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.
