It was an emotional challenge to fill the last page of my old journal/planner/notebook.scrapbook.
It covered just under a year. Such varying events and moments condensed into less than 100 scrawled pages of ramblings and lists.
I spent an hour flipping back through every page and copying over notes and writings that I couldn’t help but carry forward from my old tome.
After a year of weekly posts, one might think that this blogging thing would be easier. One would be quite wrong.
I still struggle to find the words to encapsulate my experiences. I’m battling the balance of living and writing especially during these full weeks. I want to be out doing, seeing, engaging, connecting, opening, expanding, loving my life with ferocity and consumptive fire.
There are rare times that I have the compulsion to write at length. Most often, however, it is a passing thought of “I should write about…” or a catchy title or sentence that I have repeating over and over in my brain.
I have pages of “starts” but few “finishes” in the banks.
When the muse visits for a long chat, I relish the words forming under my pen. I cherish the missives after the moments have passed.
It was with heavy heart that I faced the replacement my old notebook. Yet, as she often does, the Universe provided a perfect new one to purchase in Paris. And, to ease the ache, I was gifted with a glorious afternoon to first scrawl upon the pages.
On the banks of the Seine 9/29
My only regret is that my legs do not feel strong enough to run… that and that I not a poet nor a painter. Throwing gratitude by the fistful that I am here.
In and of this moment.
Tears of joy don’t seem like a good enough offering. So I sit and scratch out words with new pen in new notebook. Hoping to capture some small part of this most excellent of moments that I might not forget how incredibly blessed I am.
Merci. Merci. Merci.
I feel at the mercy of the Universe for my heart is full to bursting.
I keep thinking “oh, this can’t get any better.” Then a puppy comes up for a snuggle, a rower passes and a man with an accordion begins to play.
Mercy.
Gratitude by the Fistful
I peeked over the stone wall and saw the steps leading down, so I followed them. One more little sidetrack and then, I swear, I will get the food and coffee my body wants.
Oh but I must try to take a picture of this Frenchman lounging on his cellphone.
Well I’ll just walk this way along the river for a while and then go back. How often am I on the banks of the Seine? (giggle)
Wait, is that really a woman painting?
The sky is so blue. The light just perfect. The sun is so warm on my skin.
Ok I must get on with my day. I’ll just take these stairs and go back to the street.
But why? Why not turn around mid stride? Why not take that meandering path along the shore?
Why not go find a place to stop?
Go back and sit with shoes kicked off and bare, battered toes dangling over waters of film legend.
Coolness of ancient stones balanced with heat of the day.
Smile out-beaming the sun.
Write this.
Break the seal of that notebook and try to capture the soul-leading beauty of the autumnal air, lapping waters, glinting gold, city sounds, jewelbox sky and heart full to bursting.
Your mind dared go. Your heart dared to open. Your tried, sore feet have led you this far. Rest them on the shore and pay homage to the gift of this day with your hands.
Go. Stop. Appreciate.
With gratitude always be IN,
Jo
Have a splendid moment to write about? Tell me/us/the world about it. Please. Write it about it in the comments. Now.
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