When I was young, I was quite certain that birds had words, and if I just listened harder or at the right time or if I was able to decipher the music notes in my grandmother’s bird book, I would know what they were saying, where they were going, and where they had been. It was the same feeling I got after I gave up all hope of speaking with the birds and fell in love with postcards, those shiny missives that came out of the small black mailbox attached to the side of our house—a beach, a bridge, the Eiffel Tower, a palm tree—places that begged to be visited.
Then came my love affair with stamps—Africa, France, Nebraska—remote places, would I ever see them? Paperback books came next, I could own them, not just borrow them from the library, and find out where everyone else was going. Decades later, I still have those collections and a few more. I have toted them across the miles on the journeys that the birds, the postcards, the stamps, and the books set me on.
Ironically, one of my favorite collections is the forty years of letters and postcards that my mother sent to me while I was wandering about on my journeys far from home.
Photo: Some of my postcards.
Journeys.
Every day, we journey. And every day on that journey, there is a story—a story of accomplishment or joy or loss or disappointment or gratitude—but every day, there is a story. I’d love to tell yours.
