I bought another journal today that I didn’t need. My daughter says I have a fetish for journals – and she’s probably right. I have thin and fat, large and small, colorful and plain journals stuck in all sorts of places – including by my bed, in my car, the office, kitchen and here now as I sit in our town common at the local farmer’s market.
I like the blank pages bound with a beautiful cover. It holds potential. It’s unencumbered with rules, responsibility and “shoulds.” It’s filled instead with “can-be’s.”
We all need a pathless place to explore—like a coloring book without lines, an empty book, a blank canvas, a walk through the uncharted woods.
Maybe the infamous mid-life crisis comes when we deprive ourselves of a space to just create. When we keep reaching outward for satisfaction – a fancy new car, a thrilling young relationship – we miss the creative inner spark that is the sustaining, interesting and intriguing juice of life. We ignore the capacity to be led from inner motivation versus outer expectations. It’s not easy to meet the blank page; it’s scary and at times cumbersome. But it’s infinitely more satisfying over time and is a consistent validation of who you are. The satisfaction lasts longer than the fleeing high of the shiny new thing used as a distraction.
If you looked at your day today, would you find space for a blank page? Is there room in your mind for creative expression without boundaries? What would you do with that space if found?