Grade Three Cursive Writing Compelled me to do it
The search for my humble beginnings in writing.
I was reminiscing the other day, as one tends to do later in life; trying to remember early childhood memories of when my writing journey began. I was searching for the ways in which it impacted my life back then, and why it is resurfacing now.
I distantly recall spending countless hours making cards, writing heartfelt messages and letters from my heart, to, and for the ones closest to me.
I LOVED to practice cursive writing. The slow process of making the prettiest loops and connecting each letter, resulting in strings of words that held their own – a beautiful practice.
My primary school years were filled with lessons in printing, and cursive writing was equally important in those days. I couldn’t get enough of it. I beamed with pride when I presented my schoolwork to the teacher and having received an award for best handwriting in grade three still holds special meaning for me.
As of late, my thumb and wrists have been chirping the blues, and often hinder me from writing for long periods of time. Being able to type on a computer is a gift, but I miss connecting my pencil to the paper; watching it glide to create something remarkable.
My love for handwriting blossomed far beyond those early formative years. I still make time to write little notes to friends and family.
When my sons moved out of town for post-secondary studies, I created a series of letters for them to open at different intervals throughout the year. It gave me purpose and a sense that they would have a piece of me with them through these letters. I’ve yet to meet someone who doesn’t love a handwritten letter.
I am grateful for these memories, coupled with a few polaroid photos to jog my mind every now and again. They propel me forward to keep writing on the days when I am convinced I am not a writer, nor should I pretend to be one.
Some days I need to work on patience. Other days, I focus on knowing I no longer need to seek the approval of others to write what my heart needs to express. As I revisit the ever sweet cards I made for my parents, they remind me of my love for writing, words, reading, and making others feel special.
As a writer, this is what I know for now, and I will continue to grow from this authentic place and see what transpires.
This brought back fond memories for me, Holly. Thank you! As a child, I loved cursive writing too. A long-time teacher of the grade school I attended (K-8) set up an annual award to be given to the graduating 8th grader with the best penmanship. I had no idea about this award until I received it during our ceremony. My brother won it the following year. I didn't have a typewriter until I was in my late 20s, and didn't get a computer until shortly thereafter, so all of my writing was done by hand. When my grandmother passed away, we found that she had kept a shoebox of all of my letters and cards that I sent to her over the years near her bedside table. She had over two dozen grandchildren and even more great-grandchildren but didn't hoard all of their correspondence. One of my aunts speculated that maybe she kept mine because of their newsy, conversational nature.
These days, I too find it hard to write by hand for too long, but unlike your still-lovely cursive, what I produce on the page is reckless and haphazard. I was trying to read a journal entry I had written to my wife the other day, and I had to pause several times to squint at my scribblings. :)