Learning to Fly

So I started out
For God knows where
I guess I'll know
When I get there.

~Tom Petty, "Learning to Fly"


If The Letter Jar project had a soundtrack, that song would probably be the opening cut.

Those words have always spoken to me, someone who isn't afraid to embrace the gypsy side of her nature. I can appreciate the idea of life being one big surprising journey--I may not know where I'm ultimately going to end up, but I'm certainly enjoying the sites I have the good fortune to happen upon.

And enjoying as well, the people I'm lucky enough to meet along the way.

Tonight I wrote to my former coworker P and her partner M. I worked with P at a community college in Albuquerque, where I moved with my first husband a decade ago.

P and M, as I told them in my letter, are some of the most genuine, authentic, unpretentious people you will ever meet. They both have such a way of putting you at ease, you feel like an old friend almost immediately. We rarely correspond anymore, but I nonetheless recalled warm memories the very moment I pulled their names from The Letter Jar.

Writing to them, I was struck once again by the seeming randomness--that indeed is likely much less random than I think--that rules the events in my life and the people those events bring me to. My ex-husband and I, Midwesterners when we met, vacationed in the southwest and decided to relocate. That decision gave me the opportunity to meet not only P (and through her, M) but also a whole host of other fascinating, funny, caring people I'm lucky to count among my friends. These are people I've been challenged by, learned from, laughed with and cried on. My life story wouldn't be same without them.

I appreciate the reminder of life's surprises, as I now find myself not moving physically, but nonetheless moving, into another phase in my life as a new mother. I've begun to notice as I write my letters that I am feeling grateful for the relationships I have formed over my lifetime--as a high school and college student, entry-level journalist, career changer, thirtysomething newlywed stepmother--and I'm yearning to form new ones.

The prospect seems daunting--making new friends at this stage in life feels at least different, if not more challenging, than back in college when I was rooming with a dorm full of fellow students and going to classes in big lecture halls each day--until I remember how I've made so many of the important connections in my life. I simply need to keep my mind open to life's unpredictable journey and my heart open to the people I meet along the way.

YOU MUST READ THIS: I'm so glad to have received an inquiry the other day from Felix Jung of the absolutely mesmerizing blog Dead Advice. He asked if I might be willing share a link to his work. You bet.

"Imagine, for a moment, that you have just died," Dead Advice challenges you on its front page. "If you had to look back over the arc of your life as it stands today, what stories would you tell? What lessons would you share, what things might you regret or confess?"

Take some time, read some letters. I suggest starting with Felix's own, A Small List of Big Things, which is poignant and funny, brilliant really. Then think about your letter ... a fascinating prospect, no?

Could it possibly really be a wonderful life?

For which I'm expected to show up?

Not long after I finished letter #131 (to T, a public defender with whom I once worked), my husband R and I had an quarrel. Several days on I can't recall exactly how it got started, but I definitely remember something R said to me:

"You just can't let yourself be happy."

My first reaction, of course, was to object. But of course I'm happy, I told him. Why wouldn't I be? I have such a wonderful life--loving husband, beautiful children, sturdy roof over our heads, reliable transportation to take us to steady employment each day--how could I not be happy?

There's a difference, R pointed out, between saying you're happy and being happy.

I fumed, muttering away to myself (rather unhappily, I might add) about how he was just wrong. I mean, come on--at that point I'd written 131 letters, all of which made at least some reference to the abundant blessings in my life (the aforementioned marriage, family, car and job, of course, as well as the friendships of my letter recipients, happy memories created with them and hopes for reunions to come). I'm happy, damn it.

But if I've learned anything in almost five years with R (three and a half of them as husband and wife), it's that he often knows me better than I know myself. Could it possibly be true that I was running around saying I was happy, without allowing myself the luxury of actually being happy?

Well, now. That felt icky. And uncomfortable. And kinda true.

It's not that I've lied to anyone, in any letter--I do have a ridiculously huge amount of blessings in my life. But I also have, as Tori Amos so eloquently put it, "enough guilt to start my own religion." And guilt, that turd in the punch bowl, it will make you question--sadly makes me question--whether you deserve your happiness.

Yes, some of my letters portray a girl who has screwed up--I've hurt people, most times unintentionally, but on occasion with more awareness than I'd like to admit. I've broken promises. Failed to meet obligations. Haven't shown up.

But the letters also reflect someone who has grown up--I'm admitting the hurts I've inflicted, acknowledging the broken promises and unfulfilled responsibilities. I'm recognizing the places--literal and figurative--I should have been and wasn't.

This woman, that girl growing up, has been offered by the universe an immeasurable bounty. And to refuse to truly accept those blessings--my son's happy babble as he awakens in the morning, rain falling outside our livingroom window on a summer evening, a kiss goodnight from my husband--well, that's just screwing up all over again. It's time to let go of guilt, stop inflicting more hurt and honor the vows I'm living right now.

In short, it's time to show up.

Angels

There are angels among us.

On some level I probably already believed this, but so many of the letters I've written as part of The Letter Jar project have made it ever the more clear.

Such was the case with R, to whom I wrote today. Some 18 years ago R advertised for a roommate, and that roommate ended up being my mother during my parents' separation. (My parents ended up remarrying a few years later.)

Now I realize in some ways it was seemingly by "chance" that mom ended up living with you, but really I do believe things happen for a reason. Yes, my mom just needed a place to live. But she also needed--maybe not as urgently but just as importantly--a friend. And she found one in you. Thank you for being there to listen to mom, to offer feedback and be a support a very uncertain time in her life. You were an angel.

I recalled to R how she became my friend and angel as well when I stayed with her and mom during Christmas break from college that year.

I was a fresh mess--reeling from my parents splitting up, facing the end of college with no real post-graduation plans, and coming apart at the seams over my feelings for my "ex but wished he wasn't ex" boyfriend R. (Who would become my husband 14 years later--who knew?) You were a good listener and comforting support. You were also a dose of perspective--you urged me to look past the details, all the gory details, of that exact moment and realize it would all turn out OK someday. And damned if you weren't right.

I told R that when I began The Letter Jar project, I just started writing down person after person I've known throughout my life, and figured that when I went to write each letter, my feelings for that person would emerge.

I've been so pleasantly delighted how much that has been true--with the gift of perspective I have realized how many angels have truly appeared in my life, offering me support and guidance and teaching me lessons I've needed to learn.

It is indeed true, so many angels. S, the friend who just happened to need a roommate when I separated from my first husband. D, a woman who happened to be dating my future brother-in-law when I moved to Chicago, who became my friend and offered me support I barely recognized I needed as I struggled to settle into a new life. S, yet another roommate--this one my husband's--who was there with right words at the right moment.

I'm thinking about these wonderful people and so many others who have been my angels when it hits me: is it just possible that I could unknowingly be someone's angel, "just happening to show up" when they need it? It makes me think of the oft-repeated words of Plato: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

When you stop to think about it, is there someone in your life who was your angel? Have you ever thanked him or her?

I HAVE TO TRY THIS: A number of letter-writing bloggers rave about Postcrossing, "The Postcard Crossing Project" which just celebrated its fifth anniversary of linking people and their places worldwide. Notes the Postcrossing team: "The element of surprise of receiving postcards from different places in the world (many of which you probably have never heard of) can turn your mailbox into a box of surprises - and who wouldn't like that?" Indeed!

Upping My Game

This morning I wrote to T, a public defender who was a source of mine when I covered the cops and courts for an Iowa newspaper. I thanked T for making me better at my job--something I've had the privilege of thanking several people for.

"When I started covering the courts, you wouldn't even take my calls--and I can't blame you," I told T. "All the freshly minted journalism grads set upon the cops and courts beat, the franchise of the cub reporter. So many opportunities for you and your clients to get burned ... You expected me to do my homework, to understand where you were coming from, to learn and comprehend the judicial process. You expected me to ask intelligent questions. You were, basically, exactly what I needed--a dose of reality, a hard knocks crash course on what it meant to truly cover the news objectively and insightfully ...  Again, thank you for putting me through my paces. Still paying dividends today."

On that cops and courts beat, one of my fiercest competitors was M, a television reporter to whom I wrote a few months ago. "Sure, I wanted to do my job well from a basic standpoint," I wrote. "But the prospect of scooping you made me up my game. There truly was no better situation for a new reporter learning the ropes of the daily grind."

Then there was D, who, as a county supervisor, was also a source when I began reporting. I thought to put his name in The Letter Jar, then checked the Internet and found his obituary from three years ago. I decided I would write to his wife, A.

I remembered how, 22 years old and fresh out of school, I was struggling to cover the county board adequately—to understand which issues were most important to our readers, explain them well and represent the opinions of the supervisors accurately. And D, as I noted in my letter to A, wasn’t about making my job easy. It’s not as if he set out to make my job difficult, but he certainly made me work for every story I wrote, every issue I explained and every quote I captured. And he wasn’t afraid to tell me when I could do better.

"When I was covering the county board week to week, D was a tough cookie," I told A. "He made me pay attention, made me do my homework and didn't let me take shortcuts or easy ways out ... I remember complaining at the time at how hard it was to interview D for stories, how no matter how prepared I was, he could still challenge me. But looking back I realize I should be grateful for the lessons that experience taught me. After all, what is life but many, many unexpected, but ultimately rewarding, challenges?"

A few weeks later I received a letter in the mail from A. "Thank you for your letter re: interviewing D while on the Board of Sups!” she wrote. “He would have been very pleased to know he 'helped' someone, especially in their work area."

I do believe A is right--D would have liked knowing he helped someone, and I'm sure he's not the only one. That's one reason why I'm enjoying The Letter Jar project so much--not only am I filled with gratitude as the receiver of so much help and advice and support in my life, but I am perhaps spreading some joy to the givers as well.

FUN FIND: I was delighted when @skeldesign began following The Letter Jar on Twitter. I love her etsy shop of cards and notepads! I see the frog and owl varieties gracing my desk in the future.

Thanking My Teachers

Last weekend I pulled from The Letter Jar the name of K, my high school journalism teacher. This morning it was D, my kindergarten teacher.

Seeing their names called to mind two sets of school memories that, while very different, have both filled me with gratitude.

I thanked K for encouraging me as a journalist, in class and on the high school paper and yearbook. I always knew I wanted to be a writer, and from people like her I learned not only grammar and news sense but also to develop my own style and to always strive to grow and improve. I've enjoyed a successful writing career--in daily newspapers and magazines, public relations and now blogging--and I wanted to acknowledge and thank K for preparing and supporting me.

I'm still writing the letter to D. I don't necessarily want to thank her for what she taught me--don't get me wrong, knowing the alphabet and how to count to 10 do come in awfully handy--but rather for choosing the profession she did. As I watch my son with his teachers at daycare and my stepson with his at school, I recognize teaching for the incredibly vital and yet extraordinarily underappreciated calling that it is.

Teachers give us knowledge, yes, but the good ones also impart wisdom. They teach--through their words and more importantly their actions--the values of patience, of hard work, of perseverance. They encourage kindness and curiosity and cooperation. They cherish laughter and smiles and triumph.

Obviously when I was 5, D was simply the one who smiled at me each morning, who praised my drawings, who made it all better when I fell on the playground. I couldn't have possibly fully understood then how important a job she was doing. But now, 34 years on, I think I do understand. And I want to thank her--for being there for me, for my little brother and for the dozens of kids who came before us and after us. I'm sure I'm not the first to thank her, and I hope I'm not the last.

What do you remember about your teachers? How is what they taught you alive in your life today?