Shred First and Ask Questions Never
I’ve written the words “open mail” on multiple lists in the last ten days.
I’ve moved the mail with me to three different rooms.
For the past week, the mobile stack of sealed envelopes was precariously topped by a letter opener I found at an estate sale. Nothing fancy. Just a simple silver (shiv in a crunch) wand.
Every time I see it I imagine the woman, who had so many Christmas decorations (so many), joyfully opening mail.
It was probably more like correspondence then. Handwritten letters. Essential updates. Newspaper clippings with veiled messages for the recipient.
“The kids are good. Jimmy (he wants us to call him Jim now) is getting married this spring. Bud and I aren’t sure about her, but Jim sure is. Mercy me.”
It’s not even like my mail is full of bills.
Well, there is something from the dentist that looks suspicious.
But I don’t owe them anything, so I know it’ll mean multiple phone calls to settle.
The rest is just banks and insurance companies dripping in legal warnings and policy changes so that, in the future, they can put their hands up in innocence and say:
We sent you a letter telling you about this change. We’re sorry, but it’s a new policy that makes it easier for us to make money and harder for you to have power. How would you prefer to pay your fee for being a person and not a corporation?
So, what, I open the mail, and then I recycle it, or shred it, or cry on it?
I don’t get the point. But I do get inordinately mad about life’s administrative duties.
And when I see mail, all I see is someone with pursed lips and a tilt to their head that says,
“Why can’t you just play nice and do what you’re told?”
Turns out I can’t.
Even when I’m the one doing the tolding.
But why am I talking about mail when the word of the week is mediumship?
Why did I spend this week kinda mad at the word mediumship?
I actually didn’t know until I started writing this—four hours before my midnight deadline to post this post.
I feel like mediumship might be worse than mail, I think it might feel like pop-bys.
“We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop by!”
Stop by? In the middle of me living a perfectily good life? No.
Text me a week ago if you’re going to be in my neighborhood.
And if I don’t respond...
go to someone else’s neighborhood.
Ok, that got a little heated.
(I’m not talking about you. You can pop by anytime.)
New plan:
Shred the mail before I open it.
Let the unknown unravel without needing to be known.
open mail
(But, for real, ancestors—this part is for you:)
If you’re out there and want to talk,
I’m here for it.
Just send a cool breeze by first,
so I know to expect you.
That way, it’ll feel like I’m running into you at a coffee shop.
I love coffee shop run-ins.