uncial calligraphy

I've been puttering away at Minnesota Center for Book Arts' certificate program.  The classes I take come in spurts, and now that the possibility of shifting geography is in discussion, I must hunker down and complete the program if I want to honestly add it to my c.v.  I love the ways in which I can allow my interests collide:  using my hands, making words, the tactile feel of paper, of fiber.

I am not quite sure where this will lead me.  I love handlettering, and I've saved a few envelopes with my (our) name(s) and address written with a particular flourish, tacked them onto the refrigerator.  There's something dashing about seeing one's name a little less ordinary, especially when reaching for the broccoli.  I have to remember, when I do this, that it doesn't all fall into place immediately, that learning to write took years, that my handwriting has changed so much over time.  I also learned that I hold the pen wonky and I should treat this like art as opposed to dashing off a quick letter to my grandmother. 

I practiced what I expected I would write the most:  the names of my family, my children.  Maya, Finnegan, Ryan.  Mother, father, sister, brother, grandmother, grandfather.  It felt like meditation.