journaling

Introspective people like to keep a journal.

This is just a sample of the journals I have. All but one (the orange spiral) was given to me by discerning friends and family. Lesley got the pretty brown-green-aqua set on the right and the olive ribbon one as giveaways at design shows. So nice that she thinks of her mother.

There is promise in empty white pages, and the time and effort of writing down thoughts and feelings means my own life is special, important. I can work through problems or figure out my mind.

I also confess that I take narcissistic pleasure in seeing my own hand writing, even though my weak wrists have caused it to deteriorate seriously. But even in my chaotic scribbles there is comfort. As someone said, the act of writing by hand feels connected to the heart. Because this is true for me, I often start a poem by writing down initial thoughts by hand, then typing them into a Word doc for easy editing.

Most of the white pages in the books above have not one mark on them. The truth is that I don't do much writing in journals any more, though I value it.

There's no denying that blogging has taken the place of some journal writing. We all expose ourselves in varying degrees in these public spaces, but private thoughts can still be hidden between the pretty covers of a blank book. Now if I'd been journaling lately, I might have written down how nice it was to get the Blog of Note honor, that it stretched my capacity to keep up, and that I'm tickled to be off the main Blog of Note blog page now. I am enjoying new friends, and I am quite happy to have things settle back to a dull roar, as we used to say at our house.