“Every day is a new page. Stories unfold as new life begins.”
When you’re 22 years old, attempting to write a song for your wedding results in pretty sappy and corny lyrics. (See above.) I may never be a world renowned lyricist, but one thing is true – each day presents itself with fresh opportunities, blank pages to write upon, and more additions to the story of our lives.
Perhaps this is why I have become enthralled with purchasing blank journals and notebooks over the years. On my desk and on various shelves and in boxes collecting dust you will find quite a few journals that I have acquired over the last 15 years. Some are filled with the angsty monologue of a teenage girl pining for her latest love, while others contain lists of tasks and dreams. But mostly, they’re still in their original condition – blank as the day they became mine.
Why buy so many blank books? They are beautiful on the outside and pristinely empty on the inside. They hold possibility. They are clean, untouched, and unmarred.
And what if, by taking pen in hand to the blank page, I find a way to ruin it? Or what if I have nothing of value to place on the page? What if I fill a page with writing only to find that it is illegible scribble? Meaningless dribble. Noise in an already noisy world. What if? What if? What if…?
It is hope that compels me to collect them, and fear that keeps them bare. Hope that causes me to dream for stories of the future – for my family, a new career, relationships yet discovered, adventures to experience. And fear that causes me to remain frozen in complacency. Hope and Fear, how well acquainted you are with one another.
In a few days I will leave the life I’ve known for the last several years to begin a new path on the journey. I will leave the lovely predictability of a job I enjoy and do well at, a routine of picking up my daughter from the sitter and bringing her home for lunch and an afternoon nap, and lazy evenings on the couch with my husband. I will leave the monotony of safety to open the pages of a story that I’ve been longing to write all my life – even when I didn’t know it. I will pick up the pen to begin the narrative of becoming a therapist. The first word on the page will be Student.
To the What Ifs I say, I would rather have journals filled with stories – even if the failures outnumber the successes – than to have nothing and more nothing at the end of the day. I would rather have evidence of having lived, clues to my be-ing, than to be pristine and empty.
And what about fear? Am I scared? Absolutely. I’m scared shitless, if you must know. But I hope so much more. For so much more. Because, as my song lyrics conclude, “There’s always more ink in the pen.”
