P.S. I love you

I am a lover of words; a collector of quotes. If I read something I love, I write it down and remember it for a long time. I have bits and pieces of paper stashed in almost every nook, book, journal, or shoebox in my house. You open a drawer, and you’ll find the corner of a magazine with some barely legible words scribbled on the corner; Words that I want to cubby away for later. I sorta pride myself on being able to call these little nuggets up at a moment’s notice to provide the perfect parable to whatever topic is at hand. And you’d better believe, if you have ever, EVER, written me a letter, I still have it.

Clearly, beyond appreciating someone else using words, I also love to be the writer. And this week’s venue for that has been these letters I so value. This has been THE week for letters. I have two unrelated stories to share in this regard, stories that while different in nature end up having the same moral.

As I get ready to depart from this town and the dear friends I have made here, I decided it would be nice to write each one a letter, talking about our time together, what each of them has meant to me, and thanking them for their friendship. There’s a certain pressure I have felt in this regard—trying to pick the perfect words to convey the exact extent to which I want to say thank you or remember fondly our time together. I’ve sorta wanted these letters to be meaningful and profound and deeply personal. And that has taken some brain power on my behalf. And quite honestly, it has served as a sort of deterrent for the writing. Why take pointless stabs at brilliance and merely waste words? Use only the really good ones, says I. And make them count. And don’t mess with trite.

I have one friend that I came to this town with that sadly, due to life circumstances and emotion, silliness and pride, I’m afraid to say that I might be leaving town without. I have struggled over whether or not to take the time to write a leaving letter to this person. Will he care? Would my words be meaningful or lost to deaf ears? Worth my time to spill my heart onto paper? ( I suppose any time you take the time to tell someone you love them and you’re sorry it is worth your time and is thereby meaningful.) This is a letter I’ve written and rewritten in my mind a hundred times. But what to say? How to say it? And there’s the added pressure of knowing that this letter is permanent, the words there on paper for all to see for as long as they want to see them. Letters are legacy. And that’s intimidating. And so, I’ve struggled.

My second letter-related story this week is that I got a lovely, old-school, handwritten letter from J in the mail. Just receiving the letter made me cry. I didn’t even have to read it. Just getting it in the mail, knowing he had taken the time to write it—that he had held it in his own hands just a few days previous, and had been thinking of me. It didn’t even matter what he said to me in the letter, though his loving words added to the beauty of it being written.

Again though, I felt like the ante had been upped. I was in the process of putting together a care package already. Now though, he deserved a letter—needed a really killer love letter from his fiancé to reciprocate his kind gesture.

I had been putting off the writing of his letter and the ones to my friends because somewhere I didn’t feel ready. And so packing provided the necessary distraction. But as I was packing tonight (irony follows me everywhere now, too), I came across a box of programs and tickets stubs and pictures-- all the crazy sentimental stuff that girls save. In it, was a large piece of paper folded within an inch of its life (think origami, or a note from junior high that you were convinced if you folded over just one more time before passing it, it would be practically impossible for the teacher to intercept.)

When I unfolded the paper, I found the following message inside, a passage from a book by one of my most favorite singers/entertainers/writers/ human beings on the planet, Mr. Garrison Keillor. It read as follows:

Such a sweet gift, a piece of handmade writing, in an envelope that is not a bill, sitting in our friend’s path when she trudges home from a long day spent among wahoos and savages-- a day our words will help repair. They don’t need to be immortal, just sincere. She can read them twice and again tomorrow…

The first step in writing letters is to get over the guilt of not writing. You don’t “owe” anybody a letter. Letters are a gift. The burning shame you feel when you see unanswered mail makes it harder to pick up a pen and makes for a cheerless letter when you finally do. Skip this part. Sit for a few minutes with the blank sheet in front of you and meditate on the person you will write to. Let your friend come to mind until you can almost see her in the room with you. Remember the last time you saw each other and how your friend looked and what you said and what perhaps was unsaid between you. And when your friend becomes real to you, start to write. If it’s hard work to slip off a letter to a friend, maybe you’re trying too hard to be terrific. A letter is only a report to someone who already likes you for reasons other than your brilliance. Take it easy. Don’t tear up the page and start over when you write a bad line. Make mistakes and plunge on—Let yourself be bold. Outrage, confusion, love—whatever is in your mind, let it find its way to the page.

Probably your friend will put your letter away, and it’ll be read again a few years from now—and it will improve with age.

It’s so funny to me that *this* is the piece of paper I stumble onto this week as I go about the task of writing my letters to my friends, my J, and a dear friend lost. Clearly, I had known that one day I would need to read these words—that’s why I had saved them. And today was the day. The message was clear: Basically, just shut up and write already.

When I was in high school, I sang in a girls jazz group (which basically means we ripped off Andrew’s Sisters tunes. Seriously, ask me about the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.) But on occasion we got to do solo numbers. I remember that one of my girlfriends in the group picked the song “P.S. I Love You” written by Johnny Mercer, and performed by many, but most notably by Billie Holiday. The simple words were sung from the point of view of a woman at home, writing a letter to her soldier husband at war.

I remember thinking at the time that the tune was odd. There was really nothing to it. It was just basically a check list: Here’s what I did today. Everything fine here. We’ve had some weather. The neighbors stopped by. And at the end of each phrase, almost like an afterthought, P.S. I love you.

Maybe it’s that I’m older and obviously have a different perspective as I am now the woman writing those very letters. But I get it now. It’s not about the words, it’s about the writing. Like Garrison said, these don’t have to be epic works. They just have to be sincere. You’re writing to people that already love you.

And now I fall asleep tonight, with Billie’s voice in my head (which I will now also share with you below.) And as I was encouraged this evening, I will encourage you all as well: just write the letter already. Fill it with real you. Nothing fancy. No need to pay anyone back. Just say what’s on your mind. And give the gift of your heart on paper for your friends to keep forever and reread when they most need to hear your voice in their heads. And P.S.- Don’t forget to say I love you.

Billie Holiday sings P.S. I love you