I’ve found us. And then I realized they were our footprints. We’d been here before. And now we are chasing a Heffalump! A Heffalump!
New letter please.
In my letter box I found a stack of written and unsent letters. And a stack of letters unresponded too. I stuff the started letters into an envelope and put a few stamps on it. As for the unresponded to, that will take time.
Why the paralysis when there is potential for magic and heart beating off trail?
No one is upset to receive a letter I think, and if they are, they are forgetting.
I am nothing without pretend.
I’m the only one I can be sure.
Sending lots of letters today — as they are, and as they will be.
ps: I did end up visiting Ugmonk — and what a pleasure it was to chatter away into the early winter nightfall.
I really wish I received more letters, but maybe I need to write more letters first…
So moved by this. Thank you for reaching into my lostness and now knowing I’m not totally alone.