December 23, 2014
I awoke this morning and took the dogs out. 6:30 am-ish.
Walking to the kitchen, I passed the bookshelf and found this old journal on the
floor. Strange. Lying there as if it had jumped from the shelf. I can't
remember the last time I even looked at this journal. The notes in the
front are from when I was still married to Steve, and then also from when I was
in my first apartment after I moved out.
That's 16 years ago. Yet, there
it lay on the floor at my feet, most likely swept from the shelf by Frank's
high and very large tail caught in the journal's spiral binding. Still, when I
saw my writing through the translucent cover - the words I carved into the clay
heart box I made for my daughter Gay when she graduated high school - my heart
jumped. "Oh God, I haven't looked at this in years!", I thought to
myself as I picked it up off the cold tile floor. And as I began to read the
pages, I remembered there was more. I remembered tearing out pages that I no
longer wanted to keep. I have no recollection now what they contained, only
that it felt like a purge, a cleansing.
Suddenly, I was overcome with
the urge to write. So, here I sit on a rainy, dark morning journaling once
again after all there years.
This. The extraordinary experience of being
alive, when even the most mundane moments are filled with soul.
