Just as you came into life with a driving interest of some kind, so did I. We all do. The purpose of adopting self-affirming writing patterns is to give life to that passion and begin living it! I have a grandson who, at the age of 18 months, was found in the family garage attempting to remove his older sister's bicycle wheel with a monkey wrench. He's now 19 years old and a star Motocross athlete. I'm sure you know of stories like this. You may have one of your own--or be one yourself!
When I'm asked about my background in handwriting, I simply reply that I've been fascinated with the letters of the alphabet from the crib. I am not alone in this. On page 401 of his book Fluid Concepts and Creative Analogies, Dr. Douglas Hofstadter shared these thoughts: "I have had a fascination with the shapes of letters from early childhood. I loved mastering the alphabet, printing out names and words, assimilating the intricate swirls of cursive writing, perusing books about letters and their evolution, observing both the grace and the irregularities in the handwriting of my friends."
As his fascination grew, it took him in the direction of computer science. My fascination took me the direction of spirit. In truth, neither of us "took our fascination" anywhere; it took us. From the crib to today is a long leap—one filled with many non-alphabetical adventures, and yet, through the years, my love of those letters has only grown, one step at a time.
We all have a dream; we all have a reason for being here; we all have our unique way of making the world a happier place. It may take time to evolve and mature, but if you hold firmly to it, by changing your handwriting (thinking) patterns, it will manifest.
Some of the stories I'm sharing will make you laugh knowingly---because you have experienced something similar. It happens all the time. Ready -- set -- go...!
When I was about two years old, the milkman made deliveries in his truck, and left our milk in glass bottles on the doorstep. My mother would leave empty bottles on the back porch, and every few days the milkman would come and replace them with full ones. Whenever she wanted something extra, like cottage cheese or butter, she would write a list on a small piece of paper and slip it into the neck of the empty bottle. When the milkman came he would read the list, go out to his truck, and bring back what she had ordered.
I remember that my mother and the milkman were often unpleasant with one another. After the milk delivery she would often grumble that he had not left the additional items she had requested. When she confronted him the next time around, he would say that there had been no note, and my mother--a woman of strong will--would insist that she had left one. The relationship was an ongoing confrontation.
One day my mother had an especially long list of extra items for the milkman to leave, and rather than busy herself in another part of the house, she stood by the kitchen window, peeked from behind the curtains so as not to be seen, and watched him as he made his regular stops in the neighborhood. "I was going to make sure he left all the items I had listed, and if he didn't, I was ready to chase him out to his truck and get them myself."
She watched him as he finished the delivery at the next-door neighbor's, then sat in his truck momentarily and wrote down his post-delivery notes. "My eyes had him in range, like a camera on close-up, when, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the back porch. I leaned over to get a better look and I saw you take the note from the milk bottle and go back into the house. I was shocked! Then in a flash I realized, 'Wait a minute. She cant read!' and I raced down the hall."
When my mother found me I was in the back corner of my bedroom closet actively stuffing the note in an old shoe box. When she took the note from me, the shoe box tipped over and out spilled old shopping lists, scribbled notes, hand-addressed envelopes, and old lists she had left for the milkman. Why had I saved them? Although I couldn't read, I "saw" people in handwriting, specifically in the way they shaped their letters. I had samples from my mom and dad, my favorite aunts and uncles, my godmother, my grandmother, some of my grandmother's friends, and many people I have long since forgotten. Having a sample of someone's writing with all those letters was, to me, like having treasured photographs.
When I promised my mother that I would no longer take notes out of the milk bottles, she, in turn, promised to save handwritten envelopes for me. And so my alphabetical collection began.
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