Message in a Bottle

Dear fellow travelers,

I think the Love Letters started much earlier than I thought. Not with a website. Not with a newsletter. Not even with the Internet.

But with a message in a bottle.

I was young. I was doing an internship at a hotel in Munich. I was heartbroken. And probably a hundred other things at the same time.

So I went for a walk along the Isar with our black Labrador. We walked along little paths that hardly anyone knew about—places where the water grows quiet and you get the feeling that you might discover something.

And suddenly, an idea came to me. What if I wrote a letter? Not to anyone in particular. Just to anyone. To life itself.

I wrote a note. I don't remember exactly what it said. Maybe I asked if the person who found it had ever had a broken heart.

Then I rolled up the letter. I put it in a bottle. And I sent it down the Isar.

Weeks later, a reply came. A real reply. Someone had found her.

I don't remember exactly what it said. Just that she was friendly. That there had been someone on the other side.

These days, I often think that the "Love Letters" began right there.

Maybe that's why I'm not surprised that I was already writing letters as a child and teenager. To my grandma in the U.S. To my cousin. To a boy in Ghana. To pen pals in Russia after my high school exchange program. To a boy in Morocco.

Back then, there was no Internet yet. If you wanted to get in touch with someone, you had to write a letter. And then wait. Sometimes for weeks. Sometimes for months.

And yet it felt surprisingly close. Maybe even closer than some things today.

When I think about it, this pattern has run through my entire life. I write. I send something out. And eventually, something comes back.

Sometimes an answer. Sometimes an encounter. Sometimes a friendship. Sometimes an entire life's journey.

That's why, to me, the "Love Letters" aren't newsletters. Nor are they articles. In fact, they aren't even blog posts.

They are messages in a bottle. Letters to life, love, and humanity. Letters where I never know exactly who will read them. Or when. Or why.

Sometimes a message in a bottle reaches exactly the person who needs it most. Sometimes it drifts through the water for a long time. And sometimes it changes the person who wrote it first.

Maybe that's the best part about it. That once you let a letter go, you can't control it anymore. All you can do is write it. And trust.

Just like back then by the Isar. With a black female Labrador. A little too much heartbreak. And a bottle full of hope.

With love and a message in a bottle in my luggage,
Jeannette