When it comes to journaling, I’ve always had a tendency to write when confused, upset or seeking something. When everything seems hunky dory, my journal often sits collecting dust. Nowadays, I do more gratitude writing, brain storming and dream designing in my journals than lamenting, but it’s still a great problem solver for me and even better listener. Journaling is very much a tool for me these days, and it morphs along with me as I grow, changing both my life and perspective.

When sad or lost as a little girl, poetry was an accepting way to just get the feelings out. I was never much of a story writer until later in life and after some serious adult soul searching. I was more often than not embarrassed to re-read what I’d written, but even then I knew it served a good purpose. Maybe now that I’ve been writing for a living, I sometimes work my issues out through my projects. But not always.

Recent topics in my journal, which is really just a lined notebook where I scribble ideas and ask open-ended questions, include thoughts on what’s missing in my life. As a newly-married woman with no plans for children, that leaves my life more wide open than I thought it would be at this point. There’s a certain amazing freedom to that, which I can appreciate. And yet, sometimes we need some boundaries so we know where to begin walking and in which direction to head.

I’ve been dreaming of little travels lately ( I say “little” because I don’t want to be away from home for too long) and wondering how I can pair that with my writing career. It dawned on me last night that I can’t wait for the journey to come to me; I have to go to it. Meaning, I have to risk something in order to gain. If I allow myself to branch out literally in my life, won’t that ripple into other areas? Won’t I undoubtedly have more to write about, and thus be more motivated to find outlets for those experiences?

I’m hopeful, and I guess that’s good enough for now.