Anyone investigating our home will find an extensive collection of journals. Mine are worn and tattered Moleskine Classic Notebooks of various sizes, all crammed with notes and passages written when ever time and fortune permit. Writing in journals is a habit I began as a teenager and have continued since. I found Moleskines not long before I started to ride the Vespa. They’re compact and durable and put up with a lot of abuse.
There’s usually a journal in my topcase, under the seat or in my riding jacket pocket. I carry them in my shoulder bag and have them stashed at home and work to support my need to scrawl thoughts and ideas on paper — a reliable cure for the mind chaotic.
While walking dogs this morning I was perusing an old journal grabbed of a shelf. It’s unnerving to open them and bear witness to the disjointed ramblings, spelling errors, errors in dates as appears on this spread where I introduce an entry with the wrong year. I’m also reminded of how I abandoned cursive writing in second grade as a result of the system’s relentless desire to save me from a perpetual graphic and ink smeared left hand.
Had to read this entry since many, even blog posts or work related text can be, well, less than kind. Reminds me of the supreme rule in our home, “Thou shalt not read someone else’s journal”.
Journals occupy a sacred place which Kim and I both respect. Meaning we can leave them around the house.
Do you journal? If not, perhaps you may want to give it a try. You may be amazed what’s piled up in your head.