I used to fill journals faster than I could buy them. “Dear Diary” was too trite for me, so I just wrote for myself and ended each entry with a heart.
There are at least 10 journals I have that take me from middle school through college and had I kept at it, there would likely be five times that by now.
But I got married. Got a full time job. Had a baby. Moved cross country. Through it all I managed to update a journal entry here and there. Instead of a daily journey through yesterday, I was able to capture moments in Polaroids built with my words.
Then something strange happened. I started blogging. The private thoughts jumbled in my head were no longer being saved for my pages. Instead, I was sharing them with anyone who cared to stop by for a peek inside my head. And all was well, until The Husband handed me this…
He saw me drooling over it at the Arizona Renaissance Festival and it came home with me. It’s lovely. Hand-tooled. Real leather. And if I care to take the journal back with me next year, the artisan will cut out my bound pages and fill the cover with empty lines for me to fill again. The writer in me was thrilled. And then I got performance anxiety.
This wasn’t just any old journal I picked up from the local pharmacy. It was special and deserved more than This is What Happened to Me Today. I could share that here, with you. And if I felt the need, I could delve even deeper into my head in the cheap journal I found with my own words that has taken me more than 3 years to fill. No, this one deserved something special.
So it sat on my desk, unopened and untouched waiting for me to decide when the time was write and its purpose.
I didn’t think about it every day. There’s the writing and the dreams of a book deal and the agent seeking and the raising a kid who is probably already smarter than I ever will be and the working out and the writing for Owning Pink and the new role as an official Erma and the Bookieboo writing and the remembering to breathe thing.
I’ve never really allowed myself the chance to be anything else. At eight years of age, I decided my destiny and have breathed that single thought ever since. I even went into newspaper reporting as my day job with the intention of writing for myself each night. That didn’t work out so well. Others may thrive with that plan. I came home so burnt out I didn’t want to write a shopping list. Maybe that’s why I didn’t fight it much when The Husband asked if I wanted to stay home to raise Buttercup after she was born.
Even with Motherhood redefining my reality, I’ve always been searching for a bigger piece of myself not yet defined by anyone. In short, I needed a hobby. Not blogging. Not journaling. Not anything related to the words that I am
not paid for but for which the simple act of sharing keeps me whole inside. I needed something outside of that and stumbled upon it, and the eventual purpose of the new leather journal, quite by accident when I decided to start mixing my own natural beauty products for myself. Eventually I made some for my friends. And then I decided to add even more to my to do list by opening an etsy shop.
The Husband only asked me if I was crazy once. And that was before he realized that even if no one buys a thing, mixing things up in the kitchen is just an extension of my newfound yoga practice. It’s another way to relax and something I truly enjoy. So he shut up, smart man that he is.
My journal now serves as a record keeper for my personal recipes. Words might still fill the page, but in a very new way. And this makes me smile.