The Graveyard and the Drawer
Have you ever cleaned out a drawer and found a card you simply couldn't throw away?
Not because it was expensive or elaborate. Because it carried something more — a memory, a season of life, a reminder that someone slowed down long enough to think of you.
I've been doing some spring cleaning lately. Truthfully, it's closer to de-hoarding. Somewhere in the middle of sorting through old papers and forgotten stacks, I came across a Christmas card from a childhood friend.
She hand-paints her cards. Every single one. And this past Christmas, she told me about the snowman card she'd been working on — how she kept trying different techniques, different shapes, different color combinations, chasing something she couldn't quite name. Version after version. Nothing was right. It was genuinely frustrating her.
I laughed when she told me that. Not at her — with her. Because I do the exact same thing.
I have what I call a graveyard.
It's a collection of paintings that never quite made it — pieces I started with a clear feeling in mind and finished with something that fell short. A blue cottage doorway with flowers spilling out of a pot. A kitchen scene: three sets of hands around a steaming pot of something rich and red, string lights glowing overhead. A cutting board covered in garden vegetables, vivid and alive. I wanted each of them to feel like home. Like the specific warmth of a room full of people who love each other. Like calm. Like belonging.
They didn't get there. Not the way I hoped.
For a long time, I looked at those paintings and saw failure. Proof that I hadn't been good enough, skilled enough, practiced enough. I'd set them aside and move on, quietly disappointed.
But here's what I've been sitting with lately:
Those paintings exist because I cared deeply about what I was trying to say. The frustration wasn't the problem. It was the proof. You only chase just right when the meaning matters more than the image.
My friend's snowman card made it into someone's hands this Christmas. Maybe into a drawer that won't be emptied for years. Not because it was technically flawless — but because she poured herself into it. Because the person receiving it could feel that, even if they couldn't explain why.
That's what meaning does. It travels. It outlasts the imperfection.
I think about the notes I've kept over the years — the ones I found in that drawer. None of them were perfect. Some had crossed-out words. Uneven handwriting. Simple, almost clumsy sentences. But they're still here. Because the person who wrote them meant it. They sat down, picked up a pen, and decided that someone was worth the effort.
That's the whole thing, really.
Not the brushstroke. Not the perfectly chosen words. Not the card that turned out exactly right on the first try.
Just the decision to try. To reach toward someone. To say — with paint or ink or a few quiet words — you matter to me, and I wanted you to know.
Your graveyard isn't failure. It's evidence that you care enough to keep trying.
And that note you've been meaning to send? It doesn't need to be perfect. It just needs to be sent.
Looking for a place to start? You can browse the latest cards and prints at https://tingesofhope.com/collections/notecards.