I love to write in my journal.
But my writing has been particularly vigorous lately. Like … physically vigorous. In fact, if handwriting analysis came into play, a professional might pronounce my need for an “I-love-me” jacket and a padded room during the past few months.
When I say writing is good therapy for me, I’m not kidding. My poor journals. When I was younger and more perfectionistic, they were so tidy. Neat handwriting. Always dated the same way in the same position on each page.
My most recent “creation” is a mish-mash of scribbles; sometimes ripped-out, crumpled, shredded, or stapled-in pages; drawings and doodles; HUGE ANGRY writing; skipped lines and pages when I feel like it; and lately even stabbed, gouged, and punctured pages that I’ve attacked violently with a variety of writing instruments.
Why am I telling you this?
Because for me, writing reflects real life.
My blog is sort of real life. But it’s still filtered. I mean … it’s not my journal … obviously. If I ranted my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings on a public forum, I would probably get that padded room after all. Ha.
But there is a lighter side to all this.
When I sat down to write in my journal yesterday, I had a profound experience. And that’s the real reason I’m sharing.
As I’ve mentioned, my latest journal entries are a bit of a mess. But as I began writing yesterday, I turned the page.
And then I paused.
For one brief moment a clean, bright, blank spread of paper stretched out before my eyes. And suddenly it was significant to me.
I looked at that beautiful, blank space and had the urge to run my hand over it. Just to feel its emptiness. And I did.
Is that weird? Probably. But I guess I am weird. I’m a book nerd. I love the smell of the library. (Do you know that smell?) I love flipping through a new book, letting the pages fan my face and inhaling that distinct bookish aroma.
Call me outdated, but the glow of a kindle can never replace the texture of print on a page–although there’s a time and a place for both of course.
Okay … sorry … book tangent/soap box averted.
Over the past day or so I have reflected on my ‘page-turning’ journal experience. Why was I so emotionally affected by the fresh clean pages (putting my book obsession aside)?
My husband has a saying: Tomorrow is a new day.
He says it all the time. I mean, ALL the time–so often that we often grumble and roll our eyes at him.
But honestly, when I turned the page in my journal and saw the new space, that’s the thought that came to mind:
Tomorrow is a new day.
My previous pages might be cluttered and clobbered and punctured and angry. My emotions may be scrambled and frustrated and confused. But it’s okay to turn the page … to start over every day.
Somehow that finally hit home for me, and I felt empowered by the idea.
We are surrounded by symbols like this, but I think we often miss them:
We watch our children open their eyes each morning.
We smell the earth after a spring rain.
We turn a page.
In yoga, sometimes we practice breathing “out with the old” and “in with the new.” But do we really believe it?
Today I will try to believe. I’ll breathe deeply. I’ll turn a page. I’ll smell the rain.
It’s a new day!
Make it great.