What are your earliest memories of receiving mail?
A few magical ones come to mind for me.
I got occasional greeting cards from great aunts and relatives who lived far away. The sentiment wasn’t as important as whether or not cash fell out when I opened the card. Still, it was always a thrill to see mail addressed specifically to me. Sometimes it would be addressed to “Master Jason Kotecki,” which always put a little extra pep in my step.
The most exciting times were when the reward showed up for sending in four UPC labels, carefully extracted from cereal boxes, along with a dollar to cover shipping & handling. That’s how I earned my Emperor Palpatine Star Wars action figure. I couldn’t have been more excited if Ed McMahon showed up at the door with one of his oversized checks.
But there was something about the regular cadence of receiving the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. I got my subscription when I was about thirteen. I was obsessed with sports, fueled in part by the rise of Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls.
It came once a week — I feel like it was on Thursdays? — and I remember the anticipation I felt at school, looking forward to coming home and opening the mailbox. Who would be on the cover? What would be “This Week’s Sign That The Apocalypse Is Upon Us?” (If you know, you know.) I’d leap from the school bus and run to the mailbox. And there it was, a week’s worth of sports news, photos, columns, and “Faces in the Crowd” in full-color glory. I’d shut myself up in my bedroom to pore over each page. One of the photos usually became the catalyst for my next drawing. Just as I made it through the final and least interesting articles, it was time to start anticipating the new issue on its way.
It was my weekly escape from the stress and anxieties of adolescence.
I’ve had several magazine subscriptions over the years, but sadly, many of them have been shuttered — including Sports Illustrated — thanks to the arrival of the Digital Age. I currently subscribe to an art magazine, and even at fifty, I still get a twinge of excitement when I see it show up in my mailbox.
Because now, of course, the mail is nowhere near as fun. It’s nothing but bills and postcards urging me to upgrade my windows.
One thing that hasn’t changed is the magic of receiving something meaningful in the mail, especially given how rarely it occurs.
I’m happy to share that the electricity of anticipation and heartfelt human connection is making a comeback. Stay tuned for an announcement next week about a new thing we’re launching to bring a little merriment to your mailbox. (Join us for the virtual ice cream social on Tuesday to get a sneak peek!)
For now, I just want to steer your attention to the amazing opportunity at your fingertips.
My friend Jason recently wrote about the power of writing notes. Not just how wonderful they are to receive, but also how good they make the writer feel, too.
During the pandemic, Kim and I learned about “Helen Mail.” This is what the friends of a woman named Helen called the correspondence they received from her. Because it wasn’t just mail. It wasn’t just a nice handwritten note. It was an experience. The envelope and its contents were plastered with stickers and doodles and an avalanche of whimsy.
Even though stamps don’t cost what they used to, I stand by the fact that they really are tiny miracles. I challenge you to think of one person you can send some mail to this week. It doesn’t have to outdo Helen Mail. It only has to be from the heart.
Is there a mentor of yours who might like to hear about a recent accomplishment they deserve some credit for?
Is there a friend you haven’t seen in ages that might appreciate hearing about something that made you think of them?
Is there a young person in your life who could use a word of encouragement and ten bucks?
Sure, you could easily do this by text or a message on social media.
But that’s not quite the same as the impact made when you take a few moments of your day to drop something meaningful in the mail.
That delivers a different kind of message.
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