“Sherlock Holmes had his pipe. Dorothy had her red shoes. Batman had his Batmobile. If we asked your friends what object they most immediately associate with you, what would they answer?”
I asked myself first, and got the answer. Then I called out and asked another person, and they gave me the same answer. If we had to pick one object that immediately associates with me, it’s my journal. I take that thing everywhere I go.
When my purse went missing once, the first thing I yelled was “MY JOURNALLL!!!!!!!!” My journal is everything, it’s my space where I write, it’s secret, I’ll never show it to you, it’s more sacred than being naked, it’s the barest of souls.
I have to process everything before I know how I feel about it. I never really know what’s going on ‘inside’ until I sit down and write about it. It’s like the pen and paper make magical love together, music that pours out of some place inside of me and dribbles onto the thick pages. My hand tried to keep up with it all, sometimes the thoughts pour too fast.
To hell with electronic journals and dear diaries. The real journals, the paper journals, are the best. I stand in front of the attractive selection when it’s time for a new one, and I try to figure out which one speaks to me. It’s all about the mood, the theme, what’s happening with me. The cover says it all, or it doesn’t. The pages, the way it opens, the texture- it has to all be right. Do I want to go with the sexy leather? Or the hipster one with recycled pages? Or do I want to go with the ones with cool antique-like designs on them? Sometimes I go with the wild ones full of colour, other times I just can’t decide, so I leave, and come back the next day.
You never know what the new journal will hold. I just got used to the last one and now it’s over, feeling a little sad to depart, to finish the last page. Once I buy my new one, I stare at it for awhile, and think about how it has nothing in it yet, and it doesn’t know me. Then I think about what kind of things it will witness, what words will it take. What will happen in my life that this book of paper will be brave enough to gather?
Holding a pen, and purposely sitting down to write on paper, is a beautiful way to find yourself. It is usually in these moments where the pain is felt slower, revelations come faster, and you leave knowing more about that beating heart inside.
Me and my journal,
just leave us in a field somewhere.