Stalk the mailman.

There is really nothing I like more than getting mail.

Real mail.

Not "Dear Homeowner" or "Resident" or anything with letters remotely resembling I.R.S. on the envelope, but honest-to-god envelopes with handwriting on them, the kind where someone far, far away picks up a pen with one hand, turns the envelope slightly to the appropriate angle, depending–of course–on the right-or-left-handedness involved, anchors it with one hand by laying that satisfyingly fleshy part of the outer hand on it, and writes on it using the another hand.

That kind of mail, I love. In our convenient world of email, it’s so rare, like finding little jewels glinting on a river of debris in sunlight just microseconds after being left in a wicker basket on my front porch by my mailperson (I live in the South; that’s what we do here–porches, wicker, rockers, cheese grits, reading Faulkner with dust motes flying around us in hot sun through long, dark draperies).

Sometimes, often, most days, pretty much every day, I am disappointed by my mail. Nothing but catalogs for electronic hot dog cookers and promos for the city council election and bills over which I am in deep denial. But some days, like today, I am delighted beyond words by the treasures my mail holds. Delighted. Unexpected surprises (is that redundant?) emerged when I opened a small beige pebbled envelope this afternoon with a wonderful triangular stamp bracing the corner, like those l-shaped metal rods that hold up bookcases in dorm rooms. Inside, a small glassine slip which held a small pocket icon of Philip Glass. A sharp intake of breath measured my delight. "Oh, my" I said aloud to the dog. "This–THIS–is fantastic!" Blue walked away, no doubt overcome by the sheer beauty of the moment.

And so, Laura from Boulder, my thanks to let you know that your amazing treasure arrived. The note on the back of Philip read: "Philip Glass pocket shrine for Patti."

One day, the mailman will come to my house and pick up a treasure to bring on a tiny little horse to your house, Laura (they do still use horses, don’t they?). It will happen when you least expect it, like most unexpected surprises, the kind that thrill and buoy us.

That’s all to say how magical you are for sending me this beautiful Philip. Now in glassine inside my passport inside my wallet (hey, you never know when you might be invited to London for dinner, so keep that passport handy), he is my constant companion, as are you.

Speaking of mail, the orders for 37days 2008 calendars are rolling in, which makes my trip to the Post Office so much more satisfying, not like all those days where I pretend I’m not disappointed by the empty echoey rectangle that awaits me there, standing slack-jawed in front of it as if in shock from eating a whole package of pumpkin-shaped Peeps, not that I have personal experience of that. Connie from Tulsa wins the best envelope award–so gorgeous that it’s up on my bulletin board. Thanks, Connie, for brightening up Box 18323. It was desperately due a makeover. It reminds me that everything is Art, that everything–even envelopes, especially envelopes–are an opportunity for Artfulness.

And though I don’t have details of who or what yet, the word from Tess’ school is that they are as happy as little koalas at all the fantastic mail and stamps and stuff that is coming their way from faraway Australia as they study that country. I think the people who read 37days are the best human beings on the planet. And I’ve got proof.