On my shelf, on my floor, in my bag for work, I have an abundance of notebooks (including this electronic version). I'd love to say a "plethora," simply because it's a fun word, but abundance suffices. Each notebook has its own purpose, so I haven't filled one before starting another. In fact, I don't think any of them are full, per se. I would say that in the mix are notebooks I am finished with.
One bittersweet pile is filled with barre exercises, center floor combinations, tap rhythms and music selections. I happen upon them now and then, stashed in odd spots and bags around the house. They bring back memories of days spent near the CD player in the kitchen, testing, repeating and experimenting with how to move and create, imagining the spacial aspect. I flip through them when they turn up and see a side of myself that I really liked, that I miss sometimes, but that I'm also happy to be free of. Free from. But....
Others are the books that I read. I never marked a single book that wasn't a college text book until fairly recently. And now I'm a bit addicted. Ever since Thomas Merton found his way onto my reading list, I've had to avoid the library like the plague. I use highlighters, flags and pens in my books, marking passages, writing references to other books I've read, and even to movies, music, current events. I love the interaction with the words on the page, and the imagined conversations I'm having with the authors and with my friends reading the same books. Some I feel comfortable sharing, and others I keep to myself, but they, too, tell a story of who I am in a moment in time. This moment.
I have notebooks that are journals. When I was in junior high and high school, Dad used to give me diaries as gifts. With or without little locks, his intention was that I would write down my feelings, my perceptions, my highs and lows. I never really did. These days, journaling as I do, I realize that the thing is, I had very few feelings to write down. Very few highs and lows. I felt a lot of nothing that felt like something. Which is pretty much what I journal about now. Today, in the past couple of years, I've begun to feel, to identify my feelings, to grasp their relevance in my life, and in the lives of those around me. These journals also have specific purposes; trains of thought and threads of me that trace my journey. The lines between them get fuzzier the more I write in them; the deeper I go.
I also write in my devotional book, but not every day. Sometimes I need to write to make the prayer "work," but other days I just talk or listen. These notes range from short messages - just a word or two - to sections where I have completely obliterated the printed passage. I wonder on occasion what my spiritual advisor would see if he were to read it. Then I realize how silly that thought is. They are my prayers, my thoughts, my conversations with God. They can ramble as much as they need to.
There are times when, as I write, I chuckle at the thought of someone trying to put it all in order. I currently have - counting this blog and my daily devotional - 6 active journals. I date each entry and sometimes wonder what on earth is wrong with me. In all honesty, I'm working on breaking down the walls in my mind and heart. It's slow going, and will take many more notebooks, I think.
But I'm on my way.
One bittersweet pile is filled with barre exercises, center floor combinations, tap rhythms and music selections. I happen upon them now and then, stashed in odd spots and bags around the house. They bring back memories of days spent near the CD player in the kitchen, testing, repeating and experimenting with how to move and create, imagining the spacial aspect. I flip through them when they turn up and see a side of myself that I really liked, that I miss sometimes, but that I'm also happy to be free of. Free from. But....
Others are the books that I read. I never marked a single book that wasn't a college text book until fairly recently. And now I'm a bit addicted. Ever since Thomas Merton found his way onto my reading list, I've had to avoid the library like the plague. I use highlighters, flags and pens in my books, marking passages, writing references to other books I've read, and even to movies, music, current events. I love the interaction with the words on the page, and the imagined conversations I'm having with the authors and with my friends reading the same books. Some I feel comfortable sharing, and others I keep to myself, but they, too, tell a story of who I am in a moment in time. This moment.
I have notebooks that are journals. When I was in junior high and high school, Dad used to give me diaries as gifts. With or without little locks, his intention was that I would write down my feelings, my perceptions, my highs and lows. I never really did. These days, journaling as I do, I realize that the thing is, I had very few feelings to write down. Very few highs and lows. I felt a lot of nothing that felt like something. Which is pretty much what I journal about now. Today, in the past couple of years, I've begun to feel, to identify my feelings, to grasp their relevance in my life, and in the lives of those around me. These journals also have specific purposes; trains of thought and threads of me that trace my journey. The lines between them get fuzzier the more I write in them; the deeper I go.
I also write in my devotional book, but not every day. Sometimes I need to write to make the prayer "work," but other days I just talk or listen. These notes range from short messages - just a word or two - to sections where I have completely obliterated the printed passage. I wonder on occasion what my spiritual advisor would see if he were to read it. Then I realize how silly that thought is. They are my prayers, my thoughts, my conversations with God. They can ramble as much as they need to.
There are times when, as I write, I chuckle at the thought of someone trying to put it all in order. I currently have - counting this blog and my daily devotional - 6 active journals. I date each entry and sometimes wonder what on earth is wrong with me. In all honesty, I'm working on breaking down the walls in my mind and heart. It's slow going, and will take many more notebooks, I think.
But I'm on my way.
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