As a long-time journaler in little bound books of cloth and leather, making my inky mark in blue, purple, and green, it seems strange to me to be embarking upon a journal in another medium entirely. I wonder if I’ll miss the soft scratch of the pen on the page, the smell of binding glue, the weight of the book on my lap, the appearance of lines upon blankness like a conjuring trick.
Pleasurable, yes, but possible – no. No, there is always that stone chapel (or teepee or tent or cave – whatever you like) with or without a book. It travels alongside (inside?) anyone who writes. Mine has lovely high windows shaped out of the same round field stone as the walls. Iron sconces and beeswax candles of a color like the thickest cream. Four rows of pine benches. No crosses, but flowers and blooms in every season. Right now there are armfuls of goldenrod, hydrangea and chicory. On the table lies a gleaming blackwood flute (though sometimes it is a harp). The door opens by a latch in the shape of a swan. Lift her wing and be welcome here.
Here is a quick poem I wrote recently on a day when the change of seasons seemed tangible and trackable. The theme of joyful invitation strikes me as a good one for a first entry here in this place-beyond-a-book.
this invitation
to watch the trees tryst
with an autumn wind –
a young, rainy wind -
the kind that visits
in the afternoons
before things turn
serious.
