Yesterday I filled the last page of my journal, and below is the final spread. It always feels sad when a book is all the way full, and set on a shelf with the other journals which came before it. For a few short months, the pages in this book are my voice, my therapist, a listening ear to my wanderings. The pages of this book have gone with me and recorded my tearing of paper, and gluings and wanderings and experiments in paper and color and ink.
and words.
My journal feels so essential and such an important part of my life, then it is full, and put away to be opened only on the rare occasion.
When one is done, as I label it and add it to the shelf, I often open up old journals and page through them -- oh, I say, remember that? A photo of kids younger, a trip I had forgotten, time spent somewhere long ago, a time of illness or joy or stress, all the memories come flooding back to me.
I am so thankful for this process, and thankful for the pages of these books which hold my thoughts and feelings for me so loyally.
Now, on to the new book.
It is so empty and new and blank and ready.
Ready to be filled.
"Everything in life seems geared for speed so I think it would be easy to miss one's life altogether. Being able to block out and be inside oneself for just 2 minutes can be enough to inspire and relax." --Elaine Fraser
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