My bedside table is tiny. The one night Jeff slept on my side of the bed (I apparently had sprawled across his before he came up), he complained incessantly the next morning about the lack of space to put even a water bottle and a phone.
He’s not wrong; it fits a small lamp, my water bottle, a little ceramic horse Lily painted for me, a stack of everything I’m convinced I’ll read next, and a haphazard pile up of my phone, glasses, night guard, medication, and Garmin watch. Everything is tipping slightly off a side or corner, and I live in fear of the cat deciding it would make a nice spot to perch at 3 in the morning.
Last night before bed, as I began the artful task of arranging the various necessities to have close at hand in the middle of the night, I knocked over the metal water bottle which collided with the lamp, tipping it into the stack of reading material, and a domino effect ensued as things began sliding onto the bed and floor. As I began to restack the novels like an oversized edition of Jenga, smaller envelopes and cards kept slipping out, far more than I’d realized had made their way into the pages and between the front and back covers.
The books restocked and the water bottle placed strategically apart from the lamp, I picked up the various notes and began to sift through them. A bedazzled Christmas hand turkey from our godson and his sister in Wales, a gift card for a favorite nail salon that I’d completely forgotten to enjoy, a handwritten note from Lily instructing me to look for an item she’d hidden under my bed, a letter of gratitude from a former student, an assortment of wreathed ducks from my brother’s Christmas card one year, a handwritten note from a close friend who was checking up on me, and a blue and yellow pair of sneakers racing across a finish line, a reminder from dad that my passion for running originates from his own.
As I ran my hands over the assorted letters and envelopes, noting the distinct writing styles, I was struck again by something I first realized as a freshman in high school. When someone writes you a note--handwrites you a note--they have to pause and just focus on that task. For those moments, whether they are seconds or minutes or hours, you are the sole item on their mind. That is an incredible gift--taking the time to pause and create something to bring another joy or hope. It's why, when quarantine began in March 2020 and school went fully virtual, I made a commitment to writing one letter a day to an individual faculty member. In a moment of isolation, I wanted them to know that they were not alone, that I was setting aside time to think of them specifically. When I couldn't physically give them a hug or see their smiles, I could put something my hands had designed into my mailbox and send it directly into their hands.
Before turning off the light last night, I carefully stacked the assorted cards and placed them beneath my Kindle, at the top of that towering stack of books. They serve as a reminder that I am held tightly by those I love, whether they are near or far.
And then, the next morning, I pulled out a notecard and a stamp and put pen to paper, just one person on my mind for a few moments.
