I finished another journal. This doesn’t happen every day, so it feels like kind of an accomplishment. Except this one took me only just over a year, so it feels like less of a big deal than the one that took me four years to complete. Or the one that took me three years. Or the one that took me a year and a half.
I have become a more dedicated journaler in the last couple years, but when I bought my most recent journal–a Moleskine folio with tiny ruling and no margins–I thought I would probably still be writing in it when I was 70. I was intimidated and at first hesitant to record my nonsense thoughts on its nice cream-colored pages. Obviously, I got over that quickly and wrote like a crazy person this year.
I find journaling really interesting as a medium, but mostly I do it because I don’t know how not to. A big part of living, to me, is writing about my experiences. It is the only way I know how to make sense of my feelings. Whatever happens, I always have this space to myself. It is never an obligation, but always a comfort.
I tried for a while to keep a log book in addition to a journal, but found it just was not for me. I am happy with my current practice, but I have been thinking of ways I might give a more complete picture of my life. I have considered including pieces of conversations and challenging myself to write about things I have avoided and maybe at least once in a while giving hints about what I’m actually doing in my daily life. Maybe press a flower or two. We’ll see!