The letters used to come from Corrales and now arrive from Oakland and the Scottish Highlands. Sometimes from Sacramento and Fort Walton Beach. Closer to home—traveling across a couple of boroughs or the tri-state area—stationery is attached to gifts. Small notes on beautiful card stock with company letterheads. The letters all ask something different of me, but I store them in the same folder in the back of my Moleskine journal. My words spoon theirs. I return to them in my lonelier moments. To remind myself that I’m in conversation.
Except, at the moment, I’m not. Though I’ve always had a fondness for paper ephemera, most of my correspondence these days is bathed in blue light: quick emails, texts, DMs, and comments. I put my phone down and look at the few unanswered letters on my desk. There are words to arrange, but I seem only capable of writing about my mail rather than responding to it. I think it’s because I’ve been deep in Slowing, and my vision is still refocusing. A book can be a letter, but it can also be a hole. I fall into it, and other times, I jump headfirst—equal parts pain and pleasure—either way, it’s a long way back to the outside world.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Slow Stories to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.