|With a nod to Shel Silverstein, these books are my giving trees.|
Of course I no longer truly exist at any of those inner layers or rings in life anymore, but the echo of them is there within me. And that's a good thing because they still have real purpose. They are there supporting me, shaping me, strengthening me, and urging me upwards. Likewise, each journal contains a piece of my story and a reason for who I am today. They are a part of my legacy. Each is irreplaceable. There is the "foolproof" locked diary from when I was 9, the romantic floral diary of my teen years, the well-thumbed travel journal from my backpacking-through-Europe adventure, and the I-can't-believe-I'm about-to-be-someone's-mother journal, to name a few. Their forms have changed as I've evolved, but their loyalty has never wavered. In some cases it is I who have abandoned them--some didn't lie open well, others had oddly spaced lines, and some just didn't feel right. Sometimes I've strayed away from them for months and even years, expressing myself in other ways. Patiently they've awaited my return and always have welcomed me home. No questions asked. Together we become mindful of where I've been, where I am now, and where I want to be in all my tomorrows. It's no surprise then that all those journals were once trees, too.