With Love, From Me To You

In the course of a year, I now receive only a half-dozen pieces of handwritten correspondence. (For those of you who no longer remember what handwritten means, it means written by a human, with a writing implement, in their own unique handwriting.) Look at your mail. A few birthday cards, a holiday card, an invitation or two, but even those are usually done by robot to mimic expensive calligraphy. Most package labels are printed on computers, as are address labels. Sending out invitations in Zapf Chancery 12-point on clear Avery labels is not handwriting. Neither is Paperless Post.

I've noticed the same phenomenon at work - email or chats are certainly the most preferred forms of interoffice correspondence. There are dusty shelves of note pads announcing cheerfully From The Desk Of, cuddled up with the Pesto-Bismol pink ones with many check boxes, whose sole purpose is to inform you of all the things you missed While You Were Out. With the advent of voicemail, texting and email, paper messages are much less in favor. And in some ways this is a good thing - they do often get lost, misplaced, buried under another pile on someone's desk. That urgent message is not urgently received, and its recipient hits the wall, which in turn is very unpleasant for the poor message taker. Having been on both ends of that, I am definitely okay with the improvements technology has given us. But there is also a time and place for a little more character.

While mucking out my desk the other day, I had a wonderful visit with my beloved grandpa, in the form of a two-line scribble I saved from just a few months before he died. I found an old invitation written in the distinct hand of a very dear friend...who is no longer particularly dear. A book inscription from my mother, whose special combination of upper and lower case letters is most intriguing. (I never even attempted to write my own absent notes to the school office.)  My son's obvious struggles to write legibly as a lefty using right-handed notebooks. My dad's always-slanting-to the-right, firm and strong. My future husband's once-draftsman printing, antique as he now uses a mellowed script. My own handwriting on years of cancelled checks, getting bigger and sloppier as I got busier and less self-conscious. But it is mine. It is only mine, and the people who know me and love me recognize it as mine.

There has been much lament that the art of letter-writing has died, which is not at all true. We are probably writing more letters to one another now than ever before. Although they are brief, with much shorthand used, they are still letters. But they are not handwritten, and we should not let this opportunity for distinction slip away. There was once a time when a pen was a coveted and special gift. There are some very elegant people out there still who do still have their handwriting intact, and use it every day. I encourage you to make at least one of them your friend. 

Next, sit down with a few different pens or pencils and find your hand again. Start small - maybe just your grocery list. It's April, you can always work up to the Christmas cards. It’s not even as hard as texting or typing since there is only one hand involved. Even so, do not do it while you are driving.

When you have got it back fully and confidently, write someone you love a letter. When they receive it, a new type of connection will be made, either for the first time ever or for the first time in a while. It will say This is from me--Only I make these shapes this way--Only I slant at this very particular angle-- Only I bear down with this particular intensity. This could only be from me, and it could only be for you.