I’m a lover of new notebooks. Its a weird quirk like my love [obsession] with reusable drinking containers.
When a new metaphorical season dawns, or a new life chapter begins, I often find a distaste with writing in whatever journal/notebook I’ve been writing in. As if the stories of this previous chapter should not be mixed with the one I’m about to enter. My go-to notebooks are Moleskins. Maybe you know, the ones with the elastic that wraps around the book and a secret pocket in back? Those are my absolute favorite. I know, it seems silly, “Go buy one a 99 cent composition book Felicia!” And the only reason I don’t is because I know myself: the more I like what I’m writing on the more I will actually write in general. Maybe it’s like when you buy cute gym clothes and it makes you want to work-out? Even if we just end up just lounging in said cute [comfy] gym clothes.
At any cost, today I am writing in a new Moleskin, navy blue, the bigger standard paper size. I bought it 4 months ago but haven’t felt he need to take the plastic off until just minutes ago.If I had to name the previous chapter it’d probably be “bittersweet” or “brutiful”. I gave birth to my second son, struggled with postpartum depression, experienced more joy than my body knew what to do with, learned to love myself on a deeper level enabling me to have more space to love others. Me and Ty have made some really special friendships, done some [hard] work on ourselves and have spent some necessary time by the water we now live so close to. We’ve had really tough conversations with our families and had also really special times, grateful that both my mom and Ty’s parents have come to visit our little home we’re making. Bittersweet, brutiful.
I don’t know what to name this next chapter but I know it’s here because yesterday I felt this overwhelming urge to host and not just in the barely making space, I think there’s some frozen pizzas in the freezer sort of way; really breaking bread and putting my heart into what I serve. It’s not an urge everyone has and I’m no way suggesting that frozen pizza is bad or that you love your guests any less but I’m aware of the difference in me. Its a ready to serve instead of feeling like I’m surviving & need served, ready to give instead of desperately needing help. I think it’s the feeling of being loved back to life.