It's in the Post: A Tribute to the Perilous Act of Posting a Letter

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.

— Phyllis Theroux

This blog post was inspired by a recent video call with Fran while I was taking one of my lunchtime walks. As we passed the pub I noticed the postbox by the road was shrouded in black plastic. A printed notice declared it out of use. A little research suggests it’s part of Royal Mail’s “postboxes of the future” programme to upgrade the traditional red postboxes to support barcode scanning and handle small packages. Others in the region are being upgraded, including the box outside The Hungry Caterpillar post office in Dipton, Stanley. According to one report, “the news has been met with scepticism and sadness by villagers.”

I know how they feel. There’s a post office counter in the general store beside the pub and a postbox at our local supermarket, but I’ve used this one hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Seeing it taped up like that was a shock. It felt and still feels disrespectful. An insult to something that’s played a small but important part in my life for more than three decades.

I’ve written previously about my life-long love of letter writing but I want to focus here on the physical act of posting a letter. It’s often overlooked, but for me it’s always been one of the most meaningful parts of the process. I described it to Fran as “the ambience of mailboxes.” (We’ve been best friends since 2011 and I routinely shift into using American terms and pronunciation when we’re together.)

I’ve think I’ve always felt it. That unique combination of excitement, anticipation, fear, and commitment as I walk to the postbox, take the envelope from my bag or pocket, look at it one last time, and push it through the slot. I hold it between my fingers for a moment then let it fall inside. American writer and environmentalist Terry Tempest Williams has called it “the release of the letter to the mailbox.” It’s a watershed moment. A perilous act. The point of no return.

Who hasn’t felt that frisson as we step away from the postbox? Our words, our feelings, confessions, doubts, hopes, and dreams are sealed in there. It’s like taking a loved one to the rail station and leaving them on the platform to await their train. We’ve done our part. All we can do now is trust that our words will be delivered to their intended destination. And more, that they will be received and understood as we hope they will be.

How many times have I felt that? Too many to remember them all but a few come to me now. (One of the less obvious rewards of blogging is that I get to revisit past thoughts and experiences that might otherwise languish unrecalled.) The first was so long ago I’m unsure if it actually happened. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. Did I write and post a love note to the girl I’d fancied since junior school? Or did the terrifying realisation I could do get the better of me? I still remember her name. I can’t quite recall her address but I know where it was. (Ironically, just across the road from the post office.) In any case, there was no reply. There never would have been.

Summer break from university brought ample opportunity to send letters of love and affection to the important people in my life. There were postboxes close to my childhood home but I’d take long evening walks to prolong the experience of sending my letters on their way. I’d then torture myself over the wisdom or otherwise of doing so. Did I say too much? Not enough? I’ve erred in both directions in my time. The agony of waiting for a reply is captured in one of my poems from those days.

So few words would despatch misapprehension,
End this love’s charade,
Or blow despair upon the wings of a kinder truth.

But tide and time have marked another day
And still no word
—not one—
Consoles me.

— from “Faithfully (unanswered)”

A few years later I spent six months on university placement at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. I have fond memories of writing to one of my very closest friends each week. I’d start at the weekend, gathering my thoughts and words together before copying them neatly into a letter or card. When the time felt right I’d walk to the postbox in the centre of town, savouring the moment and anticipating how my words might be received. I checked my mailbox in the nurses home each day for a reply.

I write fewer letters these days than I used to, but there are a great many memories associated with that classic red postbox by the pub. The letters and cards I sent every day to one friend through what turned out to be the final two years of her life. The letters I still send each week to my friend in Cornwall. The “Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?” card I sent a friend several years ago, months into our second breakup. Approaching the postbox, I felt the familiar mix of trepidation and inevitability. Was I right to suggest reconnection? Were my words appropriate? I might have changed my mind but knew I wouldn’t. I let the envelope slip from my fingers and stepped away. For right or wrong, I was committed. I knew there might be no response. (There was.)

It’s precious moments like this — memories like this — that are imperilled by the black plastic shrouding and the threat of a “postbox of the future.” The current box has been out of service in the past, most recently during the covid pandemic, but this feels different. Hopefully, the experience won’t be permanently tainted.

In the course of writing this piece I came across a wonderful blog called The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society, and this post in particular which discusses the origins of the hashtag #PostboxSaturday. It also includes a selection of postbox-related links and photos of postboxes from all over the UK. Do check it out and follow the The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society on Twitter/X, Facebook, and Instagram. The Society’s mission is “To inspire people to write handwritten letters to each other.” It’s a worthy aim.

I thought I’d close with a few quotations extolling the virtues of letter writing.

There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox — are all acts of tenderness.

— Terry Tempest Williams

When you see a handwritten envelope addressed to you in your packet of mail when you get your mail out of the mailbox — when you see a personal letter waiting for you — it’s exciting. It touches you. You say “Oh, somebody really thought of me and didn’t just slap a mailing label across an envelope. Somebody wrote something to me.”

— Martha Williamson

I’ve always felt there is something sacred in a piece of paper that travels the earth from hand to hand, head to head, heart to heart.

— Robert Michael Pyle

Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.

— Lord Byron

I wrote you a love letter, and I sent it snail mail. Love is forever, and that’s about how long it’ll take to get to you.

— Jarod Kintz

That last one brings a wry smile, given the present state of the postal service. Posting a letter these days really is an act of faith!

Over to You

Are you someone who enjoys writing and receiving letters? Do you have a favourite postbox? Have you ever posted a letter and regretted it? Or doubted yourself only to be very glad you sent it? We’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Kutan Ural at Unsplash.