A love letter to my first journal, and the person who gave it to me.
When you gave me my first journal,
it was gamboge yellow and stiff in my hand,
leafy pages pressed and fluttering
with every nervous rustle;
my fingers were eager to fill each line
with my own unique slant.
You left it at my doorstep,
with a sticky note on the front page,
saying (I still have it):
And the floodgates unleashed;
I was a memoirist machine,
filling journal after journal,
hitting one experience, emotion, insight after the other,
soon setting goals for what kind of writing came next.
Now I sit here typing this, reflecting back:
could this blog exist without you?
In another parallel universe, yes I’d like to think so.
Writing is such a part of my being,
how couldn’t it be clearer?
But in this one, I embraced it only
after holding that first, filled book in my hands.
And now that I know,
I want to see where it leads.
Thank you for that first gift of a journal,
for saying without words:
“It’s ok, I know this of you.