Riding the twists and turn of a bank holiday, I have been compelled to write. I love writing; lists, ideas, meal plans and love notes, the sensation of putting pen to paper is addictive. Finding the optimum pen and ink versus paper texture is my idea of a time well spent, and an enjoyable process. As a child and adult I have been an avid letter writer, with pen pals as a kid and writing letters to dear friends and loved ones over the years. The act of taking time and sitting with a good pen and nice paper, or having none of these but some scraps of paper, a biro and a stamp still tells the intended that you are holding them in your thoughts. Or that they have something they wish you to share in, regardless of time and distance. I have written from all sorts of places, painting watercolours of the Himalayas on postcard paper, but the best is some of the places I have received post from.
There are so many reasons to write, be it a formal thanks, a birthday greeting or a letter of loss and sympathy, a simple note can move us all to feel nurtured, held and loved. Over the course of this Bank holiday I have had need for many types of correspondence, it felt apt to dig out my fountain pen, dried tight with old ink. Taking time to service and fill the pen, and select the right stationery for each message. A note of thanks to an event organiser for all of the graft they put in. A thank you card for an order, grateful for a donation to Afghan Aid. A letter of thanks and love for a magical stay with our dearest friends. For having the time to share in all the later Summer joy of North Cornwall and being able to spend time together over a relaxed weekend for the first time in 18 months. And finally a letter of Sympathy, hoping a letter will reach across time and distance. The fountain pen felt right, the weight of the pen forcing me to take extra time to form each letter and word and slowing my hand to be in sync with a brain trying to eloquently express my intention.