I remember being too little to know how to write, but writing anyway. I played with pens, pencils, and paper, and I would make loops and lines and swirls. I remember thinking it magical that thoughts could become lines on paper, and that someone else could understand those lines.
I love the sound of the dance of a sharp number two pencil. I love the way it feels in my hand and in my heart. I didn’t know when I was little that this would be a life-long intimate relationship – writing and me, but it is.
Writing with loops and lines and swirls connects me with my deepest being. For much of my adult life my handwriting was a messy shorthand – part printed/part cursive, and illegible to the uninitiated. Now, I write in cursive again, reacquainting myself with my childhood friend.
Cursive writing slows my hand, and unhurries my mind. It gives my thoughts space to linger. Sometimes I lose my way, and then I revert to the meaningless loops and lines of my childhood, while my mind catches up with my hand again.
I love the feel of words flowing, rhymes forming, and stories unfolding. Loops and lines are always where I begin. The computer comes later. It has other jobs to do.
What called to you when you were little enough to be listening? What captured your imagination? Are you listening still?