Blogging A to Z: "H" is for Handwriting

     Every few months or so, I open our mailbox, sift through the small pile of charity appeals, catalogues, and bills, and spy something that brings a smile of unmitigated joy to my lips: the handwriting of a certain friend. Now this friend, who lives in Italy, is a self-proclaimed dinosaur and not at all ashamed to be so. A true remnant of the last century, he has made, at 59 years of age, but few concessions to the latest technological advances in communication; he uses a mobile phone, has a fax machine, and conducts some business via email. However, when it comes to personal relationships, he categorically refuses to email, and will not even consider opening a Twitter or Facebook account, because, apart from the aforesaid business emailing, he never touches a computer. As for the mobile phone, he does use it to call me, but only when he's in America. So be it. As recompense, I have his handwriting, that visible extension of his very personality. The mere glimpse of it instantly conjures up the image of his face. Opening the envelope is like opening my front door to let him in; unfolding the pages and reading his scrawl, typically Italianate and barely legible, is like hearing the lilt and rhythms of his voice; the peculiar loop to his g's is like the peculiar cluster of curls that stubbornly hangs over his forehead.

     Every year or so, I open our mailbox, sift through the pile, and spy something that brings a half wistful, half rueful smile to my lips: the handwriting of my former novice directress at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. It is precise as a school teacher's, carefully formed, no lavish loops, no over-long crosses to the t's. Her handwriting is indeed she. Reading her letter, I hear the voice, softly modulated, rather halting, always with a smile behind it, even when recounting sad news. It is the disciplined handwriting of a woman contentedly defined by the walls within which she lives, a woman who shapes each letter according to the rules she learned well and long ago, as a child. As I read, I see her seated across from me, knees together, one foot slightly in front of the other, the hands folded easily in her lap, unfolding every few minutes or so to smooth her scapular, which of course doesn't need smoothing. Her handwriting is as recognizable and pristine as the habit she wears.

     When I write by hand, whether it be a letter or the draft of a poem, I have the sensation that my thought flows from my mind, through my arm, out the tip of the pen, and manifests itself on the page in characters that are as unique as the being that formed them. My handwriting has undergone many changes over the years; it bears little to no resemblance to the writing I had in high school or college or even ten years ago—and appropriately so. I myself have been through radical changes, especially over the past ten years. When I look through my journals or through drafts of early poems, I know exactly where I was emotionally and intellectually, by the state of my handwriting. It is the blueprint of my life.

     I sincerely hope I may continue to visit with the people I love through their handwriting, not just through the cold, generic font on Twitter or Facebook or email. But I know too well that cursive is a dying art, now seldom taught in schools. What a shame to lose this unique expression of each utterly unique personality!