An old calligraphy set and ink placed on congressional articles.
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I learned calligraphy in the seventh grade when my classmate’s mother taught the basics during an afternoon art class. In my case, it was pearls before swine. I was hardly an apt pupil. Art was where I parked myself between recess and after-school soccer. But even in my grubby pre-adolescence, her elegant pen strokes struck me as beautiful.
Armed with elementary knowledge and a sample letter template, we were tasked with finding a famous quotation, rendering it in calligraphy, and bringing it to class the following week. I don’t know which is stranger, that I turned to
Frank Sinatra
for inspiration or that I found this gem: “Kid, don’t steal the hubcaps. Steal the whole car.”
At the time, it seemed a good selection. My art teacher disagreed and shared her thoughts with my parents through a sealed note—the retributive bearer bond of the era—that I carried home. Over dinner, the report of my impudence earned mild punishment from my mom and a smile from my dad, who liked Ol’ Blue Eyes.
I’ve never employed my chirographic skill apart from that homework assignment. I do, however, remember the lesson vividly for three reasons.
First, it taught me there is beauty in this world. Some things are pleasing when seen; calligraphy is such a thing. It is beautiful to behold and drew me out of my pubescent self.
Second, beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but many see beauty in the same things. Some objects are man-made and others are natural, but attraction to beautiful things is nearly universal. This speaks to an ineffable longing written on our hearts.
Third, we each have the capacity to create beauty through the choices we make and things we do. Not all we do will be beautiful, but it all has the potential to be. The gift of freedom behind all these choices, made and to be made, is itself beautiful.
I’m glad I was dialed…
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