In January of 2021 I made another of my many lifetime attempts to start a personal journaling practice. I eventually gave up on all of my earlier attempts. Somehow the isolation of a global pandemic made it easier to stick to a daily routine. I committed to writing three pages a day after my morning walk, on paper, in a physical journal. No subject is off limits. Sometimes the entries read like a todo list, sometimes like what I did on my summer vacation, sometimes a frustrated rant. I’ve become attached to the practice. It’s not so much what I write, but the act of writing – a sort of formalized self talk. Even the physical act of writing is satisfying – the texture of the paper, the smell of a newly sharpened pencil, the flourish of a descending loop. Every now and then, an entry will feel good enough to share with others. I’ve posted a few on social media before now. But I wanted a personal space to share these little tidbits. Although the plague has subsided, the journal born out of the plague continues.
