Today is a day to journal. If you are a journaller, you know what I mean. If you aren't I encourage you to consider jumping on the bandwagon.
This is a journal I made my last year at Artfest. I was over 8 months pregnant, in a tiny room at Fort Warden in Port Townsend, over-filled with 6 foot tables. I literally couldn't maneuver in there at all. But it didn't bother me, as I had great fun in the class. Traci Bautista was teaching us to make great messes with scraps of various papers, most of which was from my recycle bin, along with inexpensive liquid watercolors and markers of all kinds.
That was over 2 years ago now, and I still had yet to write in the
resulting book. Nothing really seemed to fit, and it still really
doesn't, but I'm tired of my poor little book being all dressed up with
nowhere to go. I have been experiencing some dark times of late, and though I am a journaller, I haven't
ever really been one to write out all my unromantic, depressing worries
and sad thoughts. I guess I assume someone will read my journals someday, at the very least after I'm dead,
and I don't want them to think I had a morose personality. Despite all this, however, I have been putting pen to page, deciding that my own
journal therapy is more important that what people think of me
(especially since the only ones reading these will probably be those
who knew and loved me anyway). Perhaps the bright cheery colorful
pages will have a positive effect on the words I write? We'll see I
guess. But either way it is nice to be scribbling again.