How I started journaling

Midway through last September, I started journaling. I am still writing frequently in my journals, a surprising success given several aborted attempts in the last 34 years. I can identify several reasons I am still writing. I am giving myself permission to write poorly, as if nobody would ever read what I write -- including myself. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, and sentences are all optional. I think of the journal as a terrific listener, and really this is just a reflection of something more important: I am finally willing to listen to myself without judgment, giving myself permission to speak freely. However, none of that is my motivation for this blog post.

My first journal invited me to write on its pages. The cover, the line spacing, the art on the edge of each page -- all encouraged me to hold and admire this originally-empty book. My first entry arose from this visceral attraction. This blog post is motivated by a desire to share that entry.

I chose this book because its art invited me to write on its pages. Tonight I see the sun on the cover, and remember the Phoenix, willing to end its life in fire and ashes, so it may be reborn and rise to a new life. Tonight is a good night for me to give up the life I've had. Once I've let that life go, I'll be ready, and willing, to receive the morning's new life. Again.