The Incident and The Person and The Thing

Several weeks ago I was unwillingly involved in what we'll call the "incident." I won't talk about it so don't bother asking. The incident isn't the point of the post. However, it's background that you need to know.

Last night I walked across the street and got my mail for the first time in a week, which is typical for me. I was going through the junk, the flyers and the bills when I came upon an envelope with a handwritten return address and a name at the top which, frankly, made me kind of want to vomit. I don't know The Person very well at all, and the fact that The Person was (directly and indirectly at the same time) involved in the 'incident', AND that The Person had my home address--well, all I could think was, "Oh, dear. I'm going to have to leave town now. This is my 'get out' notice."

A handwritten envelope? Does this happen in 2009? I put the envelope on the counter and stared at it. Gang, you can't imagine the profound sorrow and the anger and the disappointment and the embarrassment this incident caused me. The lost sleep. The worrying about every possible implication and the playing over of my (firm) reaction to said incident in my head. My OCD had so many field trips over this one. To be honest, I shut down for a few weeks, and I said to my closest people on more than one occasion, "This isn't what I signed up for. If this is how it's going to be, if this is how it really feels, I don't know that I want to be involved anymore." Relationships are everything in what I do, and I'd put some stuff on the line for what I deeply felt was just and right. No, for what I deeply feel is just and right.

And here was this envelope, from this person I don't really know, in my house on my kitchen counter. We hadn't spoken, and I didn't even know the role The Person had played in the mess. I had a few scenarios, but only guesses.

After about ten minutes of walking in and out of the kitchen, picking the envelope up and putting it back down, and doing it all again, and again, I finally tore it open. The Person had handwritten a note to me about the incident. The Person went so far as to offer an apology that The Person didn't really seem to owe me.

It was pure class. The Person actually wrote out a note and mailed it to me. Not an email, not a text, but a real note in black ink. In 2009. I'm impressed beyond words.

We shouldn't be so afraid to talk to each other.
We should all be reminded how powerful the pen and the page really is.
We should write notes when something compels us.

We should all be that classy.

-b