Think about it for a second. You get this feeling and buy a new notebook, journal or diary. You even hand pick, with great care, a new pen, especially a fine tip or the perfect marker, the ink carries so nice on weighted grid, maybe a highlighter, pencils… Instagram #bulletjournal.
Truth be told, I love the culture around it. Even if I don’t partake to that level of dedication.
I’m more curious however around the psychology of why we do it. What brings us to refresh our routine with such detail. Spending, I can only image, hours a week on hand crafting pages in a journal to a level almost equivalent, if not so, to artistry?
Human beings, particularly those that value certainty, need something tangible, written, planned, concrete, evident, assuring – to let us know that everything is going to be ok. There is no shortage of data – 1.2M posts with #journal. I even found myself scrolling through them in awe; there are some very talented bullet journalist out there. But how much of their life is truly in order?
As I move through early adulthood I’ve learned one big lesson. Patience. And being ok with the fact that good things, no, great things, take time. When life presents us with challenges, life being all too commonly represented by our inner self, we look towards order. From when we are young, one of the first things we are thought is how to write. How to draw. How to create – on paper. It is this innate and engrained pattern of behaviour that lures us back to finding our centre again, in our journal.
I have no problem with that.
The concern I have though is when the voluminous collection of journals on the shelf far exceeds the to-do lists written in them, falsely giving the sense of accomplishment and progression that comes only through action.
I’m on your side, I’ve maintained a journal since twenty-fourteen. The same special journal. Maybe I don’t write in it enough. Maybe just the right amount. And at times, I knew for sure – too much. There were certainly times when I knew I had to stop putting pen to paper and start getting to work. Then there were those all too intense moments when life’s challenges pushed me into the place of needing to find my centre, a centre that this blog couldn’t provide, being public, so the handmade paper became my closest friend.
I guess my only desire is to move one to a place of practicality. Balance. Even if it’s not perfect on paper. Write about how it’s not perfect and in the process you might just find yourself getting closer to whatever you so define that to be.
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