Last night I had the distinct pleasure of enjoying an early summer pond-side campfire with about 10 marvelous individuals, ranging in age from 22 to 63. I’d recently decided to finally let go of a box that’s trailed me throughout all my moves containing virtually every letter I ever received. There comes a time. But rather than simply tossing them into a trash heap or whatever, I wanted to offer them to fire as a sign of respect, but also I suppose for deeper reasons having to do with birth and death.
The campfire started with just me and the younger members of the group, all just out of college. Most of my correspondence by mail, it turns out, took place when I was their age, give or take a couple years. It doesn’t feel like just yesterday anymore.
They were a little astounded by my letting go of such sentimental exchanges but I reminded them that what they were witnessing was the far end of many years of holding on. They had some really great questions about how mail worked for people back when and were delighted to see all the creativity that sometimes went into it. One young woman asked, “So, when one exchanged so many letters with people, what percentage of those would have been love letters?” I loved that she generalized this question into a sociological inquiry. (My personal answer: about a quarter, but much of it was unrequited love.)
Before the fire, I’d already sat by myself and indulged in the unusual ritual of examining all this mail, each piece unread and unseen since it’s admission into the box. There were many surprises and reminders and oddities. First was the sheer volume, especially with a few friends in particular. Secondly there was the somewhat quotidian nature of the content. While there was plenty of youthful angst on display, a lot of letters were just long distance slice-of-life reports. Just staying connected across the distance. More poignant were the expressed aspirations towards a creative life or a spiritual life, or both. I’m thinking of 2 or 3 friends in particular. Knowing me and knowing them, I thought, “Oh yeah. That tracks.”
Some of the artwork or bizarre postcards that came out of the box, I’d pass around the circle and each person would carefully hold it like an unearthed fossil from an archaeological dig, staring in wonder as they glimpsed an ancient pre-digital lifestyle and time period known as the 90s. They’d then place it respectfully into the fire and watch the smoke rise up into the canopy of trees overhead as toads and peepers sang along in the background.
Full disclosure: I’d already set a few pieces aside and left them in my cabin, mementos from my old box of mementos. Hopefully I’ll become a more advanced practitioner of letting go down the line. Or else someone else will have to get rid of these things after I’m gone, a somewhat embarrassing thought.
I’ve considered sending a few pieces back to their authors but I realize that we all have journals filled with such musing and artwork from our youth tucked away in cupboards and beneath box springs. And who needs to be reminded of how wayward they were, how unsure, how longing for connection? Many of the letters were obviously part of long running conversations and exchanges, some of which people referred to. “It’s true what you said about Portland.” (What the hell did I say about Portland? I’ll never know but also I really don’t care.) In one letter a friend invited me to join her in South India for the year, where she’d be working at an incense shop and studying Indian classical music. I’d completely forgot that invitation. What if I’d taken her up on it?!
The best thing about the experience, aside from sharing it with people who weren’t yet born when these things were penned and criss crossing the country (not to mention oceans), was being reminded of how blessed I’ve been to have such good friends in my life. Some I’ve lost touch with, some might be reading this now. Either way, thank you. You’ve meant so much to me.
And PS: no offense, but I burned all your letters.
PPS: in keeping with the pre-digital theme, I’m proud to say that neither I nor the Gen Z set even thought to take out a phone camera all evening. Hence, no artifacts. Just ashes and more fond memories that, like all things, recede into the murky pond of time.
creative arson 