I have this gorgeous journal. The pages are soft and a lovely shade of ivory. The cover is patched together textiles and embroidered seams. There is a pocket in the front to tuck treasures and inspiration. If I could dream up a journal, this one would be the one.
I have a beautiful fountain tip pen. Medium nib with a see-through barrel so I can watch the black ink slosh about. The writing is smooth but still grips the paper to make that swish sound of things happening. If I could dream up a pen, this one would be the one.
Every morning I open the journal, uncap the pen and write nothing. I have done this for months. I make my tea, light my candle, and run my hand along the gorgeous cover. I open to the first page, smoothing my hand again. I check the ink in my pen on scrap paper and set myself to begin. Nothing.
I close the cover every morning, set it aside, and write on whatever scraps I have lying around. At first, I thought I was stuck and had nothing to say, but I’m writing elsewhere, just not in that journal.
This morning I figured it out. I am afraid. I’m not exactly sure of what, but it feels like screwing up, messing with perfection, or simply failing. The journal and the pen are a dream. They are not the problem. I am.
My words are jumbled these days. My head is fuzzy from the pause, and I have somehow convinced myself that my work and words are unworthy of paper and ink.
How ridiculous, right? I should pull that journal out, open to page one, and get started. But I won’t. It has nothing to do with the journal. It is me, and that will take a bit to figure out.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Morning pages.