On Journaling

This is what happens to my writing when I am not entrenched in technical and scientific babble all day long.

For me, there is a method in the starting and keeping of a journal, indeed, almost a ritual. Careful thought and planning is observed before ever pen touches paper. In seeing out even the smallest details, I find that I can focus all the more on the therapy at hand. My thoughts are on the perfect expression of whichever of the numberless ideas I have decided to concentrate on rather than consumed with the amount of room left on the page or ink left in the pen.

The journal itself is, of course, the keystone of the process. I, myself, have three at the moment; signs of an addiction, perhaps, but a page for every thought and a thought for every page. There is my study journal: sturdy, neatly organized, complementary sized so as to be easily carried alongside my Bible to studies, conferences, and sermons as well as personal devotion times. It's pages are thus far filed with notes, comments and questions as well as an occasional prayer scribbled in the margins.

Then, I have an actual prayer journal; also sized to be carried with my Bible. It is leather-bound, compact, secure. It started as an ordinary journal at a time when I was lost in uncertainty, determined to flush out my identity on a regimen of reflection and self-evaluation. (Perhaps that is why it resembles a traveler's journal.) It was shelved for a while and I realized that my identity was in Christ all along. So it was born anew as the journal that helps me bring focus and intent to my prayers. It is also a constant review and reminder of what God has done in my life.

There is my newest journal. Small, discrete, portable, it is a ready receptacle for any inspirations or ideas that may come during the day or, as the case may have it, at night. It is, as I've said, small, and I shouldn't doubt if I've managed to exhaust its pages in some short-time. It is meant, more than anything, to whet my rhetorical appetite to what it once was. Perhaps I will again toy with the poetry and prose I delighted in.

Through my journaling I've come to a philosophy on, of all things, pens. Crucial to the journaling experience is the proper writing utensil. While I prefer a quill and ink bottle, they are not the most portable of choices. Nor are they the most convenient for simply "jotting something down." While a pencil offers that beautiful scratch as it moves over the paper, it does not bring the challenge and permanence granted by a pen. Preferring to write in script I have found it difficult to find a pen that will provide the same scratch as most write too smoothly nowadays. There is something to that sound of pen on paper, almost as though you are hearing the ideas sharpen, solidify. Thoughts are moved from the abstract to the concrete with a few whispered scratches.

I feel a pen should rank well in the areas of style, form and function; as well as availability and reliability. A pen on its last drop of ink can leave you stranded mid-revelation and then all the world will be denied your inspiring message. Or, at least, you may forget quite how you meant to put it and it will lose its verve leaving you forever disappointed and frustrated.

A unique pen, while inspiring, will be hard to replace. I like consistency in my pages It's one of the few places I can actually have control and I like to take full advantage of the situation. Given the unfathomable variations in black ink alone, I like a pen that isn't one in a million. Preferably one that can be re-stocked with an easy errand.

A pen should write well. I have too often been frustrated and distracted by a pen that would not fill in the bottom of a loop, or faded in and out, or leaked extra ink and bled onto my every other thought.

A pen should fit well in your hand. It should be balanced to flow well with your stroke and flare and allow for prolonged sessions.

And, finally, a pen should suit the personality of the writer. I prefer something simple and clean. I especially avoid having advertisements for drugs, hospitals banks and the like competing for my attention while I am searching out that one perfect word or phrase.

Happy Hunting Grounds

We had to have our dog put down on Monday. Her 12 years of life ended after a sudden onset of seizures. She was an old dog and we knew she wouldn't be with us much longer. I was rather prepared for it.

I think, for me, the most upsetting part of her death was the seizures. I hated the thought of her suffering more than that of losing her altogether.

Another thing that's been bothering me is how well I have been taking things. And getting used to there not being a head peeking around the corner whenever you are in the kitchen.

There is something amazing about God's joy. In prayer, I found that I wasn't praying for help through trouble or grief, but thanking God for the time Sophie was able to bless our family.