Beginnings and Endings

I realized this morning that I am on the last page of my leather bound journal. There is always a bittersweet feeling at this time. Each book holds roughly two years of events, experiences and emotions. Some of these books I have titled because a single circumstance has so dominated the writings. The stack gets higher and higher as the years march by. I laugh to myself when I think of my daughters reading these notes and knowing more about me than I ever intended. As I feel the handmade paper and lovingly handle the buffalo hide cover, I think of how many nights I have allowed my mind to wander over situations and attempted to make sense of it all. Somehow if I could just write it and see it, I might understand what alluded me.  I had an advisor once tell me that I was trying to make logic out of the illogical and maybe that is so. Is writing cathartic? Is it releasing pent up energy? Is it settling spinning emotions and getting a handle on them? Whatever it is to me is a mystery and yet it is a process that I have followed since childhood.


Tragedy struck when a spurned lover destroyed a set of my journals when I was in my late teens. He was able to land a blow that hurt worse than any slap or insult. The dreams and contemplations of my youth went up in smoke. But I remember. I remember the poetry I wrote at the time. I remember sitting with my journal among the stones in an old cemetery. It was serene, a stream rambled past and I felt the beings there were glad to have my company. The chaotic feelings of an adolescent were cooled by the ancient pines. The poetry was inspired by the beautifully hand carved epitaphs on the granite markers; many of these predated the Civil War. Numerous were the graves of children, often several with the same date. These stones were engraved with sheep, dogs, willow trees and baskets of flowers. This was the only place I wrote poem after poem. I haven’t done that since. They are gone, destroyed by someone’s anger and intent to cause pain. If the poems were meant to be here they would have survived. It is the writing that mattered. It was the process that soothed my soul. That could not be halted.

If tomorrow all of my journals were turned to ash, it would not be important. There are always more words, more thoughts, more dreams. I have considered going back and reading past entries to find the wisdom, but I am not sure I will find it. Yes, I would now see the situation from a vantage point I could not have then. I have changed. I am not the person I was. I hope that each year I become more.

I end this journal with gratitude and tenderness. Now to choose anew. There is excitement at the beginning of a new story, a tribute to the life I am leading. New adventures to explore, new love to share, new people to meet, new dreams to set in motion. My life is forever unfolding and building. I set the intention that all I desire is coming to me. True love, abundance and joy. I am fulfilled and find peace in my everyday activities. My work is rewarding and beneficial to the whole. This fresh, untouched journal will reflect one more chapter in the continuing saga of Patty McGlynn from Cow Turd Alley. I am excited to see where she will go this time and what she will learn along the way. The little girl that just keeps writing.