Pressed
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.
courage daily thoughts insecurity learning practice thoughts words writers writing Journaling life self expression thoughts whatever Writing
I get that!
I understand, Tracy. Just know how much I look forward to your thoughts, your unique-you way of looking at and sharing the everydayness, challenges, joys, and messiness of life, and making it all look fresh and extraordinary. I’ll be ready to read whenever the words come.
Having written this post, you’ll now probably feel like writing more soon.
I understand. I have a beautiful journal and I hesitate to write in it. Scraps of paper, yep, but not the journal. I end up putting it back in the black lacquer box with the gingko leaves on the top. I love looking at it and the box, but I don’t want to ruin it.
I have missed you very much.