“Usually if you pray from the heart, you get an answer—the phone rings or the mail comes, and light gets in through the cracks, so you can see the next right thing to do. That’s all you need.”
Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts On Faith
Driving along the roads on my island, I love to see the creatively painted mailboxes. Going to get the mail is a big deal whether you are six or sixty. Who knows what might be inside. It could be a letter from your friend in Michigan, or a card from your brother, which his wife mailed, or more often advertisements. Whatever, I still enjoy the anticipation.
When I first arrived on this rock, we had route numbers instead of street names. Communication about where to find a certain house often included "in front of the purple mailbox". If you wanted to be found, not everyone did, you could make your box visually noticeable.
We had a disturbing vandal some years back. He became known as the mailbox basher. With a baseball bat he, or she, smashed the box and took the mail. Many of my friends removed their boxes and picked up mail at the Post Office. But I love my box and my mail carrier. She knows when I have good mail and honks her horn when I get a package.
Mail is real and tangible. Don't you love getting a fat letter that has two stamps. And, handwriting is a lost art these days. The curly letters or the straight up printing are both love in paper form and truly comforting. I have letters that my mother wrote to me. She had a peculiar way of writing as English was not her native tongue. She misspelled words but each sentence was perfect. The perfection came from the intention to show love; love in an envelop and love in the mailbox.
I am writing for 31 days this October about Island Life. Click here to see the other days of writing.