It was such a perfect gift, this journal. It’s beautiful - with just the right feel when one holds it in their hand. Shortly after receiving it I told the individual who gave it to me that I was reluctant to write in this leather-bound treasure, and a few years later I have yet to do so. It remains, however, an inspiration and perhaps that is as it should be. Certainly when the time is finally right and my pen is, in fact, sufficiently inspired, the ink will flow, and the pages will fill.This journal and the encouragement of my friend have resulted in hundreds of essays I've written over the past few years. Lately though I have hit a wee bit of a dry patch. The outlines of essays are piling up, but I am having difficulty doing any writing of real consequence. Granted I've been dealing with some heath issues, but it is, nevertheless, frustrating. Perhaps it is time to see how powerful my journal is, time to hold it again and accept its inspiration. Was that not it's intended purpose? Or will I need to sit again with my muse for a more forceful message?
TGB
