I got mail.

Every once in a while, I need some inspiring. When I need my ass verbally kicked, I call my father for a good old-fashioned "what the hell is wrong with you?" kind of chat. When I need to be nurtured, I call my mother for a little bit of baby-talking. And when I need some serious help, I cross my fingers and hope that I'll get a letter from my "favorite uncle**." On one particularly gloomy and grinding New York day, I opened my crappy little mailbox for one such letter. It's hard to get the full effect without seeing his swooping penmanship (and penmanship, not handwriting, is the only way to describe my uncle) but here is a glimpse of what makes him and his epistles so wonderful:

...I thought I had better write this is longhand, for fear that you think that I have completely capitulated to modernity and thereby abandoned all of my principles...

...It sound as if you are settling in fine, although I must confess I worry about you're being in that huge hectic seedbed of rampant wickedness called NYC...

...Let me reiterate my opposition (doubtless fed by deep-set prejudice) to the law school idea. Really, Nora, what this country very much does not need is more lawyers. Poets, yes. Lawyers, no...

These are just a few gems from a letter punctuated with well wishes and sound advice. Lately, like many of my friends, I've been "adrift in a sea of uncertainty" to quote Ryan Williamson. As kids, we're all told that we'll be shining stars, but somewhere along the line we lose that "I can do anything I want to do" mentality and figure out that there isn't room in the world for yet another Indiana Jones, or another Louisa May Alcott, and we're going to have to figure something else out. What exactly will that something be? Who knows.

Worrying is in my nature. As a small child, I once told my mother to "worry about the important stuff, like life and what to eat." Well I'm plenty fat with the foods I've decided upon, so that just leaves the small matter of life to worry about.