the journal

A journal is a place where you can catch your own mind in the act of being interested in something.

I journaled as a child, a chicken-scratch assortment of Dear Diaries and misdirections for nosy brothers, until I turned thirteen and it became my closest companion. Its pages were where I felt safest being my realest self. But somewhere along the way, I mistook growing in faith for growing as a person, and the pages that once held my innermost thoughts became a prayer journal, eventually descending into the mundane role of recording notes from church meetings and conferences.

But then I left church and God, and journals became relics of the past. Those I didn't burn had nothing too interesting to say, nothing that would speak of legacy or adventure or ponderings or growth. So many pages filled, but so little evidence of the person holding the pen.

And when I went to pick them up again, I found I had nothing to say. Somehow my mind was full, but my pen was empty. Or perhaps there was a chokepoint somewhere between thought and paper, a place where everything I wanted to say became tangled in words I had heard before, like Your preferences cost you the fellowship. And then all my hands could do was snap it shut and place it back on the side table, where it sits, faithfully collecting dust because I am too terrified to let it collect my thoughts.

But I leave it there, to greet me each morning as I set my coffee cup beside it, because I remember the days of my youth when my journal brought relief and reprieve, and I hope one day it can be that for me again.

And so it sits.