Letters lost at sea

on the joy of mail + the great mystery of where words can end up

Photo by Alex Perz

Lately, I have had a micro-obession with the postal service. To be honest, my life has been a long series of often short-lived micro-obsessions (from ballet to anime to sewing to skincare etc. etc.) - but this one I find particularly amusing.

Most adults I know are not enamored with the postal service. If anything, it is a source of perpetual frustration (“I can’t believe how much I paid to mail this little package!” or “I waited in line for almost an hour!”). Having a micro-obsession with the postal service even sounds like it could be a cute juvenile interest (“I want to be a mailman when I grow up!”).

So as an adult who has many a time experienced those frustrating trips to the post office and who did not have a childhood fantasy of delivering mail - what’s the appeal here?

Well, it started with noticing that I would actually look forward to making a trip to the post office, despite the inevitable challenges that come with it. Then I started to notice all the other details too. That collecting my daily mail from the mailbox was sparking joy, even though I am often met with bills and unwanted adverts. That seeing the mail truck putzing along on the road always seems sort of jolly to me. That I always keep an eye out for interesting mailboxes, especially those in unsuspecting locations. That I am drawn to simply “pop in” to see different post offices while visiting new towns or cities, even though I don’t have any business there. That I get excited to mindfully select what stamps I will procure next (and even special ordered the new + exclusive Goodnight Moon stamps as soon as they were available).

But perhaps most importantly, I remembered how the postal service is the pulse behind the art of letter writing.

Photo by Ranurte

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved sending and receiving cards. Growing up I would save every card I received in an old shoebox, which my collection eventually outgrew and expanded into an old moving box. I looked forward to hand-selecting the perfect card for different family members and friends’ birthdays. And as I learned to write, I would eagerly await the recipient’s reaction when they read their card (always exclaiming — “read the card before you open the gift!!”). Afterwards delighting in the row of cards that would line the mantelplace on display for several weeks before being stored away.

I remember sitting at the old built-in desk in my childhood home sifting my hands through the stamp collection my dad encouraged me to start. Wondering about the interesting smell each of the stamps had and thinking about the people who decided that these stamps were worth saving over using. How something of utility could equally become something of treasure.

I remember having a “flat stanley” pressed in some of my first pen pal letters. And the utter delight in the mystery of the words I would receive from this stranger next.

As my friends began to take trips, I delighted in the postcards I would receive from them, leaving them pinned on my bulletin board for years to come.

I remember my creative-leaning friends who showed me that cards and letters could be so much more than just a store-bought fold of paper with your words inside. That you could turn them into little handmade works of art: collaging magazine clippings on the outside and filling the inside with pressed flowers or glitter or even sand from your trip to the beach. Card-writing could not only become a sensory experience, but one where the reader feels like they were there with you, wherever you were when you wrote it.

As I grew older, and some of my friendships and family members grew apart in distance, sending letters and cards became even more important. Not only was it a way to spark joy, it was a way to stay connected that felt real and handheld in an increasingly digital age (if you read my piece “A life you can hold with your hands” - you already know how I feel about this).

Photo by Jac Alexandru

Not too long ago, writing letters was one of the only ways to communicate to someone else long-distance. With the dawning of the postal service, letter-writing as a means of long-distance communication became increasingly more efficient (all those carrier pigeons could finally retire I suppose…)

As someone who has had access to a telephone my entire life (and now computers, iPhones, tablets, you name it), I sometimes find myself daydreaming, wondering what life was like when letters still ruled the world of communication. The mounting of anticipation for a reply letter that could last days, weeks, or even months depending on how long your letters had to travel. The quickly scrawled letters that carried more function than feeling. The letters that contained multitudes. The letters sharing your next creation with a beloved friend or mentor (a new musical score, play script, chapter of a novel). The letters with a “burn after reading” directive. The much-loved letters that ended up tucked in someone’s coat’s breast pocket for years, to be re-read on a gloomy day for some extra cheer.

But perhaps most fascinating (to me at least) of all my “mail-driven” memories and daydreams, is the mystery of what happens to all of the letters that become lost at sea. Whose hands do they fall into? What mail sorting factory did it slip between the cracks in? How long after it was lost was it re-discovered (if ever)? Were the words ever read by another? Were the words written felt in the same way the writer intended them to (even if read by an unknown recipient’s eyes)? Were they savoured and cherished? Or were they immediately trashed and dismissed? Did they spark an undesired scandal, controversy, or debate? And, of course, was the intended recipient dismayed or confused to have never received word from the sender?

Photo by rc.xyz

There is an element of mystery here, but also one of unwitting voyeurism.

What would you do if someone else’s letter fell into your hands? If the envelope was illegible or the address incorrect and there was no way to track the intended recipient down, would you open it yourself? Or would you blindly roll it into a bottle and cast it back out to sea? Or throw it into the evening fire?

I don’t write these questions to spark a debate about “right vs. wrong” - but to shine a light on the words that never had a chance to be received and read.

Every letter (whether a short note or a longer missive) that is stamped and cast out into the postal service, has a shared intended purpose: to be read. In a way, when a letter becomes lost at sea, it takes on a new life. The chances of it reaching its original recipient become much slimmer, but the chances of it being read and experienced by a new set of eyes become much larger. The letter becomes a form of art: something hand-crafted and now up for interpretation by a public audience (perhaps of just one, but possibly many). The letter becomes an enigma. Even if originally written in a simple and straightforward way, it becomes a puzzling curiosity when read by anonymous eyes (did “I went to the store to buy milk today” really mean just that? or did it have a deeper meaning? or was it code for something else entirely?). The letter becomes as interesting and curious as the mind of the person who ends up reading it that day. Or the mind of the person whose hands it ended up in but who chose not to read it. The person who thought about it later on from time to time (“I wonder what that letter with the purple envelope actually said inside…”).

The life of letters lost in transit is one that we can wonder about day in and day out, but never know the full story.

And as much as our curious selves might be dying to know: not knowing is the point.

The life of lost letters reminds us that grand mystery is still alive and well in the world.

And, personally, I like it that way.

xx

Heather