Today I'm going to buy a new journal. I have this thing with journals. I have tons of them. And I often leave them unfinished, because it is a rarity that a season of my life lasts exactly as long as the pages in my journal. I can't really stand to continue writing in a journal after the season that it began with has passed. Right now my most recent journal is from when I was in Spain (pretty sad huh?). And the random entries penned in the last several months hang awkwardly on the brink of an overwhelming expanse of blank, ivory pages. It would be foolish to think that the creativity in me that has been buried somewhere underneath laziness and the overwhelmity of lots of changing and becoming and "adult" will suddenly flow forth freely at the opening of a new journal, but I can feel it bubbling up and I want to be ready. I'm honestly a little scared of trying. But more excited than scared. Really, it's all connected. This "becoming" thing (becoming a wife, becoming an adult, becoming like Jesus, becoming a friend, becoming a homemaker, become a teacher, becoming me) is pretty intense.
(from a great season of journaling.)