Ode to a Journal

A couple of months ago I brought this black beauty home. You see, I have a weakness for books of any kind and that includes journals.













Whenever I visit a book store I will inevitably be drawn toward the section that carries those uniquely bound treasures known as journals. I will look at them and touch them and smell them. I will WANT to buy them all, though I may or may NOT commit to one. You see the cost is surprisingly high for a book with blank pages!

If I succumb to my yearning and take one home it may take me a long while to put pen to paper. There is something sacred about a blank page under a pretty cover. At first, none of my thoughts will seem to deserve a note on the unbroken white of those fresh pages. I have been known to purchase a journal and stare at it for months... sometimes longer... before mustering the courage to write. In the mean time I feel a happy flutter of excitement whenever I look at it. For now that is enough I tell myself.

Most of the time I type my thoughts, but there always comes a day, or a moment, or an emotion, that needs to be truly written. Finally my hand will engage in the therapy that can always soothe my soul. I take long strokes and try my hardest to be neat. Handwriting itself has never been a strength of mine. I pour my little heart into each page and when it is done I hide that precious book away until the next time. There's always a next time.