There is something about my notebook that I find comforting. The sound of my pencil scratching the words of my soul across the page brings me peace within. I fill it with the stories from my mind, happy, confusing, painful at times, but it doesn’t matter, there are no limits on what I can share within the sacred pages of this book.
The safety provided by my notebook, my objective listener cannot be matched. My notebook does not talk back, judge, invalidate or advise. It allows me to speak in circles of avoidance if I choose, and will not force me to move forward until I am ready. I have told my notebook the same stories in many different ways, and each time it listens without expectation. I trust my notebook completely, it is safe. It will not speak aloud my secrets, throw my words or my past in my face, and patiently waits for my next visit. My notebook knows I will come to it when I am ready to speak.
My notebook has been my healer, my confidante, and my best friend. It remains silent when I am hurting or spewing angry words, allowing me to reach a different perception, and soaks up any tears that fall. Quietly within its covers it holds my secrets from times of the past, my hopes for the present and my dreams for the future, always there, always waiting, always comforting and accepting. My history, my story, preserved – honored, all mine, only mine, contained within the pages of my notebook, my friend.
In my journey to this present moment, I have not found a more comforting tool for healing my wounds, discovering who I am, and finding peace within, then my notebook and my pencil.