There is some alchemy that can happen despite us. It takes us through the fire of our resistance… until we arrive at something pure and true and so obviously authentic that was never before comprehensible.
I received a thank-you note today from a friend who claimed she was nervous about sending me the note because she considers me the queen of the thank-you note. As I held her card and considered this, I wondered if any title in the world (other than “Mommy”) could make me happier.
I love the thank-you note. Taking the time to write down what I appreciate about another person, to simmer in that gratitude word by word, and then send it off in a pretty little envelope to arrive into that person’s hands just makes me feel good.
She insisted not only that I be grateful in writing but that I be memorable, creative, and original.
I have my mother to thank for this discipline that has become a bedrock of my being. She insisted not only that I be grateful in writing but that I be memorable, creative, and original. The crucible of our collaboration began when I was thirteen, sitting at the kitchen table and drowning in a sea of bat mitzvah thank-you notes, hand cramped and mind exhausted. (How many different ways can you say “Thanks for your generosity,” to a friend of your grandparents who you don’t actually know?) If each card didn’t specifically state what I appreciated about the gift and why I was glad the recipient had come to my bat mitzvah, I had to start again.
Given what I went through—two laborious weeks of writing, debating, rewriting—it surprises me that today, at the age my mother was when we labored together in my first gratitude marathon, I am a disciple of the thank-you note, humbly in service to a small gesture through which I cherish my friends, family, clients, and community.
How did it happen? I’m not sure.
The girl I was at that kitchen table could only see the burden of responsibility. And yet, the work that girl did, card after card after card, became a kind of transportation toward the woman she would become.
Now, on most days, I put a thank-you note in the mail using special letterpress cards I designed and printed for this purpose. The more cards I send, the more people I think of to thank.
For example, I hired Brant to build an arbor around my front door. I drew it exactly as I wanted, and he realized my vision perfectly. Marveling at how the arbor’s beauty uplifted me every time I crossed my threshold, I called Brant a few weeks after the arbor went up (because I didn’t have his mailing address). He answered the phone defensively.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice terse and distant.
“You can say, ‘You’re welcome,’” I responded.
“I don’t understand,” Brant shot back.
“I am calling to say, ‘Thank you.’”
Silence.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I love my arbor, and I wanted you to know how much I appreciate your work.”
More silence.
“I’ve been doing this work for twenty years, and no one has ever called to thank me for it,” said Brant. “People only call me when they have problems.” He was incredulous.
I had a similar experience with L.J., who sold me my car at the dealership. He answered my questions, didn’t push, and gave me space to think and decide. I wrote to let him know that he completely exceeded my expectations of what a beat-’em-down car sales experience would be like and that I was happy with my car choice.
L.J. called me a few days later. He said that his was the first thank-you note in the history of the dealership. The managers open the mail and then pass on all acceptable communications to the sales team. Evidently, my note was circulated through the ranks, and as a result, L.J. was mercilessly teased. But I’ll bet that every one of his peers looked at him differently after that.
I hated writing thank-you notes until I loved it.
I have now lived long enough to know what my mother knew as she encouraged her protégé to practice her thank-you-note scales: There is some alchemy that can happen despite us. It takes us through the fire of our resistance, through the abrasive discipline of our effort, until we arrive at something pure and true and so obviously authentic that was never before comprehensible.
I hated writing thank-you notes until I loved it. What I discovered along the way was that practice is not only the path to mastery but also a means of initiation into ourselves. Through the repetitive act of giving thanks, I discovered how deeply grateful and fortunate I am. As I wrote myself to a heightened state of gratitude, I became aware of the fabric of good fortune into which I was solidly woven—and this strengthened my bond with most of the people who crossed my path.
Sage Cohen is the author of Fierce on the Page, The Productive Writer, and Writing the Life Poetic, all from Writer’s Digest Books, and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World from Queen of Wands Press. Her award-winning poetry, essays and fiction have been published widely. Sage offers classes for writers at Sage School. Visit her at sagecohen.com. This essay is excerpted from Fierce on the Page (Writer’s Digest Books).