August 11, 2011

Twenty Journals

Twenty. Ten years and twenty notebooks. 

That's what I realized once I had gathered them all in one place. It was ten years this week that I walked out of my home with my first husband and into my very first apartment alone. My first journal was my best friend. But even then I thought about my children finding them after I was gone and I sometimes censored my feelings.

Through the years, I wrote and wrote about my feelings. My ups and downs, my fears and my dreams. But all of these books have one thing in common. None of them are full. 

There are some with neat writing and chronological entries. Some have pictures or scribbles, or even art created purposefully. Some have random entries where I opened a page and just wrote. Some have notes for art projects I hope to attempt, some have random sayings to design into a needlework pattern, and some have favorite quotes that struck a chord with my spirit. Some pages have lists of things to do, and some have stories. Almost every entry is dated because I like to see what I was thinking about and when. 

But every single one is unfinished. A couple have never even been started.

I love the freshness of a brand new blank book. The possibilities of greatness lie within the confines of the cover. It is up to me to fill the fresh pages with whatever tickles my fancy and feels worthy of expressing or remembering. It feels so important verbalized this way...

This year, I bought a new journal. I went to several stores and put a lot of thought into it. It had to be small enough to carry in my bag, but big enough to hold all of me. I wanted a nice cover that would be inviting and make me want to write in it. And, I preferred a serious journal with lines and a ribbon marker to easily find my next page.

When I found 21 with it's beautiful embossed leather cover in turquoise, it was obvious it was meant for me. I knew by the feel of it, with it's lined pages and turquoise ribbon marker, that it was perfect. This was the one that would make me want to write. And it did. I wrote and wrote, and I am still filling it's pages. Who knows? I may even fill this one entirely.

But if I don't- that's okay.

It used to bother me a lot that I had so many unfinished books. Now I realize that they each had a purpose and when that purpose was served, I simply moved on to another. I no longer consider it a failure to have so many half-finished journals. 

Rather, I embrace the fact that I know when to let something go and move on in a different direction. After all, isn't that simply being true to myself?

We'll see how far 21 takes me. Between this blog and that journal, I have written more in the last three months than any previous time in my life.

And it feels really good.


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