It’s now full

I have 15 journals. I love to shop for them. Scan the physical shelves. Pick them up. Flip the pages. Assess the type of paper. I love to receive them as gifts. And I have never filled one. Maybe because I love getting new ones. But mostly I think because I have never had such a long run of time to be so self-absorbed and to write. A gift in the shadows for sure.

The journal I lovingly shopped for, filled with sorrow, on May 23, 2019, is now full. It was the only thing I was moved to do on that day. Standing in Barnes and Noble, in a daze, scanning the wall for the right one. The most important journal I would ever have. That journal is now full.

A number of years ago I had an idea for a blog. I was going to call it, What was I Thinking?! I had planned to randomly select pages from journals past, from poems, love letters and other forms of writing that I had penned over the years. I would analyze and dissect a passage. Presumably I would find many things that seemed so important at the time that now felt much less dramatic or even meaningless all the years later. I thought this would be an interesting way to look at my own life experiences and also to find lightness and humor in the rollercoaster that we ride during our lifetime.

So now, in a different and unexpected way, I am blogging, in part, from thoughts and feelings that I have journaled. And yes, I can already flip back to various entries over the past 20 months and process that question, what was I thinking.

Honestly, there are some entries that I read that break my heart. My own heart breaks for me. And the bigger question that I ask myself is not, what was I thinking, but, how did I get through that moment? Followed by, I am so glad I am not having that day today.

To the best of my knowledge, I personally don’t know anyone who keeps a regular journal. If you read this and I am wrong about you, please set me straight.

I wonder, where I would put my feelings, my questions, my sorrow, if I didn’t journal especially during the past 18 months. Where would it go? Would it be stuck inside of me? Would it be lost in a long-forgotten conversation with a friend?

I am not going to say that journaling is always easy. But I have learned to not pressure myself to write. Ever. Though I did scold myself once – you haven’t written anything in two weeks; why not? The answer to that question typically was that I hadn’t been taking time to feel or explore or just pause without mundane distractions. And then what followed was a commitment to write every day for a week. Not because I had to fill those pages, but because I knew I had been running away and it was time to stop. Journaling would bring me back.

So, my next journal is sitting in front of me. I have a number of blank journals because of my love for selecting them, so how did I select where I would write next?  It was easy. The next journal that will serve as a vessel for my sacred journey was a gift, from Tim’s daughter, my bonus daughter, Leyla. It’s beautiful and one that I could have easily selected for myself. But she chose it for me, seven months after she lost her Dad.

I am excited to grace its pages with what I know will be musings related to her Dad, and our life, and my grief. I will fill it with stories of how I am walking my current path, the ways that I am experiencing growth, as well as the many questions and thoughts that I have about this soul ride. But, there is pressure. What earns the right to go on the first page of this next journal? I haven’t written in 8 days because of this. I am a bit paralyzed over it. But, it will happen. And now that I think about it, I suspect it will be dedicated to Leyla.