Last night, I attempted to write in my journal about the fact I’ve been in Oregon about a year.
What happened was something that struck me, kind of like a slap across the face, but in a “duh” sort of way.
It has been a bit since I’d sat down and typed a journal entry. I’ve been posting on tumblr a bit, and hand-writing entries too, but haven’t given myself the kind of time I should to put down enough words to lead my brain in a direction. Typically, I write until a thought starts to crystallize. Sometimes that thought becomes an essay, or a few hours of work on manuscripts, or sometimes it becomes that text message I needed to send, or a letter. Whatever the outcome, journaling is such a part of my life, and it became clear last night, as thoughts and words ended up looking and sounding like a pile of cooked spaghetti on the page, that I really have to take this more seriously.
I had to shut my eyes because my brain felt like a lit-up tree, with directions of thought sparking and branching out. Like a Coloradan lighting bolt, it was both beautiful to feel thoughts churning and firing off and electrifying the page before me, but also humbling in that I still have so much more to work through and put down on that white blank space of a page.
I have to find a balance between time at work, time with Ray (more on him in a future post), and time for me to do this thing. My inner Libra is relishing the challenge, and the rest of me is requiring the equilibrium.