Block letters, a gentle slant, even, predictable, an officer's orderliness. That is, until damages to the nerve affect grip and control. The simple becomes a monstrosity of a task. The reading daughter grieves the loss.
- Daddy, and loss of use of dominant R hand
Script, so beautifully refined and intelligent having bowed reluctantly to loss of muscle control, now regresses to the scribbles of a school child.
- my brother and ALS
Just think, someone chose the pen, its ink color, the page or card, the canvas, if you will. Then sat, carving time out with collected thoughts, drafting the right combination of words to accurately portray the sentiment with the right amount of emotion, or humor, or sternness or intensity. They imagined your response during the reading. Would you laugh, smile, cry or be angered? The salutation, which needs to be appropriate and aligned with both the relationship of the sender to the receiver as well as the tone of the message. Then, the signing, the claiming, the identity of all that preceded. The sealing. Now, it's done. The mailing, the point of no return. Maybe it's across your lawn or perhaps a short drive to the post office or the "outgoing mailbox" at work. The anticipation, the response, the expectation of a return. So much goes into hand-written letters and cards. Consider yourself blessed to receive.
Beautiful paper inspire beautiful words.
If pens and ink are the voice, then bold-tipped markers are definitely the screamers!
I love writing because writing loves me.
The taken-for-granted ability to hold a pen and guide its work, the eye-hand-brain coordination when injured and diminished by disease or old age, leaves a mind full of thoughts never a chance written. It stays locked in the vault of the mind when the power to speak has been burgled. How heart-wrenching to watch the brilliant silenced, both in voice and on the page. Tears during the struggle turn from loss to frustration, then sadly, surrender. -on witnessing Daddy and brother as they learn a new normal.