The contents of my mailbox are, more often than not, immediately discarded. I don’t read flyers or the announcements that often have nothing to do with me. I disregard the “opportunities” (read: advertisements) that come flooding in because I had the poor judgment to enter my name in some ambiguous contest years ago. In a Harry Potter-like manner, promotions manage to find me, everywhere.
But even still, I always check my mailbox with high hopes.
The other day, I was repeating this ritual when lo and behold — I had a real letter. At first, I was confused and wondered if I had unwittingly broken into my neighbor’s mailbox. But no, it was mine. It was from my mom.
The card was short but meaningful — and I was left wondering why I ascribe such sentimentality to written letters, when I don't to a text or phone call. Did the written word please my luddite sensibilities? Was it the joy at finally finding something worthwhile in that black hole of a mailbox? Or was the card just aesthetically pleasing?
I realized it wasn’t the letter itself that impressed me but the time and thought that went into it. My mom wakes up at 4 a.m. to go to work and doesn’t get home until 5:30 p.m. I know any time she takes out of her day is precious. I imagine my mom wanting to go home at the end of the day, but instead going to the store to purchase the card. I imagine her wanting to sit and relax, but instead stressing about what to write. Finally, I imagine her slipping the card into our mailbox, hoping what she wrote was OK.
The physical writing of a letter requires more thought and effort than any email or text. So, it’s not surprising that emailing and texting have become our primary means of communication; meanwhile, writing letters has fallen by the wayside. For the first time, I sense this as a loss — one that our generation does not even notice. At least when Borders was killed by eBooks there was a mourning period.
While we continue to cheerfully send text messages, we continually ignore the power of letter writing. We do not appreciate the thought placed in every sentence of a handwritten letter, or feel the emotion between the lines.
To be clear, I don't hate technology. I was the first in line for a Kindle. I sleep with my phone two feet away from my head and use headphones so frequently it can’t possibly be safe. I love the convenience of these amenities. But we should reflect on what we give up for the sake of “progress.”
One day, the smell of a book will be forgotten. The texture of a page will be unknown to younger hands and the elegance of cursive writing will seem alien. The lefties of this new world will not frustratingly wipe ink smudges from their hand and understand the difficulties of writing in a binder. It will be a loss worth mourning, if just for a second.
Abigail’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at a.lague@cavalierdaily.com.
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