This term, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about ink.
Not in an abstract, metaphorical way, but the real stuff — oak galls, iron sulfate, the process of crushed and boiled ingredients turning into something that can last for centuries. In my Latin paleography class, we’ve not just been learning how to read medieval manuscripts, but how to make them. We’ve written in Carolingian minuscule and Gothic Textura, traced letterforms over papyrus and stretched parchment and stitched quires into books. The process is slow, intricate and deliberate — and strangely grounding.
The word “manuscript” comes from the Latin “manus,” meaning hand, and “scribere,” to write. Manuscripts are literally texts written by hand, and the more time that I spend with them, the more that I understand what that really means. A manuscript isn’t just a vessel for content — it’s an expression of attention, of patience and of deep care. Every letter was formed by a dutiful monk hunched over a desk, probably by candlelight. Every page was scraped, ruled, inscribed and sometimes decorated with colorful inks or illuminated with gold.
When you write with a quill, you have to slow down. Press too hard and the ink will blot; move too quickly and the letters jumble together. You have to listen to the material, to the scratch of the nib, the drag of the parchment, the rhythm of your own hand. One text might take months or even a year to finish.
It’s hard for me to wrap my head around that kind of time. In college, we typically move as fast as we can, chasing deadlines and trying to hold everything together. While there may be a thrill in that pace, paleography has reminded me what it feels like to go slowly, and how much beauty there is when you do. With a manuscript, you can’t rush the work. That slowness isn’t a flaw — it’s the point.
I’ve been trying to move through my life with the same care. Instead of prioritizing speed on a homework assignment, I take the time to consider each word that I write as one part of a larger puzzle. Instead of speeding across the Green to get to my destination, I take a moment to people-watch or inspect the trees that dot its perimeters. The kind of intention expressed in the creation of a manuscript can also be incorporated into our own lives. There’s a reason that people still study these thousand-year-old texts today. They are a labor of love, proof of the beauty we produce when we slow down and take life one step at a time.
This week in Mirror, our writers stop and smell the flowers to appreciate the last ten weeks. One writer reviews the best cider in Hanover. Our weekly columnists consider relationships within the friend group in Freak of the Week. Finally, we hear from Mirror writers in an end-of-spring-term edition of Mirror Asks.
Happy Week 10, Mirror! During the final week of the term, I invite you to be intentional. Whether it be in your school work, extracurriculars, or relationships, take things slowly. Think of your life as an unfinished manuscript, with plenty of time to be adorned.
