My journal is an ear into which
I pour thoughts by the thousand
and it never tires of listening.
It never smirks at the shape of sounds
but accepts them all openly caressing
even petty passing feelings
and mundane moments.
It lets me in even with the stubble
of day old beard and bad breath.
It never backs off but,
instead, bares itself
becomes a rain gutter for my tears
and a blossom for my sunlight.
It is a testament to the virtue of
blankness as a way of being
and the wisdom that every moment
‘till it is.
© Nick LeForce
All Right Reserved
I have kept a journal with relative consistency since my senior year of high school. Once completed, I never re-read them, other than to extract poems. I recently piled 50 years of journals on my dining table as part of Marie Kondo’s tidying up process. I was ready to toss them all out. But, as I began flipping through the pages, I decided to organize them. I have set aside a bookcase in my garage for them. This is my new someday plan: to go through each one and take pictures of the old stories, poems, and precious bits I want to keep.
What, in your memorabilia, holds
the precious treasures of the heart,
treasures you wish to keep?
I wrote a letter to myself as part of my ritual of gratitude for my journals. It describes how I might relate to them as I go through this life changing process of keeping what sparks joy and arranging my life around what I love. You can read the blog post here: The Author Of My Life