Author’s letters to her mother (Ela Muñoz collage)
How long ago is it since you wrote or received a hand-written letter? One that was sealed in an envelope, or written on an aerogramme, taken to the post office for stamps and finally dropped through the box?
I recently came across a bunch of letters I had written to my mother, by hand, some still with their envelopes from the summer of 1970 to my last emails, printed and kept in a box file near her bed. It has been so interesting to see our lives, our thoughts and musings in neat, legible handwriting from over a half century ago. Some of the letters are many pages long and others on a side and a half of a carefully folded airletter form, pre-stamped and valid for all over the world.
In the summer of 1970, on holiday in Bangor, North Wales, I accounted for the £2 pounds I was given as pocket money to spend over two weeks. The £.s.d (pounds, shillings and pence) were still in circulation then, and for another 6 months until 15 February 1971. What could I possibly have had to say, every day of the year I spent in Sweden in 1975, the same year in which the Baader Meinhof Red Army bombed the West German embassy in Stockholm on 24th April? How many times did I look up at the moon or the stars, remembering that they were the same we shared wherever we found ourselves; and there were many, many places. My mother read and wrote replies to all my letters. We spoke infrequently on the phone during the decades of absence from home and our homes changed as we too moved around the globe, chasing each other, and life.
There is something so grounding, for me, in writing letters by hand. Although thoughts race ahead, the hand, pen and ink, slow me down and help me process that which can be difficult to say out loud. Some of my letters include drawings of where I found myself at the time, places and items that caught my attention, details. Others were full of woe and suffering, selfish introspection and critical opinions based on assumptions without any basis. What my letters remind me of are the details of the day-to-day that now, many decades later, are a lot more interesting than they were then. There, in among the paragraphs, are the names of people I had forgotten. More importantly, these letters document my thinking at a specific time in history, the balm that my natural surroundings provided as summers turned to winters, or the snow that lay thick, high above, in hills that surrounded me, or the torrential rains in the wet humid equatorial climates I inhabited. The letters also speak of health scares, rising costs, deaths and births. They remind me of the importance of family and friends who remain close after all these years and those lost along the way.
I have learnt, through re-reading these letters that, in spite of what we may think, time does heal. Relationships mature or die, and life continues despite all we do to alter its course. I am particularly stuck by the deep and enduring love, expressed over and over, in so many letters. This was a love I learnt from, and one that was given openly in all the ways my mother knew how. A week before she died, she wrote a handwritten letter to her four daughters which I read aloud at her funeral. I also learnt, through reading these letters, that there is power, immense power in words written in ink, by hand.
I still write letters by hand, fold the paper and seal the envelopes, go to the post office and have each one stamped. I don’t know how much longer this will be possible but whilst paper, pen, envelopes, stamps, post-offices and post-boxes exist, there is still the possibility that there is someone out there waiting to receive a hand written letter.
Who will you write to, today?
Patricia Angoy 
Gracias Maria Ester
LikeLike
My dad would send us individual postcards from wherever he was around the world. He wrote a postcard for each child, but of course these would not arrive on the same day, so we would gather around the lucky one who got the post card and listen carefully to the reading of his sentiments and could see him and hear him. Now that he is not with us, rereading the post cards, keeps him close, really close! Thank you for the nudge!
LikeLike
Thank you very much Patricia. Nothing beats a handwritten letter as one captures their own Worlds through their hands. Unlike, media texting, which is impersonal as everyone has same handwriting, and most easy to hide under the guise of being anonymous. Who should I write to? I wish to write to my grandmother who I never met, who was sadly taken by Rwandan genocide. The inked paper would wipe tears that wailed her eyes when she got hacked. I wish to write letters to every child of war right now: Palestinian, Sudanese, Congolese, Ukrainians—tell them that I love them and would like the letter plop their agony.
I am always blessed and uplifted by your letters! Keep writing!
LikeLike
Dear Francisco, I am always in awe of your strength and that of your family. War is always cruel, moreover since it is waged by those who give orders from the comfort of their offices.
I too am blessed by your letters and by you!
LikeLike
I am thinking of writing a letter to future myself full of hopes encouragement and goals. Thank you for this piece Ms Angoy 🙂
LikeLike
That’s a wonderful idea! It is so interesting to read our letters, written decades ago. Your time to write is now.
LikeLike
I loved this post Patricia and maybe I’ll receive a letter from you one day 😉. When my mum was still alive and my children were young, they would write a postcard to her from various places around the world, where we lived or visited. A postcard was hard enough to get them to fill! But they did and I bought mum 2 folders one for my son’s postcards and one for my daughter’s. Though they didn’t enjoy writing them at the time, they loved reading them when they visited her. She loved seeing the photos on the card they had chosen and learning a little about what they were doing in that space. ❤️
LikeLike
What wonderful memories for your children. Take care always dear friend.
LikeLike
Writing is therapeutic on its own. I continue to write letters – not by hand though. But I write letters to myself to my loved ones…often expressing sentiments I have never shared with them before. I may never share these letters with them because often they are sentimental ramblings.
The saddest part is that our postal system in South Africa has totally collapsed. Only the other day I was asking myself why do forms continue to ask for a postal address when we have no place to send or retrieve post. Our postal service has died. The new replaced the old and yet the old still holds value – albeit sentimental and not economical. This is so hard to comprehend when posted letters were the lifeline to our loved ones. Seeing the handwriting brought the same sense of familiarity as hearing the voice at the other end of the line. Where is this personal connection in an email, a WhatsApp message an X post…
LikeLike
So good to know that you continue to write, Sibongile, despite the demise of the SA postal service. One day … I am sure that something else will allow us to post and receive the joy of opening the postbox, hearing the flap in the door as a letter is dropped through the its opening, or better still, a thank you, to the post person who brings you a sealed envelope with handwriting you recognise from someone you love. Thank you for connecting with my blog. I really appreciate you!
LikeLike
Beautifully expressed, Patricia. 👌🏽
I used to be an avid letter writer from about 8 or so – I’m 69 now – so quite some decades ago! HOWEVER, I hankered after a typewriter since I first came to appreciate that there was such an item and I didn’t have to get slowed down doing my “stream of consciousness” writing by hand!
I kept writing long, full letters till well into my 30s, then e-messaging took over and my e-epistles grew longer.
Then in 1985 I went to NYC for the first time and visited a then friend. One day I discovered a veritable pile of my long epistles to him, still in their envelopes, unopened. I, more or less, stopped writing and/or typing letters since then.
Today I engage with people, always using e-technology. In our “easy to dispose of” living now I find myself less and less enamoured with writing epistles. Kind of a loss, truth be shared, as I read your piece here. Some beauty’s loss has to just be, alas. 😔
LikeLike
I enjoyed your writings on this topic. I too have letters from my Mom (your aunt Stella). Ever so often I sit and read them, struck my her unconditional love and wisdom. Alas, if only we can sit and chat awhile!
Sending hugs. 💖💖
LikeLike
Hello Anne, I would be so good to be all together again. Hopefully one day. So glad you have letters from Auntie Stella. They must be so comforting to read. Lots of hugs too.
LikeLike