I love things that hold things. Bags of all shapes and varieties. Boxes with top that have compartments on the inside. Ceramic anything, the brighter, the better. Glass bottles. Baskets. Tiny trays. Wooden trays. Vases. Pitchers. Clay pots.
Of all the vessels I’ve amassed over these many years, my collection of notebooks is the most impressive. Some are colorful, purposefully adorned, other more muted; it hardly matters. Their value is in their readiness.
In my early adulting years, I collected notebooks in preparation for the days when my thoughts would crystallize into profound formations. They sat unopened for a long time. Hopeful beacons on a wooden pedestal shelf.
As time wore the path of perfectionism away, the notebooks were eventually opened. More were acquired—filled—with coffee-stained notions, lists (so many lists), and thoughts that later become sentences.
I used to worry that when I was long gone, someone would open these containers of truth and see me. How embarrassing to be fully exposed. Like being naked in a picture window. Took quite a while to understand. That was the whole point. To see and be seen. Also, how grandiose and silly of me.
Read away, I say now to the soul(s) who will someday sort my left behind treasures. Good luck making sense of the disconnected musings. I spent a lifetime happily trying.
A recent article in The Athletic section of the NYT describes Michael Phelps’s ritual of journaling. His practice has two guiding principles.
1) No limits. No prompts, no planning, just riffing.
2) Document everything.
According to the article, Phelps uses this practice to put the puzzle pieces of his life together. He sees trends and picks up on threads by re-reading entries, noticing patterns. It’s clear in the piece by Elise Devlin that Phelps’s Olympian commitment extends to all areas of his life, including journaling. The only similarities between my practice and his are the paper and pen. But the outcomes are much the same.
The gratitude found when recording life’s details. The growth that materializes when you value thoughts enough to write them down. The power in releasing fears, hopes, and dreams onto the page. Allowing the notebook to help carry the weight along with the wonder.
There’s a quote by Anne Frank. “I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”
Courage reborn resonates with me. The world feels increasingly unrecognizable and it’s going to take courage not to sink into a deep hole of despair or look the other way. To figure out what to do. How to help. How not to stand by, but in the way.
Thankfully, the world is chockfull of notebooks. It's time to fill them up. To see what courage can be found.
