Last night I finished filling the pages of another Moleskine. I started this one right around the time we began our adoption journey back in June. I wasn’t getting much traction, but towards the end of the summer I finally began the practice of writing something every day. It didn’t matter whether or not what I wrote was profound or mundane; I just needed to write.
And write I did. In no time at all, the pages were full.
This time around there was not a glorious chapter ending, no big shouts of excitement, or sobbing tears of drama; it’s just filled. Life continues the same today as it did yesterday. This doesn’t mean there is no adventure or glory; it just means that as one book is closing the next one has already begun.
Life happens and I capture it on paper: milestones of taking my first child to Kindergarten, joys of being number 12 on the adoption waiting list, the simplicity in a quiet night at home with the family.
I don’t know why I keep this up. Perhaps I’m crazy and am recording moments so when I’m old and senile I’ll have record that my life was beautiful. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment wanting to have record that I’m not all I think I am. But mostly, I think I write to write, to have discipline, and to process life as is happens.
My life is better for my little notebooks filled one page at a time.
And tonight, I start again…