The Lost Art of Card Sending

"Open the card first," my mother would always say, her blue eyes sparkling with that special wisdom she possessed for making ordinary moments sacred. We weren't allowed to touch a single present until we'd properly read and appreciated the cards that came with them. Like everything she did – from her gentle guidance to her thoughtful gestures – this ritual was her way of teaching us that the most precious gifts often come wrapped in simple paper, carrying words straight from the heart.

A5 drawers keep my cards & letters at hand

When I tell my girls now, "Don't worry about a gift, just the card," they understand what I mean. It's about taking time with your words, your sentiments, your feelings. My mother taught me that magic lies not just in grand gestures, but in the careful choosing of words that touch the heart. My daughters have watched me carefully preserve every card I've received over the years, tucking them away in my elaborate system of small drawers. Each drawer tells its own story: one for each of my daughters' heartfelt messages, another for my sister's witty notes, sections for siblings, friends, work colleagues, and, most precious of all, my parents.

That last drawer – the one holding my parents' cards – has become something of a sanctuary. I witnessed their gradual decline: my mother's bright eyes growing distant as dementia slowly claimed her memories, my father's world growing darker as his sight failed him. Even after their separation, Dad never forgot a single occasion, often going above and beyond with thoughtful additions like massage vouchers tucked into Mother's Day cards. It was his way of showing that love evolves but never truly ends.

After Mum passed, those cards became my lifeline to her voice, to that ge

Cards from Mum bring a tear every time I read them

ntle soul who always knew how to make moments matter. For months, I couldn't bring myself to look through them – the pain was too raw, too fresh. But when I finally found the courage, what a gift I discovered. There she was, alive in every stroke of her pen, that same thoughtful presence that had shaped so much of who I am. Though she could no longer share new thoughts with me, her written messages remained as powerful and relevant as ever, a bridge across time and loss.

In our current era of quick texts and emoji reactions, we've lost something profound. I find myself nostalgic for the rituals that once marked our connections: the carefully penned thank-you notes after dinner parties, the annual flurry of Christmas cards that kept us tethered to far-flung friends and family. These days, sending a physical card requires a follow-up text to make sure it doesn't languish unseen in a rarely-checked mailbox – a modern concession that somehow diminishes the magic of the surprise.

Yet I refuse to let this tradition fade away entirely. While daily card-writing might be ambitious in today's fast-paced world, I've made a commitment to myself: one card, every week, without fail. I'll start with the stack of Christmas cards gathering dust in my drawer, though tracking down physical addresses has become something of a detective game in this digital age. Each week, I'll choose someone who's been dancing at the edges of my thoughts, someone whose presence in my life deserves acknowledgment and celebration.

There's something deeply meaningful about preserving these physical tokens of connection in an increasingly virtual world.

Perhaps that's why I've always been a keeper of cards – they're tangible proof of the invisible threads that bind us together, little pieces of heart and history we can hold in our hands.

So here's my promise: one card, one connection, one week at a time. Because while instant messages may keep us connected, there's still nothing quite like the flutter of anticipation when opening an envelope and finding a piece of someone's soul carefully folded inside. In a world that moves at the speed of light, sometimes the slowest forms of communication carry the most weight.