my grandfather was a mailman. true story.

I have what is best described as an annual affair with my mail. We stopped visiting each other regularly three years ago. Now, we check in on each other, not too much so it’s always interesting. It never fails to disappoint. Thin, red packages raising up from all the shit I will have to tear in half to avoid having my identity stolen. The whole lover metaphor probably ended a sentence ago.

I don’t have a great excuse for why this is the way it is. If you know me, you probably could tell me. It probably has something to do with details or time.

I have sent exactly two letters in the last year. Two cards to two family members. And when I dropped them in the post box, I never expected for a moment to hear anything back. I even assumed they wouldn’t make it there. They held some tender matters of my heart. Writing them, I sent them on their way, wherever they land just does not matter. But I put them in a box here and somehow they end up there? That just seems nuts.

My willing mail ignorance has caused some issues.

My insurance got temporarily discontinued last year because I failed to verify that I didn’t have any other insurance. “We sent you a letter.” I discovered the error because in one of my hunt and peck sessions for a specific piece of something else, I found an unpaid bill for $700 for my daughter’s office visit.

I discovered a note from a former acquaintance that had been quietly slipped (not even mailed) onto my porch. She said she didn’t know if we still live here. Or if we wanted to be in touch. But she was interested in reconnecting. I found it four months after it landed. And then I re-lost it for another few months. I recently found it, and it’s sitting in my office near my phone. I’m working up the courage to write her and tell her what happened. Or maybe she’s better off.

I have almost thrown away tickets to Wrigley Field. Concerts. I have lapsed membership in various things. Seasonal discounts. Stuff.

I had occasion this evening to step onto the porch and search in the dark for something required. I mashed around the obvious garbage, looking for the tell-tale signs of legitimate business. And there were…all these other things in there. Notes about comings and goings over the past year. Pictures of children so much bigger even than the last time I saw them. Kind cards from family; fingerprints of time taken to send a note off on a journey, not expecting something in return, but still wanting to share something with us and with others.

We opened our mail this evening with our daughter and told her who all of it was from. And I think tomorrow, we will write our first letter together to someone.

I’m still not going to check it regularly, though.

resolute

It's never too late to wonder what might be. And imagine.

I started new behaviors before the new year. A false running start that comforts me. Exercise, eating habits, and internal promises of tranquility. It's my MO. I have been a Buddhist ten times over. A vegetarian. A regular writer.

Like most sapians, I have a long list of the things I would change. It should be noted here that the changes are not the sign of intense discontent with who I am. No, that's really not it at all. Consider it a heightened awareness of the world and the people in it, and what is all around me that is and are just not . . . me.

Debra Morgan's lips. And her quirky cat eyes.
Curly hair. A halo of fro.
Appropriate silence.
Really white teeth.
Tight triceps.
Boobs.
It.

There is so much to want in the world. More or less of something that you have or don't, and there are so many people that you see at least one person each day who has "it." At least one. And when there's more, that can hurt. Why can't you just do it? Why can't you just change?

Wouldn't it be better if we didn't use contractions?

It isn't the wanting that is so destructive, I don't think. It's when it turns into the belief that the "it" is the one thing that stands between you and happiness. If I could just master that one thing, I would have everything. Sometimes, seeing what you don't have is the only time to take stock in yourself. That's not fair to anyone.

I am resolute, in this new year, to take stock outside times when I notice what I do not have to assess everything I take for granted. My most astoundingly beautiful daughter, inside and out. My exceptional partner in life who I, quite simply, lucked into assbackwards. My ability to change. The ease with which I cry. My hair. Me.

Wanting; it's not so bad.
The having is hard to understand.
This year I will tie both together in each moment they appear. Give them the dance they deserve. By having each partner take a solo run. What I wish I were takes a turn. What I am dances to a longer song.

And--perhaps--it leads.