A dear friend sent me a gorgeous Italian leather journal last year. I still have yet to put a single word down in it. I also have a red leather journal with gold gilt page edging. Another virgin journal. Sure, I’ve opened them, stroked their pages, inhaled the glorious leather scent. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to physically write in them, which is lunacy.
Part of it is that I find it easier to type, here or in a .doc, than actually mark up these beautiful journals and notebooks. But the other part hit me a few weeks ago as I considered getting out some of the not-made-for-the-internet thoughts and feelings I’ve been struggling with…
Something in me argued that “this isn’t important enough” to mark up those beautiful journals. Apparently, something in me thinks that what I’m going through right now, this upheaval, this heartache, this confusion, this introspection…is too…what? Messy? Ugly? Boring?
I don’t know precisely where this is coming from. Maybe in waiting for the “perfect” use, I’m having a problem not accepting that life is seldomly perfect. Or maybe by thinking my life is too messy to fill these bright, clean pages, I’m not embracing the difficult parts and seeing the potential the pretty pages could play in helping me suss things out.
Or maybe I’m just afraid of what will come out when I don’t have to edit names, events, thoughts, and feelings for an online audience.