Lora Deeprose's Blog, page 10

Chesterfield of Dreams

It’s been a month of soaring temperatures and oppressive heat.  Even with the blinds closed and several fans running, my apartment is sweltering.  The only solution is to head outside in search of shade and the faint hope of catching a breeze.

My apartment opens onto a covered patio so finding shade wasn’t a problem but the available seating left a great deal to be desired. But that’s where my sister, the Garage Sale Guru, the Diva of Dumpster Diving came to my rescue.

She’d recently plucked a rather sad-looking bamboo and wicker sofa from someone’s front lawn.  Don’t worry, she didn’t steal it, the owners had stuck a free sign on it before my sister scooped it up and shoved it in the back of her truck.

Its coat of glossy black paint was peeling off, there were no cushions and a few of the wicker wraps on the back and arms had started to unravel. I gave it a good cleaning and fixed the broken pieces.  As for cushions, we snagged them for under forty dollars, sixty percent off, as the store was already putting out its back to school merchandise (this was in July).

At first I labeled this wonderful piece of furniture the Couch of Procrastination because as soon as I’d settle into it, time would disappear and I would find myself daydreaming while watching the bees dance with the flowers in the back yard.

 

But the word procrastination conjured up feeling of guilt; that in sitting in this wonderful space I was somehow being lazy.  I was wasting time when there were more important things that needed my attention; laundry, housecleaning, this month’s blog, hitting my daily word count on my current novel.

Then I remembered a quote from Socrates, “Beware the barrenness of a busy life.”  Somehow I’d forgotten the value of being instead of constantly doing. Its only when you are really clear on what is important in your life, what fulfills you, can you lead a meaningful life.  And the only way to figure that out is to be.  Be with yourself, and your thoughts and your fears. When you dig deeper that is when the real richness of your life can come forward.

Now more than ever, we need to disconnect with the digital world and step out of the rush of modern society.  When you aren’t distracting yourself with tweets, Facebook updates and pinning images on Pinterest or rushing about to-and-from work or dashing out to do some retail therapy, something wondrous creeps in. Silence.

And once the silence has established itself it allows you to finally hear that still quiet voice of your authentic self.

There is a reason why even cloistered monks and nuns set time aside for silent prayer and meditation.  Only in quiet contemplation can one begin to know God, or Buddha or the intelligent consciousness of the Universe.  Without that sacred space of silence, we who live in the secular world can lose our centre and get way off track in our quick-fix, instant gratification society.  Our purpose for being gets lost under the barrage of advertising, consumerism and distraction.

If you build it he will come.

Or in my case if you arrange some second-hand furniture unexpected magic may happen.  And to ensure that this little corner of the patio nurtures the alchemy of the soul I’ve imposed a few rules; no iPods, portable DVD players or cellphones allowed and the laptop comes out only when I need it for writing.

What is allowed are books, journals, sketch books, cold drinks, fresh flowers, something delicious to eat, and a soft pillow in case the urge to have a nap overtakes me.

It really is an adult play space were daydreaming, reading, lounging, napping and reconnecting with family and friends are fostered.

So I encourage you, while we still have a few weeks of lazy summer days left, to find an outdoor spot and install your own Chesterfield of Dreams. It doesn’t even have to be a sofa, perhaps a hammock is more your style or a chaise lounge.  And if you don’t have the furniture already and dumpster diving isn’t your thing even a blanket and some pillows arranged under the spreading arms of a tree would be just fine.  Whatever appeals to you.  If you set up your spot for reflection without delay, I promise you, you too will begin to experience the magic of being.

Building My Home on Solid Ground

Recently, I watched best-selling author of The Signature Of All Things, Elizabeth Gilbert’s follow-up presentation on TED talks called Success, Failure and the Drive to Keep Creating.

In this seven minutes talk, she provides examples of the pitfalls of pursuing a creative life and a sure-fire remedy to keep on track and maintain your equilibrium during the inevitable ups and downs.

She explains why both success and failure can wreak havoc on your life:

“For most of your life, you live out your existence here in the middle of the chain of human experience where everything is normal and reassuring and regular, but failure catapults you abruptly way out over here into the blinding darkness of disappointment. Success catapults you just as abruptly but just as far way out over here into the equally blinding glare of fame and recognition and praise.”

The solution to both of these extremes, Elizabeth states is:

“. . . you’ve got to find your way back home again as swiftly and smoothly as you can, and if you’re wondering what your home is, here’s a hint: Your home is whatever in this world you love more than you love yourself.”

“You’ve got to identify the best, worthiest thing you love most, and then build your house right on top of it and don’t budge from it.  So addiction and infatuation don’t count because we all know that those are not safe places.”

I would add that along with addiction and unbalanced relationships another unsafe place to build your home is people pleasing. It’s just as destructive to the body and soul as any street drug out there.

I came to be the consummate people pleaser as a way for a child of five to keep myself safe and protected while growing up in an abusive home. It made sense as a little girl with no protection to adopt this strategy, it was the only tool at my disposal that would secure a small measure of safety.

Focusing on pleasing others meant I was constantly putting my energy into someone else’s dreams, needs and desires. In essence willingly giving away my power and energy in the hopes of securing love, security, safety.  This destruction of the soul is very seductive because I could convince myself that I was being noble, helpful, a good girl, a great partner whenever I would drop what was important to me to please others but at the core of it, this behaviour in an adult is a cop-out because I could always use it as an excuse to never fully invest in myself and thus never really have to fail or succeed.

So a strategy that kept me safe as a child morphed into the most unsafe place on which to build my own dreams of being a writer. I had placed my home, my desire and dreams on an ever shifting trash heap of pain and unloveableness.  What is more, I willing kept abandoning work on my own house of dreams (usually when I just started laying the foundation) to put all my time and effort into building someone else’s.

So I recently moved my home onto safer ground with a clearer understanding of how to set boundaries in a loving way and to refocus my attention on myself.

This process of reclaiming who I am at times can be both exhilarating and frightening but I am determined now that I have found a safe place to begin building my home, I will not budge.  And when old habits crop up and I am tempted to abandon my writing to give energy to someone else in an unhealthy way I will do as my favourite author suggests:

“And if you should someday, somehow get vaulted out of your home by either great failure or great success, then you job is to fight your way back to that home, the only way that it has ever been done, by putting your head down and performing with diligence and devotion and respect and reverence whatever the task is that love is calling forth from you next.”

Thank you Elizabeth.

Writing Space: Letting in the Light

I’ve never had a dedicated writing studio.  I write wherever I can find a little space and a little solitude.  But I do dream of one day having a writing space where creative magic is nurtured by the beauty of the space and it is decorated with a dash of childlike whimsy.

The place I’m currently renting is a basement apartment that I share with my sister and three very demanding cats. But I am lucky enough that my bedroom can accommodate my bedroom furniture and my small writing table.

It is an entry-level basement which means we are blessed with full-sized windows and my room has two that look out into the back garden and the mountains beyond. The only downside is that I write in the mornings and the windows face east. It was impossible to write with the blinds up as the sun was directly in my face. The simple solution would be to keep the metal blinds closed when I write, or it would be if I didn’t have three cats.

If you’ve ever owned even one cat you will understand the futility of trying to keep them out of any room they decide they want to hang out in and a closed door is a definite invitation to bat at it like a pugilist or as my one cat does, throw his whole body at it making it rattle in its frame.

It’s enough of a challenge to write while you have a cat walking across the keyboard (cats can be such critics of the written word) or draped over your forearms as one of them is doing now as I write this.  But my feline companions also think closed Venetians are the best cat toys in the world.

After spending several months pulling cats out of bent and twisted louvers or having to reinstall the blind because they pulled it off the window I resorted to taping up thick blotting paper on the panes while leaving the blinds pulled up.

That inexpensive solution did the trick, the sun was off my face and the cats ignored the windows.  But after two years, the tape I used to secure the paper had dried up and the paper has curled with age.

I wanted something a bit less utilitarian than paper and tinfoil screamed white trash, so I decided to install frosted privacy film on the windows. I was going to choose something simple, maybe with a bit of texture but when I went to the hardware store and looked at the choices, I did an unexpected thing.

Along with frosted textures and understated designs there were two patterns that I can only describe as faux stained glass. One featured magnolias, the other clematis and both bordered on the tacky end of the design esthetic. But there was something about them, their vibrant colours and as a gardener I can’t help but love flowers.  My first choice, the simple frosted white ones suddenly looked institutional.

I bought the stained glass flowered window film, one of each pattern. This choice shocked me and my sister too as she said “Really, that’s not what I thought you would have picked.”

But now that I’ve installed them I know why I made those choices and why they are perfect for my room. They may be fake stained glass but they transformed the space in which I write into a sacred space of creativity. The quality of light that now streams in, in the morning makes the room feel magical and a little bit whimsical.  In fact, a perfect place to write.

Keeping Time

My grandmother’s house was a place filled with the comforting smells of baking, of warm sunshine glowing through pleated curtains and the sound of her mantle clock chiming out the hours. Hours I spent in the company of a woman with a quiet voice, gentle hands and the patience to entertain three young girls.

My grandmother has since passed, her house and belongings sold off, but whenever my sister and I recall our visits with her we inevitably speak of the constant chiming of her mantle clock. The sound was the anthem of a time when we experienced small pools of loving calmness in an otherwise chaotic childhood.

A while back, my sister and I stopped in at a local antiques shop. I was nosing through stacks of old postcards and photographs, Cari was meandering through displays of china and kitchen items when we heard the opening bars of Westminster chimes. We looked at each other then, without a word, headed towards the sound of the steady tick-tock.

The clock wasn’t grand, vintage rather than antique. It was smaller than our grandmother’s clock, its wood veneer beginning to crack with age and neglect, but in our eyes she was beautiful. We stood momentarily transported back in time. We left the shop, postcards and teacups forgotten, a sense of longing and sadness following us outside.

Months later we were back at the antiques’ dealer. As we stepped inside, we noticed things had been rearranged. The small clock wasn’t sitting on the sideboard where we’d first seen her. We scanned the store and found a tambour mantle clock, one with the graceful camel back curve that most people think of as the typical mantle clock, but it wasn’t the one we’d fallen in love with. The one we had come for was Art Deco in its design and more compact and sturdy in appearance. We looked everywhere but she wasn’t there.

I decided to take one more look through the labyrinth of furniture. In the far back corner of the store I passed a glass-fronted bookcase when I happened to glance down at the bottom shelf and there she was.

Back home, we placed the clock on an old dresser and started the pendulum. The clock worked for only a few seconds then stopped dead. We started the pendulum again with the same results. After several unsuccessful tries a dreadful feeling that we had just bought a broken clock sunk in. The clock had been working the first time we had seen her but maybe something had happened to her since our last visit and that’s why she’d been hidden in the bottom of the bookcase.

Not one to give up easily, I booted up the computer and started to research mantle clocks. The more I read the more I realized these clocks were not just works of fine craftsmanship but more like living breathing things requiring love and attention to get them working and to keep them, keeping time.

The first requirement of any pendulum clock is to put the clock into beat. The clock should have an even tick-tock sound like the beat of a heart. Too fast and the clock won’t keep accurate time, too slow and it will stop completely after a few seconds. To put a clock into beat the clock must be absolutely level and sitting on a stable foundation because even an accidental bump can put it out of beat.

Pendulum clocks are only happy in the Now. Not even for a moment can you force it to go back in time; turning the hands backwards will break the gears. And it can’t be rushed into the future. If you spin the hands quickly without allowing it to chime each quarter hour you will throw off the chiming sequence and even risk damaging the escapement.

It took me a week to get the clock to run and chime the correct hour and quarter hours. During my learning curve, I couldn’t help notice the parallels between how to keep a pendulum clock running in perfect time and how my life could benefit from the same attention.

Mine is a 30 hour clock which means, for optimum working, it needs to be wound every day. Each evening as I attend to the needs of my clock, it draws me into reflecting how my day was. Did I go through the day feeling balanced or off kilter? Did I allow myself to become rundown or was I wound too tightly? Did I need to stop my headlong rush into the future or had I been dwelling too much in the past? Did I need to stop the pendulum, step out of the flow of time for a while and just take a break?

Nowadays, more and more people don’t even own watches much less mantle clocks, as they can check the time on their cell phones, without the hassle or the bother of maintaining an old fashioned timepiece.

In the near future will anyone care for these timepieces that require such constant attention or will they be relegated to the junk heap like so many gramophones and manual typewriters?

I hope not, for I believe that in our disposable convenience-obsessed society, we need to honour the craftsmanship, skill and artistry that these antique timepieces embody. And if nothing else, caring for one of these clocks forces you to contemplate the nature of time and the value of slowing down. And perhaps inspire you to tune into the beat of your own heart and the music that your soul wishes to chime out into the world.

Iris Apfel; Wise Woman, Wise Words

January; a time for resolutions to lose weight, eat healthier, drop bad habits and get a better job. According to a recent article in Forbes only 8% of people achieve their New Year’s goals. I think the reason so many people fail is that their goals are external. If there isn’t a meaningful soul-level yearning for change than it’s hard to make the external ones stick in the long haul.

Instead of resolutions, I prefer to do an internal housecleaning. I sift through old thoughts throwing out the ones that no longer serve me, release patterns of behaviour keeping me stuck and review my dreams to see if they need to be tweaked or drop entirely. To help me re-evaluate and modify these core beliefs I look to women who have gone before me, whose wisdom and clarity of years well-lived help to illuminate the path I’m just beginning to trek.

These Elders are a source of great inspiration and knowledge in an age where youth and beauty are deemed the only valuable aspirations.

One Wise Woman I admire not only for her quirky fashion sense but for her vitality and joie de vivre is 93-year-old Iris Apfel. Although most people equate her with being a fashion icon she is also a successful business woman and entrepreneur.

In an interview with Fusion she shared her rules for fashion and for life.

“My father told me I should never expect too much from anybody because I wouldn’t get hurt and I wouldn’t get disappointed. If someone was very nice and did lovely things for me it would be twice as delicious.”

It is important not to make other people responsible for your happiness. This is a difficult task when most of us, myself included, fall into the trap of people pleasing because we expect that if we sacrifice our own desires to please another they will reciprocate in kind.

That is quite frankly a recipe for disaster. But if you take responsibility for providing yourself the experiences and environment in which you will thrive then when people surprise you with their generosity is will be a bonus and not the source of your fulfillment.

“Learn what you can do . . .”

The most important word in that sentence is do. The only way to learn what you can do is by doing. Learning is not a passive endeavour. No great insights into who you are can be found sitting in front of the television watching reality shows.

When my marriage ended and my household income took a nosedive I took any job I could get. I’ve worked as a stable hand, house cleaner, barista, gardener, chambermaid, receptionist and office worker. I learned I can do what needs to be done to take care of myself even if it means working three part-time jobs doing work that was deeply unfulfilling.

During this period, I also explored new things just for the joy of it; horseback riding, yoga, belly dancing, pottery, cello lessons. I learned that I still love to dance but have absolutely no musical ear (my apologies to my cello teacher). And I started to write. It was in this pursuit that I found my passion and my joy.

My most profound learning experience came when my sister and I sold everything to move to a hobby farm in the middle of nowhere. I learned to use power tools, rewire lights and furnace switches, replace plumbing pipes, fix gates and fences, care for chickens and goats and shovel off roofs despite my fear of heights.

Discovering that nature gives me solace and recharges my soul was a life changing revelation for a city girl, one I never would have realized living in suburbia.

“Learn what you are comfortable with . . .”

Life is a duality and you can’t learn what you are comfortable with until you experience discomfort.

I have learned to be comfortable with much less, I learned not to allow the stress of poverty stop me in my tracks, I learned that I am more resilient and resourceful than I had previously given myself credit for.

“Learn what you can pull off . . .”

Iris is talking about fashion but you can also apply it to your life. I’ve learned that my perseverance and determination allows me to pull off anything as long as it intrigues me. I learned medical transcription on the fly after I already was hired for the job. I wanted to work in an artistic setting so I stalked the owner of a potter studio before she even opened and landed the job. I learned I could pull off writing novels and have them published.

“Don’t try to be someone else . . .”

Iris is not afraid to dress in a manner that expresses how she sees herself. She is not defined by the latest fashion trends or a preconceived notion of how a women-of-a-certain-age should dress.

In an interview with Ari Seth Cohen, Drug of Choice from The Avant/Garde Diaries on Vimeo, Iris discusses how people need to find out who they are and that fashion is an expression of the individual. She said that some people are maximalist some are minimalist and some are in between.

Find out what feels authentic to you whether you apply it to your wardrobe or your life.

So to Iris, I thank you for your wisdom and your assistance in creating my New Year’s list.  This year I will:

1. Lower my expectation of people and raise my expectations of what I can accomplish.

2. See where my curiosity leads me. Perhaps and archery class or harp lessons or whatever else strikes my fancy.

3. Devote more time to writing and time alone in contemplation.

4. See if I can pull off writing full-time so I no longer need to work another hospitality or retail job.

5. Express my authentic self in all aspects of my life including my wardrobe.

And here is one last piece of advice from Iris . . .

“If God has blessed you with an ample butt, that’s a good thing but don’t wear skinny jeans ‘cos it’s not pretty.”

The Spirit of Solstice

Solstice Carole by the Wyrd Sisters

The fire is burning,

The long night draws near,

All who need comfort are welcome by here.

We’ll dance ‘neath the stars and toast the past year,

For the spirit of Solstice is still living here.

It’s the Winter Solstice; the longest night of the year. For eons people have celebrated this day as a time to count their blessings and to celebrate surviving through another cold, dark winter.  A season to rekindle hope and faith as the dark half of the year gives way to the light yet again.

My favourite tradition of the Solstice is the lighting of the Yule log, for there is something in my makeup, perhaps the faint echo of my ancestors still alive in my DNA, which is stirred by the simple act of making a fire and tending to its warmth.

I didn’t realize how much I need the comfort of a fire as essential to the nurturing of my soul as a hot bath, living in nature, and growing my own food until I lived on a hobby farm in the woods for five years.

The house I shared with my sister was small and nondescript but it was the diminutive cast-iron stove that made it the most amazing home I’ve ever lived in and one I still pine for since we moved two years ago.

We kept a pot of water on the stove scented with eucalyptus oil, or clove and cinnamon. And during the frequent power outages, it was the little wood stove that heated a pot of soup and another of hot water for washing and our morning coffee.

The crackle and pop as the flames consume wood has the mystical power to ward off the spirits of darkness and depression that seem inevitable when daylight is short and the snowdrifts are over my head.  My favourite place to be was reading a good book in front of the fire or just watching the flames dance and the embers glow as the fire drew me into silence and contemplation.

Most people prefer a gas fireplace over a real one because there is no muss and no fuss.  With the simple flick of a switch flames appear and warms the room.  They even work when the power goes out.

But it’s not for me, because the muss and fuss are as important to me as enjoying a fire; waking to a cold house and cleaning out the excess ash from the firebox, crumpling the paper, stacking the kindling just so, the scratch of a match and the curl of smoke as the fire comes to life, the smell of hot cast-iron as the stove heats up.  I relish all these things about a real fire, even splitting the logs and hauling in wood.  There is something magickal in these mundane activities.

The snapshot of memory I call forth when I’m forced to turn on the electric heater because of the cold and damp seeping up through the floor of my basement apartment is of snow and fire and the dark hush of a winter’s night on the farm.

After I’d put the chicken’s to bed for the night I would stop under the three hemlock trees that stood halfway between the barn and the house. From this vantage point I could see into the living room window where the fire burning merrily in the stove.  The absolute velvet of the night sky pierced with starlight, the smell of cold and ozone in the night air, the soft whisper of snow falling and the sight of that warm little room gave me such peace and contentment.

This holiday season I am surrounded by two generations of family and a menagerie of furry four-legged companions.  In a few days we will be joined by yet another sister traveling all the way from Australia to spend time with us at Christmas.

As the evening draws in on the longest night of the year, the candles are lit to ward of the dark spirits; their flickering flames a reminder to have faith and hope, even at this the darkest hour.  The evergreen tree takes pride of place in the living room, a symbol of continuity and life everlasting.

There are brightly wrapped presents below the tree for all the ones I hold dear, small tokens of my gratitude and best wishes.

And despite not having a Yule log or a hearth to burn it in, the spirit of solstice is definitely still living here.

To watch the Solstice Carole Video click here

Your Relationship With Your House

photo courtesy of http://justchinchillax.tumblr.com/post/26922053416

I just finished writing a story where the house is as much a character as the people. It is a snug little cottage that at first, welcomes the new owner but below the surface it hides its own mystery and pain. As I wrote, I thought about the way houses have a personality, a feeling about them good or bad and I wondered how this comes about.

I believe that in some cases it’s because of spirits that still linger. I’ve had enough first-hand experience not to question the possibility of ghosts and things that go bump in the night. But what about places that have no spectral visitors but still elicit an emotional response from visitors. What is it we are feeling?

At the most basic level we are all energy. Thoughts and emotions are no different, just another form of energy. So if a home is filled with loving people, where the events were positive can these energies become imprinted into the very walls and floors? And would the reverse be true, if a building has witnessed trauma, violence and deep unhappiness would that too become part of the fabric of the building.

So what allows a dwelling to record the lives of its previous owners or the events that occurred there? If most building materials are porous and can absorb sound, is it just an accumulation of these sound waves that contribute to the overall feel of a home; much like a sponge absorbing water. Or could it be something more? What if it is more like a relationship that over time becomes an indelible bond between house and homeowner?

I recently read The Bond, Connecting Through The Space Between Us by Lynne McTaggart. In her book she explores the nature of bonds not just between human beings but between our environment, the natural world, our solar system and even the universe. It is a fascinating read and a book I highly recommend.

In discussing Heisenberg’s “quantum field theory” she states the following;

He discovered that at our most fundamental layer of being, our subatomic particles not only aren’t really a definable anything, but also do not remain the same at any moment. . . . All subatomic particles are constantly trading information with their environment and being reshuffled in a dynamic pattern. The universe contains and indeterminate number of vibrating packets of energy that constantly pass energy back and forth as if in an endless game of basketball with the quantum sea of light.

Further she writes:

Nature’s most basic ingredients are bundles of energy that are indistinguishable from the field around it. According to quantum field theory, the individual entity is transient and insubstantial, and particles cannot be separated from the empty space around them. Although you appear the same at any given moment, you are an entirely new batch of subatomic energy with every breath you take.

Rather than a batch of separate things jostling around in empty space, it is more correct to say that fundamental matter is simply a relationship between two indeterminate things: particle energy traded with other particle energy and also with the background Field. It is in fact the Bond between these tiny particles and the background Field that creates everything that we refer to as “matter.

She concludes her description of the relationship between energy and the Zero-Point field with the following:

What this essentially boils down to is that everything we label an object, no matter how large or how heavy, is essentially a collection of electric charges interacting with other energy. The most basic property of matter, its sense of being a solid “something,” is only and entirely due to the Bond between subatomic particles and the background sea of energy.” A subatomic “particle” is simply the seeking of a connection in the space between a big web of energy and a little knot of energy. You and everything around you are simply a collection of charged energy having a relationship.

I know that the above quotes deal with a purely scientific description of an energetic relationship but I’m a fiction writer so I’m allowed to make the next supposition if only as an exercise in creativity.

So if we are energy having a relationship with other energy and the Zero-point Field by constantly exchanging subatomic particles and our environment includes our home what if what was going on was that over time the energy that was once house is now you and vice versa. And in that back and forth relationship would the memories and emotions be part of that exchange?

And what about the house? Over time do we take on the history of the trees that the framing is constructed from, or the feeling of a mountain from which the stone was quarried. And what about the people who built the house, the land that it is situated on or the furniture inside it?

My mind fizzes with the possibilities.

What kind of relationship are you having with your home? Do you have a blissful union or do you require couples counselling? Or maybe it’s time to find a new house mate.

Something to ponder isn’t it?

The Still Life of Hannah Morgan ebook sale

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The Hand Written Word

I wrote my first novel  longhand in a plain coil scribbler and later transcribed it on my clunky PC that lived in the basement office. A decade later, even though I have a skookum laptop, I still use notebooks as part of my writing process. Invariably I have three notebooks on the go at any given time each with its own purpose.

One is for my personal journal. My writing routine includes a morning date with my journal to get out all the random things pinging around my brain. For me it is the most effective way of gearing up to focus on my current WIP. Three pages of personal writing clears the mental decks to allow the story full reign in my thoughts.

The second notebook I use for new story ideas that I don’t want to forget but don’t have time to explore, character sketches and blog post topics.

And the third scribbler I use for my current work when I come up against a plot problem or the characters’ motivation seems a little murky. I simply write down questions and answers with no attachment to whether the answers fit the problem. And more often than not, I come up with the solution, or find where I am pushing a character to do something they wouldn’t do.

Cursive writing; connecting my thoughts through my hand to the page creates a magick allowing possibilities to emerge that I wouldn’t have found stabbing away at my keyboard.

Recently there has been debate in both the US and Canada whether to scrap cursive writing instruction in schools. Proponents believe this mode of communication is no longer relevant in an age of texting and keyboarding. Arguments for the other side reveal that cursive writing is more than just a means of putting words on paper.

A recent article by William Klemm, D.V.M., Ph. D, professor of Neuroscience at Texas A&M University for Psychology Today addresses the importance of cursive writing and its positive effects on brain function.

In the case of learning cursive writing, the brain develops functional specialization that integrates both sensation, movement control, and thinking. Brain imaging studies reveal that multiple areas of brain become co-activated during learning of cursive writing of pseudo-letters, as opposed to typing or just visual practice.

Other research highlights the hand’s unique relationship with the brain when it comes to composing thoughts and ideas. Virginia Berninger, a professor at the University of Washington, reported her study of children in grades two, four and six that revealed they wrote more words, faster, and expressed more ideas when writing essays by hand versus with a keyboard.[4]

There is a whole field of research known as “haptics,” which includes the interactions of touch, hand movements, and brain function.[5] Cursive writing helps train the brain to integrate visual, and tactile information, and fine motor dexterity.

So what I felt intuitively about the power of hand writing to unlock ideas and engage the whole brain to a problem and its solutions seems to be backed by science.

Is cursive writing an archaic method of communication whose time has past or is it a necessary link to developing all our mental capacities?

Will the next generation of writers who haven’t been taught the most basic skill of hand-wrought words be able to generate ideas and feelings in the same degree as past generation of the pen enabled?

In the future will novels be written in an abbreviated language of texting and twitter posts and if so will they be able to convey deep emotions and complex ideas? Is eliminating cursive writing just the next step in our evolution as a species? Or will something of our humanity be lost without it?

Author’s Note: The day after I finished this post I came across Andrew Fitzgerald’s TED Talks entitled Adventures in Twitter Fiction. The talk is fascinating on its own as he explains how some authors are exploring new ways of storytelling using Twitter as the medium but what caught my eye was when he spoke of  Jennifer Egan’s Black Box which was published  as a serialization on twitter by The New Yorker. It took her a year to condense the story down to the 140 characters that Twitter allows. And how did she write the first draft before it was posted online? She wrote in a notebook using longhand.