When I was a child, when my parents traveled, they would send postcards. They were "Europe" travelers, so the postcards were often a beautiful lake, or the Alps, or a child in regional dress. I saw scenery and customs I'd never dreamed of. And always, if Mom wrote the card, the writing would be small, a mother trying to send all her love in her absence. If Dad sent a postcard, it would have a one sentence greeting, Wish you were here; It's beautiful here; or See you soon.
I wonder how much those postcards opened up the world to me.
I came upon a tradition that a woman created for her own pleasure. When traveling, from each of her destinations, she would send herself a postcard. Lovely. I decided to follow in this unremembered (and therefore uncredited) person's traditions.
I decided that I would write of something special that happened in this home away from home adventure. I would remind myself how I felt, and what I accomplished on this trip. How was I inspired by the change of scenery? Who did I meet? And I would follow through with encouragement and love~~all for myself.
When I bought the first postcard, I remembered all the postcards sent by loving and caring parents. I would send Mom a postcard too.
My second postcard vacation was spent with family, all of who had traveled far and farther to reach our family vacation destination. We were at Bear Lake and I didn't think I would find postcards. Because, who sends postcards anymore?
I found beautiful retro, 1950s sketches of an artist's concept of what Bear Lake life was like. I turned them into thank-you post cards for our guests. Everyone seemed to appreciate them. One son-in-law didn't know what it was. One daughter sent a photo of the card when it arrived.
I appreciated my handwritten postcard to myself too.
I was on a roll. Our next destination was more exotic and more remote. The question again, would I find postcards? The small island resort did indeed have postcards. I picked one out for each of our daughters' families. One for Mom too.I remembered from my childhood stamp collecting days that Tonga had beautiful and exotic postage stamps. But the post office was a village away. I had to trust the resort to send my postcards.
A month passed. Another one. The postcards had to be close. Each day when I checked the mail, I was sure it had arrived. Each day, I was mildly disappointed. And then one day, an eight-and-a-half by four inch postcard arrived with a photo of three humpback whales. It had taken two months! But worth the weight because I'd sent myself a personal message to remember the best things in life.
After I received my own Kingdom of Tonga postcard, the acknowledgments of cards received, trickled in. A photo announcing the arrival of our Tonga postcard arrived from the photo-taking daughter. A thank-you text from another. A phone thank-you from a third daughter. I have yet to hear from the fourth. I hope that it arrives.
Today, my mother wrote: I just got your postcard from Matafonna (Haha, typo in charge). Beautiful. Thank you.
She knows I was thinking of her thousands of miles away. She knows I am motivated to follow in her footsteps, that I am returning the favor of communication and love.
This moment of writing about postcards, also brings remorse. I was gone this past weekend, and how I wish I'd sent a postcard, if only to myself. For there were magical moments and I would have written them on a little card that passed through machines and hands and boxes from one part of the earth to another~~with special messages. But I didn't remember, because it was a quick and packed trip.
But I am even more invested to send postcards~~the next time.
Seems like a good enough excuse to plan a vacation.
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