i've had a long and unfortunate habit of journaling. i say unfortunate because the pen only tends to come out when i'm dwelling somewhere unpleasant. it leads to a certain morose inelegance from which there is nothing to be gained. sometimes i write it down just to throw it out, just to make it go away. as if ideas are that easy to be rid of. (ideas take hold with teeth and claws.)
this is not the kind of habit to be encouraged. this muck, this mire, this dark. and yet, the problem with joy is that i rarely stop to observe it. i live the momentary pleasure and let it drift away again. (there are some things you really ought to hold onto as fiercely as you can.) i'd like to hold the goodness just a little longer, you know? not like a bird in a cage, but like a butterfly landing on the back of your hand. the longest moment you can remember.
perhaps i need practice at keeping the little joys alive. a photo, a sentence. maybe not daily, but hopefully with a rhythm that picks up pace and grows and grows.
from her dark corner, she reaches her rescued shoots to the light. there's always room to grow.