pen and ink

Lately I have been writing quite a bit. On paper. With a pen. There are way more spelling errors that way, but the flow of ink has been especially therapeutic. Trying to think things through, and realizing I probably need some guidance, I have been organizing my thoughts on paper.

It's interesting because I've always thought of my blog as a bit of an online journal; someplace I can record my thoughts and feelings and share them with people who want to know about them. Writing in a notebook is a different experience. Whereas I don't particularly wonder who might read my blog, I do find myself wondering who might open my notebook and start to read. While my blog is left out in the open all the time, my journal is frequently very close to me, or in a dark pocket in my bag, safe.

I'd forgotten how particular one can be about a pen. And how attached to specific ink colors and points one can become. A black, fine tip pen (preferably accountant tip) was my prefered tool in high school and college, along with college-ruled paper. Blue ink seemed more dreamy somehow; less serious. Black ink was sure, confident--something I wanted to appear to be. 'Fake it till you make it!' I still like black ink, and I'd love to find an accountant fine pen that won't rip up the recycled paper that often makes up the little notebooks I like. I've added highlighters to my palette along the way, although I use them more often when I read than when I write.

For Christmas, my husband got me a pack of pens, a pack of highlighters, and a notebook. Somehow he was moved to find these gifts for me, even though  at the time I hardly wrote anything. I typed my thoughts. Ever since, I have found reasons to write down my impressions, to make them flow through my hand from my heart and mind.

And I wonder why. Why does it feel good to  shape the words? I use a mix of cursive and printing--often to distinguish specific thoughts or voices. Sometimes I use cursive for the deeper thoughts, the things that feel a little more secretive or private. When I copy down a verse, line, or quote, I print. Why do I do that? Who is it I think will ever want to crack the code? That's the biggest mystery. I am writing for myself. And I know the code.

At least the code for the words on the page.

What I'm looking for is the code behind the thoughts in my head, the movements of my heart. I tell myself I'm looking for patterns, or answers, or bigger questions, but the fact is, I still don't go back and read what I've written. I have a habit of wanting answers now. That probably would be better facilitated if I did go back and read my own words. I think the problem is that I don't value them.

A friend and I were just talking about that. When I have a problem or concern I want to talk about, I hem and haw about speaking up.  Inevitably, just at the point when I am ready to spill it all, someone else drops what seems to me to be a bigger, tougher, or more important problem. Who would want to hear about what's bothering me then? I'm reading a book on brokenness, and this was touched upon. I'll have to see where it leads. And I'll have to figure out how it fits.