In December, my grandmother found my great-grandfather's typewriter tucked away among boxes in the attic. She brought it to me on Christmas night and made me promise to take care of it.
So I did.
With a little loving at the typewriter shop and a new ribbon, it was restored to its cheery jangling and whacking.
I'm learning to type on it, but I have to remember that I can't fly as fast as I do on a computer keyboard. Sometimes I get too enthusiastic and the keys tangle in confusion, piling up in a silvery, inky mess.
It's not a bad reminder.
Sometimes when I fly along too quickly, I lose the beautiful things found in slowness and gentleness.
I'm so bad about this; checklist brain simply takes over. Focused on accomplishment and ready for achievement, I sometimes tear around fixing things and the people closest to me wonder who this Tasmanian devil woman is.
So, I've been making myself write on the typewriter once a day.
It's aggravatingly slow.
And I make so many mistakes. As I swear under my breath, I recognize that my most common mistakes are mixing up the hypen and the star, the 8 and the dash.
But I'm starting to find a good rhythm.
And I'm starting to realize that these silly mistakes are actually what make my writing on this typewriter so special.
I'm learning that imperfection and slowness are beautiful.