An ordinary, pleasant day is the most precious kind of all

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

I have been away, but there is no away from this. The war I watch on TV is real, as real as the ocean in front of me.

I walk the beach. I am on vacation in North Carolina so it’s not warm. Not like Florida. But the air is soft and there is no breeze and though the day is overcast, the beach is long and wide and the waves are rhythmic and gentle.

But for the war, this would be a moment in paradise. It’s tranquil and remote, off the beaten path. You can walk for miles and hear only birds and the lapping of waves.

I have come to this beach because a friend discovered it last year. Sunset Beach, she told me, is a hidden treasure and was known only to locals, until Nicholas Sparks, author of “The Notebook,” gave it, and its now famous Kindred Spirit mailbox, a lead role in his 2018 novel “Every Breath.”

I haven’t read “Every Breath” but apparently many people have because the Kindred Spirit mailbox draws people from all over the world.

Visually, it’s a typical mailbox, not studded with stars or angels or overused sayings like “Smile and the world smiles with you.” It’s a standard size black metal box, which says, in white block letters, “KINDRED SPIRIT” (because we are all kindred spirits), and which sits on a worn driftwood post at the bottom of a sand dune, a mile and half from the closest walkway to the beach. It is, literally, in the middle of nowhere. And it is this, its location, that makes this mailbox not typical.

Not typical, too, is its function. People come here not to mail letters; the box is not recognized by the US Postal Service. People come here to write what is in their heart. What they are worried about. What they wish. What they want. What they regret. They’ve been doing this since the late 1970s when the mailbox, the brainchild of Frank Nesmith and Claudia Sailor, was first set atop driftwood. Inside, Nesmith and Sailor placed an empty ruled notebook, a pen, and an invitation to everyone who came by, to write and to read what others wrote. For years, Nesmith read and preserved these notebooks. Now they are housed at the University of North Carolina’s William Madison Randall Library. Volunteers collect and curate the new letters.

The day I find the mailbox, it holds just four small notebooks. I sit on bench – there are two – and read them all.

“Dear Kindred Spirit, I am on a mental getaway. The world has become so unfamiliar to me however sitting here helps me realize there are still places to go with such beauty and closeness to God…”

“2/25/22 Kindred Spirit! Give me the courage to become my true self. I feel caged, stifled…”

“February 21. Kindred spirits are so hard to find so cherish those who come into your life. My most treasured ‘sister-by-choice’ of 60+ years recently passed away…”

“Hi Kindred Spirit. I have traveled from Cape Cod to find you. After reading Every Breath by Nicholas Sparks, I knew I had to come here to feel the spirit on the beach…”

“I can stare at the ocean forever. It calms me.”

I watch four women arrive. I watch as each takes a notebook and reads. I watch as each of them writes. And as they depart together, quietly.

I find only one entry about this newest war. I don’t copy the words in my notebook. It is only Day 2 of the invasion and I hope, magical thinking, that if I don’t write the words, if I don’t reinforce them, there will not be Day 3.

But there was a Day 3.

Frank Nesmith, whose mailbox has provided hope for so many, died in 2020. He lived to be 93. In SunsetNC.com his daughter writes about his long and interesting life. Included in her remembrance is this poem, which Nesmith wrote on August 5, 1975, when he was 49.

A Pleasant Day

Another day, another bright star in the Milky Way of my Life.

This day should be framed and hung on my wall.

Oh, Lord, please give me the memory to relive this day.

When all is not ecstasy, I could replay this tape.

No, dear Lord, do not allow me to live in the past.

Bring me new days, new experiences.

“This day should be framed and hung on my wall.” A pleasant day. An ordinary, pleasant day should be framed and hung and remembered.

Especially now, I think. Especially now.