It's been a few days since this graced the inside of my mail box, and I still don't quite know what to say. But I have to say something. I've stroked the front, the liner, the note inside and the message itself. I expect to hear myself crooning, "Precious. We has a Precious," any day now. Seeing Lindsey's calligraphy is a treat in itself, yet seeing it in person is beyond different. Holding an envelope with your name on it makes it real somehow. It stops being mythic. The princess becomes a simple woman without a tiara, and who believes in princesses that live happily ever after anyway? Right? But Lindsey becomes real. All the truths about the art form she shares with us in her tutorials come into focus, and it doesn't matter that what she's said is true. You are in love for real.
I did not fall in love. To fall means to move downward from a higher level. A higher level of consciousness if you will. Being in love means to simply be, or exist on an elevated level of consciousness. That's what it means to me anyway. It's like loving someone, too. You notice their blemishes and imperfections, but they do not detract from the object of your affection in any way. Imperfections indicate humans are capable of attaining a degree of "perfection" that separates us from our God. Only God is perfect. I can live with that. I realized the ruth of it the moment I held Lindsey's envelope and saw her creation.
Remember how it felt the first time you fell in love? You walked on air. The world looked and felt different. You were happiness itself. Remember falling out of love? Waking from a Love induced alternate reality? I prefer being in love to falling in love. The former outlasts the latter. It's for real.
Love can settle into liking. It's calm, steady, sure, and happy. I believe this is where I find myself now. I liken it to turning over the envelope. The back is just as beautiful. It is calmer. My pulse slows--steadies to a comfortable pace.
There's the center of this little drama. The liner. It catches your eye, makes you wonder, stroke the surface . . . The details beckon. You appreciate every detail.
By the time you extract the notecard you're drunk. I have read Lindsey's words countless times, yet cannot recall what she says. It's the art of the elevated that's to blame. Her art makes you believe that you can achieve . . . Wait. I'm not saying I want to write like Lindsey. I want to write like Lindsey. I want to elevate my own style. And write it with the same assurance and surety. My hand has changed since I set out to learn calligraphy the proper way. It looks worse. I still feel lost and broken down. Insecure! That's it. Injury and insecurity cause me to falter, no matter how hard I practice.
It's all in my head. I just need ascend to a higher level of elevation before I can see clearly again. Before I can see beyond my vision.
. . . to be continued.