On the Elegance of Slowness
On the Elegance of Slowness
Lynnette Woo
On Excellence & Laborious Patience
This essay is featured in Ekstasis Issue 10 Print Edition
There’s a barely discernible bump beginning to form on my right middle finger, just above the joint that connects the distal to the middle bone. I have a similar bump on my ring finger, where I’ve rested my pens and pencils for the last three decades. I’m learning Spencerian penmanship, but old habits die hard, and my new fountain pen feels clumsy and awkward in my hand.
As I’m dragging my pen across the smooth white expanse, the extra fine nib catches and skitters. At other times the ink unexpectedly pools and absorbs into the fibers, feathering out in unattractive puddles on the page. Once in a while, the ink refuses to flow altogether and leaves behind fragmented scratches where there should be smooth lines.
You can see every shake, every inhale, every uncertainty in my jaggedy script. I do the drills every day: basic strokes, short letters, semi-extended letters, loop letters, capitals, single words, phrases, and full sentences. I trace over the curves and turns of my copybook, trying to stay at that perfect fifty-two degree angle and maintain parallel lines and proper proportions. My eyes burn from trying to focus on keeping my pen nib in line with the guide I’m following. I have to actively remind myself to inhale and exhale.
When I’m done, I’ve got a full page of imperfect handwriting and a slightly reddened spot on my middle finger. I’m proud of that bump on my finger, the same way I was proud of the rough, raw circles on my palms when I learned to traverse the monkey bars as a six-year-old, or the thick ridged calluses on the fingertips of my left hand when I learned to play guitar in high school. They were—are—a tactile reminder that I’m trying.
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We live with a cultural mindset that constantly and intensely seeks instant gratification. The West has largely exchanged things that are high quality and lasting for what is fast and easy, in everything from food to clothing to parenting. “The problem is that our love of speed, our obsession with doing more and more in less and less time, has gone too far; it has turned into an addiction, a kind of idolatry,” says author Carl Honoré. “In this media-drenched, data-rich, channel-surfing, computer-gaming age, we have lost the art of doing nothing, of shutting out the background noise and distractions, of slowing down and simply being alone with our thoughts,” writes Honoré. “Instead of thinking deeply, or letting an idea simmer in the back of the mind, our instinct now is to reach for the nearest sound bite.”
This disposition seeps into our spiritual lives, as pastor and writer Eugene Peterson explains:
One aspect of the world that I have been able to identify as harmful to Christians is the assumption that anything worthwhile can be acquired at once. We assume that if something can be done at all, it can be done quickly and efficiently . . . Everyone is in a hurry. The persons whom I lead in worship, among whom I counsel, visit, pray, preach and teach, want shortcuts. They want me to help them fill out the form that will get them instant credit (in eternity). They are impatient for results.
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Six months ago, I decided I wanted to slow down. One form this decision took was to learn to journal with a fountain pen. I did some preliminary research and purchased three inexpensive pens recommended for beginners. Only after they arrived did I realize certain types of penmanship or calligraphy require their own sets of instruments. For example, copperplate calligraphy, or pointed pen calligraphy, usually uses a pen holder, a pointed nib with flexible tines, and inks particularly formulated for dip pens. What I had was more for writing in a general sense, rather than the complex art of calligraphy.
I didn’t want to buy a whole new set of pens with all the added accoutrements, so little more research was in order. Turns out I could learn Spencerian penmanship—an elegant cursive-like script—with the pens I already had. If I mastered this, I reasoned, I could then justify “upgrading” my equipment for types of calligraphy.
The Spencerian System of Writing was developed by Platt R. Spencer, who was fascinated by “the beautiful in nature and art,” according to his friend James A. Garfield. “[Spencer] analyzed all the elements of chirography [i.e., the study of handwriting or penmanship], simplified its forms, arranged them in consecutive order, and created a system” which grew in popularity during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and would become “the major form of penmanship in American schools in the 20th century.”
“His love for the beautiful found expression in an art which his genius raised from the grade of manual drudgery to the rank of a fine art,” said Garfield, who along with Spencer’s children, worked to promote Spencer’s writing system through penmanship schools, instruction manuals, and copybooks. His script was designed to be “Plain to the eye, and gracefully combined / to train the muscle and inform the mind.”
Like many things in life, penmanship is something that requires practice. “To secure genuine skill in the use of the pen,” says Spencer, “the arm and hand require much training, or disciplinary exercise.” What I find appealing is what Garfield alluded to: that my handwriting can combine usefulness as a skill with aesthetic pleasure. I like the idea of my thoughts, however mundane, inscribed with beauty and artfulness.
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In one of his many instruction manuals, Spencer suggests that each lesson in penmanship “must be carefully studied, cheerfully and perseveringly practiced ... thoroughly mastered. ‘No excellence without labor,’ remember.”
When I sit down to do my Spencerian drills, I’m not just practicing penmanship; I’m practicing daily faithfulness. It is both training and meditation: I’m forced to slow down, to hone in on what’s right in front of me, to do it even though I have no current proof that my handwriting is neater or prettier. I have to resist the temptation to grip my pen barrel too tightly or to rush through each stroke. I have to have faith that, in the end, all of that practice will produce beautiful handwriting.
“Long-term thinking protects us during downturns (of all kinds), because it keeps us moving toward our most important goals,” says communications coach Dorie Clark. According to Clark, “taking the long-view” can give us courage, because we must be brave enough to make hard choices and willing “to buck the near-term consequences” for the promise of a bigger payoff.
“If it were easy to be patient, and easy to do the work, then everyone would do it” she writes. “[Patience] is the truest test of merit: Are you willing to do the work, despite no guaranteed outcome? We earn our success by toiling without recognition, accolades, or even any certainty that it’s going to come to fruition. We have to take it on faith and do it anyway. That’s strategic patience.”
Of course, Clark’s view is a decidedly secular one, but I think the principle stands. If we’re impatient, we may miss out on something truly worthwhile. The spiritual life is one that suffers the most from our impatience, whether it’s the inability to make time to be in God’s Word, being flippant with our sin, or becoming discouraged in the face of setback.
In Ecclesiastes, Qoheleth, the teacher, wrestles with man’s relationship to time. “The same event,” he says—that is, death—happens to us all, “to the righteous and the wicked, to the good and the evil, to the clean and the unclean, to him who sacrifices and him who does not sacrifice.” (Eccl 9:2 ESV) But the hope of the living, he says, is that they know they will die, they know that their time on earth is limited. (Eccl 9:4-5) So, he advises, “Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes. But know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.” (Eccl 11:9)
It’s a tension we’re all familiar with. On one hand, we know that our common human destiny reduces our lives—however we choose to live them—to vanity. We take nothing with us, and a couple hundred years from now no one will remember us. At the same time, we live those lives before God, who knows our thoughts and the secrets of our hearts (Ps 94:11, 44:21). And in the last days, God has given Jesus the authority to judge in righteousness and to give life: “‘I the Lord search the heart and test the mind to give every man according to his ways, according to the fruit of his deeds” (Jer 17:10; Jn 5:22, 27; Acts 10:42, 17:31).
Even the non-Christian understands this existential urgency. We live “under the shadow of the biggest deadline of all: death,” says Honoré. It’s “no wonder we feel that time is short and strive to make every moment count.”
So, the Psalmist prays, “Teach us to number our days / that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Ps 90:12 NIV). What is wisdom? Wisdom is knowing that our time is limited, along with the understanding to pick and choose how to spend it well, in the light of eternity.
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I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit browsing blogs, newsletters, and Instagram accounts searching for information on goal setting. It started with my therapist’s suggestion that I break overwhelming tasks into smaller, more manageable ones and start building a routine to add some structure to my life—a reasonable alternative to listless wallowing and angst-ridden indecision.
The internet is rife with productivity experts touting their secrets to success. Most of them recommend evaluating your values, figuring out your priorities, and letting those guide you. Or you can simply imagine your dream life—where you’d like to be in five, ten, fifteen years. Once goals have been selected, you reverse engineer them, breaking them down until you have a list of daily habits around which you can build your routines: an actionable road map, if you will.
Daily penmanship drills are on my printed habit tracker, in harmony with Spencer’s philosophy: “Theory in writing is useful only as it is reduced to practice. Theory directs, practice performs, and the result is a useful art. To write well should become the fixed habit of everyone who writes at all. Habits are formed by the repetition of action. Bad habits are cured by doing the right thing over and over again.”
Playing the long game is often the only way to go, and what’s more long-term than eternity? Throughout Scripture, it’s the goal of eternity that drives obedience in the immediate present and shapes what we value. The Apostle John wrote, “And this is eternal life that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent” (Jn 17:3 ESV). Like all relationships,
closeness and intimacy come with time and engagement; for those who trust in God’s grace through Jesus Christ, this is really the ultimate goal worth working for.
The implications are manifold: We seek heavenly treasures over perishable earthly ones; we exercise self-control as we train to win an “imperishable wreath”; we have motivation to persevere through “light momentary affliction [that] is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory”; we have courage to take risks, knowing that, “Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life” (Matt 6:19-20; 1 Cor 9:25; 2 Cor 4:17-18; John 12:25 ESV).
And yet, Scripture is also pregnant with anticipation of things not yet realized, filled with longing for a destination we will never reach in this life. Like the Psalmist, silent and still, waiting on God. Like those listed in Hebrews who, though commended for their faith did not receive what was promised, who died still looking toward future reward (Heb 11:26, 39). Like how we groan with all of creation, eagerly waiting for our adoption as sons and daughters in our redeemed bodies (Rom 8:22-23; 2 Cor 5:2-4). Like how we “now see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face,” knowing only in part what we will fully know in eternity (1 Cor 13:12).
However many habits we may build, however much self-discipline we develop, however mature we may become, we will never be in control. We will always be dependent upon God who works in us, “both to will and to work for his good pleasure.” (Phil 2:13 ESV) We will never be fully sanctified during our transient time on this earth. We will never truly arrive until we reach eternity.
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The irony of learning Spencerian handwriting is that, as Spencer himself notes, “Between the quality of the writing and the sense it conveys there are often strange incongruities.” It’s possible for the script itself to be elegant and graceful, but with words or ideas that are “vapid and lifeless.” In the Christian life, losing sight of eternity is a little like letting the vapidity of our life overcome the grace of an eternal hope. According to Spencer, “In an ideally perfect script the style would in each piece be fitted to and sympathize with the governing thought expressed; as the sounds of the poet’s lines, when his art is at its best, re-echoes the sense.” As I continue to follow the curves and lines of each letter, I’m reminded that each of my seemingly small and insignificant actions is in service of something bigger and better that will echo a glorious perseverance into eternity.
Lynnette Woo
Writer
Lynnette is a Socal-based writer exploring the tensions and nuances of the Christian life.
Photography by Vicente Manssur
This essay is featured in the newest Ekstasis Print Edition. Enjoy the fullness of what we have to offer and support our work by buying a copy for your coffee table, office space, or reading nook.