Looking out the window, I can see them working their way across the barren flowerbeds. The bright orange of their breast showing me the hope of spring. Today is the first day I have seen robins in the yard. Moving from place to place with their hopping step, pausing to peck and scratch at the surface. They are so puffy with the feathers fluffed up against the cold wind, as if inflated just a little too much. It is a sign of springtime, and today is the first day I have seen them. It reminds me that I should take time to look, and see what is happening in my world, something I forget to do.
There is a certain simple pleasure to the process. Taking time out of the day to sit down and compose my thoughts. To prepare the space, selecting the paper, choosing a pen, and then placing the pen to the paper. Watching the ink flow from the nib across the page as my thoughts are translated through the subtle movements of my hand into words flowing through ink. The sounds of the nib on the page, the slight scratch, the way the paper grabs at times against the tines of the pen. It requires a bit more concentration, I have to be mindful of my thoughts as I write so that they do not outrun the pace of my pen. I have to hold those thoughts as I reach for a new page. These are all the little moments that make writing by hand such a pleasure.