Coming to the end of another journal

I'm coming to the end of another journal

and the pages feel like leaves tossed by the wind

filled with the hopes of spring

the longings of summer

the despair of autumn, 

the silence of winter.

Each page reveals the passage of time, 

days gone that will never return, 

memories of a life lived, 

dreams of all those I love 

who are gone forever.

I can hear the silence of days when 

words refused to come 

and can feel that sense of dread

that always comes when I reach

the last page and it feels 

like I'm standing on

the edge of a cliff.

And I know what's next:

I must take a leap if I want to keep writing.

It's time to start a new journal. 

And, suddenly, there's a blank page

in front of me that gives hope.

The snow will melt,

the leaves will bud again, 

spring will return, 

and with it the longing for summer 

and for life in all its mystery and glory.

 

And so I'll begin once more 

and try to fill each page 

with words of love, 

grateful for the gift of words, 

for the gift of a voice, 

for all the memories

each page contains

when I come to the end

of another journal.

Just beyond the next breath

Do you ever wonder what keeps drawing you 

back to the page each morning--day after day, 

month after month, year after year?

Or why you return like a lost soul not knowing 

who you are or where you're going, the only certainty 

the pen you hold in your hand (as long as the ink lasts),

and the blank page waiting for you to fill it with words?

Maybe it's because the moment your hand touches the page, 

you feel like you've come home, no longer lost or blind, and

the world you couldn't see moments ago suddenly becomes clear

waiting for you to enter.

Maybe it's because you feel like you set off on a journey 

each morning, like stepping into a boat and pushing off from shore

to see what is waiting for you just around the bend, just past the curve 

in the bank, just beyond the next breath.

Maybe it's because you live for these moments, for the chance 

to swim into your imagination, to return to the place where you know

you can be yourself without pretense, without a mask, the place

where you can remember who you are and why you pick up a pen 

and open your journal and fill a blank page with words each morning.

It's like improv

You don't  have a plan. 

Each morning you take a pen 

and open your journal 

to see what will happen. 

It's this not knowing 

and your curiosity 

that brings you back 

to the page each day 

to see if you'll make 

a new discovery, 

a new way of understanding

yourself and the world, 

a new way of seeing life. 

It's like improv, 

the art of making something 

out of nothing, 

completely spontaneous, 

unscripted, 

just an empty page 

and a desire to find out 

what you're thinking 

and feeling 

in this moment.

The Magic of Writing with a Fountain Pen

“My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course.” — Graham Greene

It may seem foolish, even a bit self-indulgent, to write about fountain pens when so many pressing issues threaten our world. 

But a fountain pen has not only helped me put aside my worries about the world for the brief time that I take each morning to write with one, it has also rekindled my pleasure in the process of writing by hand. 

The immediacy of writing with a fountain pen surprised me the moment the nib first touched the page and the ink seeped out of the pen, seeming to bleed onto the paper.

It felt like the pen was alive, a newly discovered part of my hand connecting me in some mysterious and supernatural way to my heart, and as I wrote, my hand moving across the page, it felt like the ink was coming straight from my veins.

Until a few months ago, I hadn’t used a fountain pen since high school. 

Remember how messy those fountain pens were to use back then? Often, I’d end up with more ink on my hands than on the page.

I’d write and the pen would leak and the ink would leave stains on my fingers and smudges on the pages and messy ink spots on my palms. 

For years afterward I preferred writing with ballpoint pens. I would buy cheap pens that I could throw away easily after they ran out of ink or dried up or broke in my backpack. Best of all, they didn’t drain my wallet of the little cash that was in it. 

But a few months ago my cousin wrote wanting to know if I’d ever thought about using a fountain pen. He had found one that he liked, a Pilot Metropolitan, which was supposed to be a good introductory pen at a reasonable price (under $15 at Amazon), and the thought of writing with a fountain pen intrigued me. 

I decided that I’d try one, just to find out if fountain pens were the same as I remembered or if they’d changed much since my high school days, and, after quickly searching Google, I discovered just how many fountain pens there are to choose from these days. 

There are pens made in Japan, pens made in Germany, and pens made in the United States and elsewhere. There are pens with cartridges and pens with converters, and there are so many choices for ink, more colors than in a rainbow, it seems. There are so many colors and pens, in fact, that it’s hard to keep track of them all. 

So, I started reading reviews, and I found a pen in my price range ($10) made by Pilot called Kakuno (which means “to write” in Japanese), and I ordered one, along with some extra cartridges.

After it arrived, I opened the packaging—surprised to find that the instructions were printed in Japanese—and, after figuring out how to insert the cartridge, I started writing. And … wow! 

It’s a pen, but it’s so much more than a pen!

I mean, looking at it, you’d think it’s just another writing instrument. The Kakuno shell is made of plastic, but it’s a perfect size that fits nicely in the palm of my hand, and holding it takes very little effort because it’s so light that when it’s in my hand and I'm writing, I hardly feel it unless I grip it too tightly. 

The moment I begin to write, it’s like magic: the ink flows onto the page, the blank page reaches up to embrace the pen, my hand moves effortlessly across the paper. It’s a moment of becoming, a moment of (please, excuse my enthusiasm) unexpected oneness with the universe, a zen-like immersion in the present.

It can take a while to feel comfortable using a fountain pen. But after experimenting a little with different angles and using it in different journals, I can say that writing with a fountain pen feels as natural (and effortless) as breathing. 

Why not add a little variety to your writing practice and try a fountain pen? It doesn’t have to be an expensive one. (You can find the Kakuno online for as little as $10 if you don’t mind  the color….and a plastic shell.) 

You might be surprised at how your writing—and your feelings about your writing—will change when you begin using one.

If you’re still undecided about whether to use a fountain pen, or just curious and want to read more about them and the people who find them attractive, here are a few links that you might enjoy: 

https://www.penheaven.co.uk/blog/top-5-reasons-to-use-fountain-pen/

https://blog.gouletpens.com/2018/09/6-writers-on-why-they-use-fountain-pens

https://luxipens.com/18-famous-authors-and-their-fountain-pens/

https://www.countrylife.co.uk/luxury/style/unparalleled-joy-writing-fountain-pen-five-beautiful-examples-175439

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/the-joy-of-fountain-pens

https://medium.com/@lancelotkirby/on-the-pleasures-of-writing-with-a-fountain-pen-3d95e8495550

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/26/style/fountain-pens.html

Keeping a journal

What do we discover when we sit down each morning to write in our journal? 

What draws us back to the page day after day?

And why do we keep filling up pages that we know may end up on our shelves or tucked away into drawers, never to be looked at again?

One reason we keep journals, I think, is to create proof that we exist, to announce, if only to ourselves, that we are here, alive, not an illusion or a figment of someone’s imagination. 

The marks that we make on the pages of our journals are evidence of our being here, now, in this moment.

Another reason, I suspect, is that writing helps us discover what we’re thinking in this moment, to put into words the thoughts that swirl through our heads, to enjoy the process of thinking, to take joy in following a thought wherever it might lead, whether to a dry gulley or to an overflowing riverbed.

If you’re like me, you want to feel that sensation again and again, to feel like a child gazing up at the sky and daydreaming as clouds pass by, to lose yourself in the play of words, in your imagination, in the flow of ink, the sound of a pen scraping the paper beneath your hand, each day hoping to discover something new, some part of the world or of yourself that you’ve never seen before.

Another reason why we keep journals, I’d guess, is to preserve a faithful record of what we might be thinking or feeling from day to day, week to week, year to year, so we can look back (if we ever decide to look through our journals) to see where we were and what we thought about and how we felt at a certain age or on a certain date.

Our journals can help us remember what life was like, how we might have solved a problem or failed in an attempt to do something new or to remember how we were feeling  during a challenging (or not-so-challenging) time in our lives. 

Keeping a journal is a little like saving photos or news clippings to aid in remembering so the record of our lives is a true and complete record, not merely a facade but the truth underlying our existence.

Why do we keep writing? What draws us back to the page?

Perhaps it’s simply the daily joy that writing brings, or the sense of identity the act of writing gives us. 

As long as we are writing—and continue to write—we are observing the world, exploring thoughts and feelings, learning something, which, when put into words, seems permanent and somehow resistant to the wind and change and the passage of time.

That’s every writer’s dream, I suspect, the secret wish each of us makes when we begin to write. 

We pray that the discoveries we make each day on paper will endure long after we’re gone, and for as long as the pages of our journals survive.

Some Mornings

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

the way a man

might sit on the shore

and gaze out at

the water of a lake

or the sea watching

the patterns of light

and clouds shifting

on the surface.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and gaze at the

empty page as if

it’s the still surface

of a pond, unruffled

by the wind, undisturbed

by the fish swimming

below, a mirror reflecting

the sky above without

giving a hint at the mystery

that is hidden below.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and wait for words

to appear, for the slightest

hint of movement,

for a sign of life,

and I listen to my

breath and close

my eyes and wait.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and nothing appears

and I hear only

the drone of the fan

spinning on the ceiling

and the sound of

my breath when I inhale

or the sound of someone

else in the house putting

a teapot on the stove

to boil.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and watch the surface

of the page ripple

with life, words swimming

across the paper tugging

at the lines I dropped

in the water, filling

nets, the page awash

with words, overflowing

with words, words spilling

over the edge of one page

and falling onto another.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

full of faith

that words will

come and I will

be able to catch

them with my pen.

Some mornings
I sit at my desk

not knowing if anything

will appear, filled

with doubt and anxiety

that I’ll starve,

that I’ll hear nothing

but silence the rest

of my life, that I’ll

drown not in words

but in the pages

of an empty journal.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and wonder

at the miracle of

creation—of love

and life, and words

and stories,

of ink and charcoal

and wood pulp

and forests and

rivers and seas,

of clouds and sky

and wind and rain,

of how the miracle

of each breath

is filled

with poetry.

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