When I was in college (the first time around--Pepperdine University in the late 70's/early 80's), one of my first friends was a young woman named Heidi.  She was our dorm leader, surrogate "Mom," friend and soother of broken (or homesick) hearts.  I wanted to be just like her.

Heidi was amazing with more than human hearts.  She was also a talented artist, singer and calligrapher.  Lacking much of a voice, fairly hopeless at art, it seemed natural for me to try my own hand at calligraphy.  Parts of the craft came naturally enough.  I could hold a steady pen.  I could form letters with reasonable ease.  But I was never patient enough to become an artist at the work, to invest the hours of practice required for original script and creations of unique beauty.

Over the years, even though I lost touch with Heidi, I kept up with the craft in a haphazard fashion.  I used calligraphy to address many, many (too many?) Christmas cards and somewhat fewer birthday cards.  I filled out more than a few marriage certificates.  I bought pens.  I practiced occasionally.

And in the process, I developed my own hand--a calligraphic version of my "own voice."  At one point, about 15 years ago, my niece Deanna said she always knew when a card was from me by the writing (with or without calligraphy pen).  Her mother, and my friend/sister-in-law, Donna, took up calligraphy as well.  She is modest about her abilities, but she has a distinctive and beautiful hand.

I've been able to seriously employ my somewhat rusty calligraphy skills twice in the past few years.  In both instances, I was asked by a niece to help address wedding invitations.  Amy was first to ask and we made quite a party of the event at Donna's house.  Donna and I addressed while Amy, her mom, Candy, and her gang of bridesmaids assembled the invitations.

This past Sunday, it was just Deanna, Donna, Deanna's friend Diana (that's a lot of alliteration in one room) and moi.  Donna and I again shared addressing duties.  As I sat and wrote familial, familiar, and unfamiliar names with a brown calligraphy pen, I was infused with nostalgia and gratitude.  I recalled Heidi and her gentle, sweet spirit.  I remembered holding Amy and Deanna for the first time as darling baby girls.  I remembered them growing up far too fast for my liking and the years when my career made me a stranger to them, to my lasting regret.

How was I to know, thirty years ago, when I first picked up a calligraphy pen and scratched it across the practice page that this craft would find employment in such a happy service--announcing the joining of these young women to the men they've chosen to spend their lives with--sharing a day with them at the cusp of this particular dream. 

And if my hand was not as elegant as Heidi's, it turned out not to matter.  What mattered is that long ago, I fell in love with a caring woman's spirit.  And I picked up a pen so that I could, one day, etch names onto envelopes in service of two other women, my nieces, of whom I am so proud; whom I love dearly for their unique spirits--as full of zest, caring and laughter as my long ago friend.

Thanks, girls.

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