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This year I have written, and sent, 357 letters with little cranes in them. Some were birthday cards (when I was doing oh-so-well early in the year). Some were congratulatory and some were consolatory. Some were sad recollections of things that happened, or things that never happened.

357 of my little cranes have found themselves scattered across the world. The latest batch just left today, and I am overwhelmed by the thought of my words, the tiniest bits of my possible effort, touching so many. Strangers, friends, family. 16 Countries.

A friend of mine sent me a picture of a letter I don’t remember sending. The words hold a boldness that I’ve forgotten I used to have, but want so badly to get back.

Those words, written so long ago, remind me that I used to be a different person. Those words reminding me of the person I want to be. Those words that I wrote to help her, coming back around to help me.

I’ve always believed that I was putting good into the world with my letters, and had hoped that the good I was putting out would return to me one day, but that small and immediate circle is something I never could have imagined.