Something for Yourself

My love of calligraphy and hand lettering started over 20 years ago, in my kindergarten class of 2000. Once, my teacher was making her usual rounds to check each student’s progress from their weekend homework, when she stopped at my desk, and did a double take at my work.

If anyone is thinking that the rest of the story is something to the effect of, “Her teacher noticed that her letter forms were not the typically illegible scribblings of a 5 year old, but the beautifully unique work of a budding artistic genius”, I will save you some time and tell you, no, absolutely not. I’d been struggling to learn letter forms, specifically the letter “r” in my practice book.

When my teacher came around to me, she pointed to my smudge riddled book, settled on a particularly heinous looking sentence, and asked, “ What is this letter?”. I replied confidently, that it was the letter “r” while secretly thinking, “Wow, I guess I’m not the only one struggling to remember my ABCs.”.

My teacher then asked with a teasing smile, “Well then, why does it look like a bird trying to fly off the page my dear?”. We both giggled as I erased the letter and tried again, with her hand guiding mine this time.

She always told my class that the way that your letters look is sometimes as important as what they say. I didn't understand that until many years later when I decided to take up modern calligraphy as a creative outlet.

My kindergarten teacher was very unique, in that she always taught her children the basics of creative lettering and cursive, despite their tender age. I consider this to be the catalyst to my lifelong love of letter forms. Years later, in the third grade, when most Millennial children learned cursive for two weeks of the school year, I finally found myself ahead of the creative lettering game. I knew the basics, and even got to help teach some of my classmates.

Though, my work was not particularly skilled or beautiful, the basics were there, and my letters no longer resembled volant animals. I always got a so much joy out of the compliments that came from having unique handwriting.

I continued to practice cursive for years following those early school years. When my group projects required an artsy banner, or a scribe for an essay, I was the go to girl. My skills quickly became a currency used to obtain praise, or help others appear more credible. I seldom used them for my own personal satisfaction anymore, and the same can be said for my myriads of other hobbies. From playing trumpet, to drawing, each skill was catalogued into an archive of talents that are useful to other people.

I had stopped truly progressing in anything artistic by the age of 23. My work quickly became the one of the only important things in my life, because I had subconsciously learned that the world does not typically value abilities that only benefit the person performing them.

During one particularly stressful work month I traveled to over a dozen cities within the first few weeks. My anxiety mounted so high, that I told my sister that I was beginning to question the point of it all. I didn’t know at the time, that I had an undiagnosed neurodivergent condition that contributed not only to my loss of interest in my hobbies, but my tendency to fixate on work.

My sister sat me down, and said, “Jasmine, you need a hobby. We simply do not function well without something that we do, that’s just for ourselves.”. I knew that she was right, but I no longer had much interest in anything in particular.

I watched every video, and read every article about taking up hobbies in your early 20s, I asked my sister for advice. She quickly recommended modern calligraphy to me, because she remembered my love of drawing letters as a child.

I spent the next few months learning everything I could, from connections, to flourishing, and my mental health started to improve significantly. I felt bouts of joy that I hadn’t in years, though I had technically never stopped being an artistic person. I made sure not to share my progress too often, lest my momentum be killed by creating for praise. And I often mediated on my kindergarten teacher’s words, that sometimes the appearance of your writing matters more than what it says.

As a kid, I had always known she meant that the world is a tough place, and that people tend to judge a book by its cover. I found this to be true in many aspects of life. However, as I grew in knowledge and muscle memory for calligraphy, I found myself using it as an unofficial diary. If I was sad, I wrote every synonym in the thesaurus for the word sad, and tried to make the words look so beautiful, that an onlooker would not recognize it for what it truly was unless they gave it more consideration. In my mind, the sadness began to matter much less than what I could turn it into. I reminded myself that regardless of the cards you’re dealt, you can always do your best to make at least one good thing come of it. Even if that good thing is a few curly letters on Bristol paper.

This mentality does not erase every tragedy, and certainly not all pain, but it gives me the strength to continue being curious about the world regardless of how small it may feel.