3930
Pt. 1
I have been hard at it for thirty years. (Yeah, I have).
I think anyone who devotes thirty years to anything enjoys
what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for
punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).
I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have
literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I
haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty years).
I am a marriage and family counselor
But to digress a bit
In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to
write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20th and
current 21st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but
that’s the jest of it.
Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to
write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking
of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested
eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I
am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in
the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).
Pt. 2
However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer
into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about
doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a
client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a
computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla
died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your
husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck).
Rather impersonal, I think.
But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes.
During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am
liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101
questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill
up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes
indecipherable to even me).
I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my
current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I
don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).
I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a
break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to
practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the
past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).
At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better
I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my
right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.
I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired
my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the
legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly
unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the
resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).
Pt. 3
But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between
my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to
looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just
short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in
appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing
words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me
somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand,
but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did
now).
Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me
put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the
old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t
turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking
up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course,
that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).
It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to
my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would
announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing
the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”
I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed,
archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit
eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy
cursive is so much easier to decipher.
But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found
ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to
counselor and client alike.
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