There’s something to be said about hand writing things these days. You know, finding a ball point pen and rustling up some unused lined paper. Hand writing always makes me feel important.
I’ve always been far too curious for my own good. When I was young, I would watch people closely. I noticed it when mothers would scold the wrong child – I could see the true culprit, sneakily grinning behind mom’s back as his or her sibling spluttered in indignation.
I noticed it when white people were treated differently compared to others with darker skin – I saw how foreigners eyed up my white parents, with a mixture of respect and distrust.
I noticed the people who hand wrote their documents – I watched them in the hotel lobby, in the café with the indescribable falafel pitas, in the doorways of the crowded market streets. These people who hand wrote their documents always made an impression on me. Not only were they dressed well, but they had this air of importance about them, this kind of “do not question me” look about them, a feeling of power swirling about in their wake.
Minutes ago, when I sat down in a mess of blankets to hand write a letter to a (wait for it) Pen Pal (yeah, that’s right), I felt important as soon as my pen hit the blank page. And somehow, my mood has been instantly brightened by this feeling of significance, this feeling of contentment.
Moments like these are beautiful gifts – when seemingly small events, such as hand writing a letter, lead us to greater revelations and deeper understandings.
Moments like these cause me to overflow.