I used to journal. Poetry, stories, remembrances, song lyrics, even eulogies. 

Sometimes journaling is therapeutic. Like a trusty old friend, it keeps our secrets and validates our fears. It demonstrates change and growth. It gives insight into where we used to be versus where we now are. It provides a reason to change or stay the same. It helps us clear the debris from our heads and the fallout from our hearts. But sometimes, it isn’t, or it doesn’t. Mine couldn’t

There are so many things that evoke a curious passion from within me. I especially appreciate things that have a history, meaningful, and purposeful use. These would include colonial homes with random-width wooden floors, rickety rocking chairs, and even moss-covered brick paths traveled by many, for ages.

I often wonder what the walls in historic homes have heard. The stories, the day-to-day endeavors, the complexities of life from back then, and hopefully, the lively laughter of chortling children would be so enlightening. I wonder if mommas nursing their babies, older women knitting socks, or grandpas reading to their grandbabies sat in those rocking chairs. I am most curious about the brick paths. Who walked to and from where they led? Were there gates that swung open to welcome visitors, or shut to keep unwelcome persons out?

Today my soul sent me on a little journey. I needed to spend some time beneath my "writing tree." This majestic, wooded giant and I share a connection as strong and beautiful as its mossy trunk I lean against.

I honor this uncommon relationship; this tree answers questions I never even asked. Or maybe these are questions I was afraid to ask. As a young child, I was silenced; my personhood was torn away from me. I was an intact fabric with promising purpose, wound on a cardboard bolt relegated to a "damaged" pile on the floor- kicked about, torn and tattered- no selvage to secure my integrity.

One look at this tiny fist, and your heart smiles. The dimples substituted for knuckles, the chubby wrist separated into two parts, and the blanket this sweet little being is all-but fastened to.

I know this baby. You do, too. He dwells within the central core of our soul. He is what we all once were. He doesn't yet speak, but he is our teacher. He is the essence of wisdom, joy, and understanding.

Today is a beautiful autumn day. We went to the farmers’ market for our usual Saturday coffee/muffin date. We sat outside and listened to live music then bought our fresh baked bread, tomatoes, corn, and peaches. I wandered through the beautiful bunches of fresh flowers and took in all the vivid colors. And then I remembered.

Several years ago, this wouldn’t be a blog I’d be writing. I was too depressed to write anything.