Sending You the Sun

I have always loved receiving and writing letters.
When I was in college, I would arrive at my classes early and write letters, mostly to Merete, on glossy magazine pages, on the backs of notes from my professors, on receipts from the stores I spent too much money in.

Whenever I had a thought, I wrote it down.
Wrote it in a story.
Wrote it in my journal.
Wrote it in the margins of my notebooks to see whenever I was studying.
Or…wrote it in a letter, mostly to Merete.
I was always writing. It was much easier than expressing myself in words and slowed down my thinking to process what was happening around me.

In fact, I felt sometimes I was writing down too much.
If there is such a thing.
When I wrote I didn’t lie. I would set out to document my latest encounter with an unrequited love or most recent adventure wandering around Washington, D.C, and the intention was to make myself look good.
But whenever I took that pen or marker (I used to really love writing in marker or Sharpie) to paper, something different occurred.
I am shocked by the honesty when I look back on many of words, the sincere level of truth-telling, that seemed to disappear the less I made time to write.

Since I’ve been working from home since March, I have mailed out more notes than I have in a while. And it has been refreshing.
The simple act of squeezing my too-large handwriting onto a small, beautifully designed card and then sending it off into the world with no expectations other than letting someone know I am thinking about them.

Somewhere there is a box of letters (again, mostly from Merete) that probably reveal some very embarrassing traits and ideas I possessed.
I will need to take a look at them one day, as I hope that there could still be some molecules of bravery left on the pages still that will rub off on me.