In the Dodauer forest of Germany stands a tree that is responsible for over a hundred marriages. I heard about this botanical mailbox a few years back, and even sent a real letter myself. The tree is supposed to be a strong tourist attraction, with its own postman to sort through the many letters sent in from all over the world. It’s an interesting read, but the history comes from a young German couple that supposedly kept a forbidden romance alive by hiding their letters in the hollow of the huge tree. The couple was eventually allowed to reunite, and the tree has taken on a new fame, sparking generation after generation of romances.
Although writing a letter to the tree didn’t match me with my true love, the idea of it stuck with me– something about an extreme appreciation of strangers, better yet, and extremely intimate and honest appreciation of strangers. Like the rest of this blog, the love letters below are for me more than anyone else. There are no intended recipients here: it’s just my own way of slipping my thoughts into the strange and hopeful quiet.
Have a love letter to release to the world? Whether it’s an ode to clean socks, appreciation for partners, or a sonnet on your celebrity crush, Wastepaper basket is interested.
Email us with the subject “Love Letters” to see yours posted anonymously on upcoming social media.
Read more about the living mailbox in here in this article from the BBC.
A Letter To The Stranger On The Train
I’m missing london tonight, and thought of you. Not at first- first I remembered the green parakeets outside the kitchen window, the ones that I didn’t believe in. Flying over a dark sea, settling into a strange city, you expect people to pull your leg. But there they were: flittering in the bare winter branches of London fields, in the trees of our back garden, the wild birds roosted, screamed, preened. I miss living in a place where you can’t help seeing new things.
I write you this letter, in the hopes that you are taking a summer holiday in Germany, and have decided to take a lover- I’m the girl you saw in the train, the one who kept hoping you would look up, in the pink hat and the red-rimmed eyes. I wore bright clothes and you kept looking at me- people look at each other all the time in the tube, but you were one that I liked looking at me. I’ll tell you now what I wanted to tell you then, which is that I thought you were handsome, kind, and intelligent looking. I’ll also tell you that we exited at the same stop, and I tried to look for you- more than anything I hoped you stepped out to follow me. It’s strange, you fear being followed by strange men for months and months, and then in one evening you hope for it- and it doesn’t happen.
Do you ever remember people you never know? I find I’m always collecting memories of people that I don’t speak to, strangers. Do you think that I’ll keep these people in my head for very long, or will they begin to crowd each other out as I get older?
Do you know I’ve never been to london in the summer? I wonder about the smell. I’ve only known london when it’s cold. I wonder, also, if you could have been a passer-through-er like me. What if we were the two americans on the train, two strangers that could have had a connection and did nothing about it? I can only comfort myself by saying that maybe you were a strange stranger, maybe a traveller who didn’t speak a word of english. After a long history of men keeping silent around me, I can be comforted in the idea that your hesitation to talk to me was the fear of miscommunication.
Do you believe in reading minds? I’m beginning to believe a lot of ridiculous things the older that I get. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? But this is true for me: as I dip my toes out of post-adolescence and into “real” adulthood, I am captured by new and fanciful ideas. Maybe that’s what happens when you spend so much time alone. I don’t know why I’m alone so much- I know I push good people away, and often. Maybe you’ll stop reading here, so I’ll explain myself. I like making people like me- the only problem is, so many people have such an idea of me that they get attached, and want to keep being attached. Just like I put on a show for them to receive love, they try and keep me around to receive love from me. The only problem there is that I never really give a thought to the idea that I might not stand them at all until it’s too late. I’d like to keep making everybody happy, but it’s miserable, and immoral. I just can’t stand being around people who i know will only ever be able to stand the top crust of my being. I’m a whole person, stranger, with all sorts of layers- layers that need to breathe. So I’ve trimmed down my sightings of these people, or done my best. The only problem is, it seems that these people are the only ones that stuck around. But I’m thinking it’s better to be alone and be the real, absolute, contextual you than it is to shut up and sit down in a crowd. What are your thoughts?
I wonder if my looks were misconstrued. I can be bad at faces sometimes. Maybe when you were shooting those looks at me, I scared you away. I’m afraid I might have looked very sad then. That might surprise you- people are often surprised that you can be very sad in a large fluffy hat. It’s hard, but it’s possible.
Did you know that I had a breakdown in the middle of the city? I’ve had breakdowns before, but always in the comfort of my own home. I really branched out in London- it’s always good to try new things. I cried while walking on the pavement, for really simple reasons. I had never been at a loss at where to go before- my hosts had been awful, and my errands were finished. It was seven in the evening, and I was frozen cold- I remember turning a corner, and seeing the way to the flat, and turning around to march on. After a few minutes I wondered where it was that I was going- that’s when I started crying. I crossed different streets, turned different corners, but the fact was that I didn’t have anywhere to go. About a minute into sobbing, still marching away, I remembered that John Mulnaey comedy special, with the song about the random white lady crying, and then I had to laugh. Sometimes when I felt I was doing things wrong, I would remind myself that I probably wasn’t the oddest thing that passerbys would see that day. My proof for this was all the odd things I would see on a daily basis- on Broadway market I saw an old man with a parrot on his shoulder, in the middle of january. Also in the middle of january, the body builders exercised on monkey bars shirtless, pumping out bass-lined music from boom boxes, like a slutty jon hughs character. In the park you could get a drip coffee for a pound, but it came in a paper cup like the ones you put ketchup in for fast food joints.
What was it that made you fall in love with london? You might think I’m naive, but I have a theory that everyone who chose to live in London is a little in love with it. England is beautiful- I heard many people disagree with me, but I’ve seen ugliness, I’ve seen beauty, and I know England has it. I don’t think you would choose to live in a grey place, where at any moment you could be pushed onto tracks, stabbed in an alley, or run over by a lime bike unless you really loved it. There are other places to live, aren’t there? So there must be a reason people chain themselves to london.
I don’t have a job now- I will soon, so don’t worry about supporting me before we’re married. I don’t think I’ll be over there for a long time- I don’t have very much money to spare. I’ve got too may practicalities to work out now, and the dreams are slowly being pushed to the wayside- but I still dream. When I have the money, I’ll ride the train from London Fields to Hackney central. Maybe we could bump into each other again. I hope one of us is a little braver next time.
The Wastepaper Basket 
Leave a comment