The last page of the soft white journal.
Moleskin supple, barely visible lines, a simple book.
Typically covering three months or so, I have stacks of these now.
The last page this morning, waiting for my grey swirly lead lines.
There are quiet rumblings trying to fade of a hard week with hard words, harder choices. It’s work though, and work complained about does nothing more than frustrate you in the explanation. So, I let it be, let Saturday come, let Friday meetings and confrontations go.
And journal thankful things and read the Psalms, prepare for yoga instead of parade.
I turn the page, preparing to close the book.
To see it’s been upside down all this time, the empty space for my name is blank; the little space next to the question of its worth, blank too.
I smile. It’s worth a bunch to me, I think.
Another journal filled with my early morning heart’s pondering.
I rise before the dawn and cry for help; I wait for your words.
Psalm 119: 147
Thoughts purposeful sometimes, other times shallow or habitual murmuring.
Revelations, realizations and regrets.
Progress, backwards steps, teeters and totters.
Yet, I persist. Turn the page, begin again, right side up.
Or upside down, funny the relevance of this tiny oops.
I light a pretty candle and choose music, then not.
Preferring the sound of beagle snores and nothing else.
I write 200 or so more words, remembering my promise to myself to begin and…
Write for as long as you feel the words come clearly and when you don’t feel them, can’t find them, stop.
There are true and brave stories to be told in the colors of my Bible, in the words of my Psalms.