Today I took a step back on my journaling journey.
Opening the doors to a well known wardrobe, I recalled a little Narnia. Once my place to escape… I’d hide behind the hanging clothes, shut my eyes tight and hope that when I opened them again I’d be amidst a forest & bed of snow.
This time, I found exactly that, if I may call it so.
Here was I, among forests of photographic matter, trees of cameras with leaves like shutters releasing in the wind, their different sounds each creating new inspirations. People, places, moments and spaces were filed away in dust free folders, speechless but mindful, waiting to be seen in a new light.
Chiaroscuro in flight –
…young faces now grown & moved on, places revisited once or twice or maybe one day soon. Are they still there? Will I go back? How will I know? But I have been, and seen – for here I stood knee deep in my evidence.
Standing on a stool on my tippy-tip toes to reach high up into the top shelf (once a storage space for childhood toys), I discovered families of journals, written words of my past, chattering and whispering among their kin. Some bought, some made by me, each one full and emanating a life of its own.
Images, ink, paint, paper ephemera, sepia toner, shellac and other mixed potions trickled through the thick deckle edged cream pages, torn and stuck back together with tape, sleeping under glassine paper. Photographs repeating in different tones, repeating, repeating, repeating…I see I had something to say.
I didn’t know then,
But I do now.
In a box by my feet I discover two journals;
One, an olde leather cover stained with travel, probably coffee, maybe some rain, a tear or two…full of thoughts spanning two years of my life, written on creamy pages in fine black staedtler ink (I wouldn't have it any other way). This journal I loved dearly, and endeavored to make my writing minuscule so to prolong its life.
Reading the musty smelling infinitesimal sentences I revisited a time thought to be gone, yet found unexpectedly under my skin; on my tongue. Life as a circle, a carousel...
Two, the first journal I ever made. Covered front and back with an old artistic paper clad in vintage stamps, the 4 x 5 inch gem was still holding together with red linen thread, and full of rumbling ramble from days gone by. It’s a veteran, for its time, the oldest Bibliographical handmade item, my first step into bookbinding, 15 years ago.
Journeys of journaling…
A free ticket to Narnia -
You can leave whenever you want,
And you’ll always be there to meet yourself,
At the other end of this mortal coil.