The letter no one got to read...until now.

And the story of a mango orchard keeper.

I am a writer and artist who also daydreams a lot and smiles to herself throughout a typical day. There is something magical I realize now as an adult myself about growing up in such simple ways. I got to meet beautiful people who didn’t know how to read but had a heart of gold. As I write this, memories of several women that crossed my path come to mind. In fact, in the last few years, I decided that it is not fair to me to keep these stories to myself, so I am about to share it all here.

Now, to give you a little background, but not too much that I bore you out of your mind. At the end of last year, I decided to launch a snail mail club to share my art and the stories above-mentioned. I played around with the theme and ended up going a different direction with the mail club. Instead of sharing about the stories of childhood, I organized it into a floriography-themed envelope. I actually launched officially in January of this year, where I share a piece of art created specially for that month and share a secret, uplifting message with women that they get to decode each month.

The reason I share this is because the very first letter I created when I was looking at the logistics of running a snail mail never got sent to anyone. In fact, it has been sitting in my Drive like other of my writings. And from there, it has been screaming to be shared. So here you have it: the letter that no one ever received… until now. I hope you enjoy it and that it sparks something beautiful in you.

Hola!

Oh my gosh, there are so many things I want to share in this first letter, but I have to keep it straight to the point.

I am so super excited to have you as my new penpal! As a writer, artist, and hopeless romantic, I find the nostalgia of letter writing to be much like a time-travel machine. I’m assuming you also have a soft spot for a good old-fashioned, heartfelt letter arriving in your actual mailbox.

This first month, I wanted to share a special print of a painting that represents the whimsy and wisdom of women across the globe. I called it Reverie.

The intricacy of the human spirit is something that I have always found fascinating. We are all so complicated and yet so simple and pure. The uniqueness of a single person is something we could discuss and even debate about forever and never come to fully understand. I have always loved to observe people—their behavior, their interaction with one another, their beauty, and distinctive traits. And even though this month’s artwork was created to represent all women, I remember one of the many unique spirits who had crossed my path. Let me tell you a little about her. Her name is Doña Ricarda.

I grew up in the countryside of northern Mexico. My parents worked very hard to raise their children and provide for their education. Dad had two professions: racehorse trainer and brick builder. My entire childhood revolved around thoroughbred hooves and clay pools.

Right next to my home, there was a four-acre mango orchard. It was not commercialized, which meant the trees would fill with different kinds of mango fruit every season—so many that you could smell the delicious aroma all the way across the brick fields, the horse track, and to my home. All this was wonderful...

Except, nobody got to eat them... except Doña Ricarda.

Now, to be fair, I don’t think Doña Ricarda ate all the mangoes herself every season, or she would be very ill! But to explain the experience, I need to tell you a little more about her.

Doña Ricarda was an elderly woman who lived at the very edge of the orchard. She and her husband took care of the place, meaning they lived there so people knew the orchard wasn’t abandoned and stayed off the property. I never knew who the actual owner was, nor did I know much about her husband—I don’t even know his name to this day. I only know that she would be seen along the side of the orchard tending to the trees and watering her flowers.

Even to a small child, she was an intriguing woman: she always wore a scarf around her head and never really left the property. Occasionally, I would sneak close to the property line and peek across the wire fence to see if the mangoes were ready. If she was there, she would wave and invite me in. I went in a few times, and she didn’t really say much, but she always offered me mangoes from the basket she had on her wooden table and a cup of water.

Aside from all that, something that has stood with me over the years about the magic of the mango orchard and its caretaker was the kindness in her solitary eyes and her willingness to share the little she had. When she was watching me, I tried not to stare too much, but she was such a mystery that I found it difficult not to. In my memory, two things still remain clear: a few strands of beautiful silver hair that would sometimes sneak out of her scarf, and the kindness she offered to a little barefooted girl who was always covered in clay and dust.

I wish I could write more lines to you in this letter, like a lot more, but that might make for a very long letter. So, to close, I would like to remind you that you are special, loved, and precious. Your unique spirit is here to shine, to grow, to learn, and to dance with the rhythm of life itself.

I hope this little story sparks a happy memory for you, too. If it does, or if you have any suggestions for a topic or theme that you would like to see from me in a future edition of the Floriography Print Mail Club, send me a note! I’d love to hear about you.

Until next month, my friend.

Mili