PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Over the past fifty years I have entrusted my heart, soul, and mind to entries in journal pages written in eclectic styles that include reflection, documentation, study, rant, questions, lists, drawings, and pasted bits of print, but whatever the form, the writing always ends up as prayer. At least my definition of prayer, which is presenting oneself to God in the very moment, aware, if only briefly, of resting in Divinitys infinite self, breathing the Holy One’s breath as my own.
In dusty boxes, my lifes journey is recorded between covers of various sizes and colors on unlined pages that allow my pen and mind free range. My fifth grade handwriting teacher would be appalled by the seeming chaos, with words scrawled right to left, up and down along margins, squeezed between drawings, photographs, and program notes. But as the Spirit hovered over the swirling masses of creation, she sometimes shows up and helps me make sense of life that has spilled onto the pages.
Since their youth, my children have watched me fill up journals at all hours of the day and in all types of places: my office, the living room, on a park bench, at the beach house. Those memories stirred in my oldest daughters mind while she browsed a gift shop in a science and history museum in Louisiana, and when she returned home she stopped by and reached into her jacket, pulling out a small book.
I brought you something, Mom, she said. I think youll like it. Jen and I went to a museum, but it wasnt that interesting, so we spent some time looking around the gift shop. I saw this journal and thought that it was something you would use; its handmade.
I took it from her and looked closely. A tiger-eye stone embellished the soft leather cover; the weight felt perfect in my hand. After we shared dinner and conversation about her trip, I gave my daughter a hug and many thanks. I waved goodbye, then sat on the couch, stroked the cover of my new book, and felt the pages. Unique, it should hold something other than the usual variety of entries that filled my other journals, but what?
The next morning, I knew: Blessings. This gift would become the repository for blessings that I manage to recognize. God is always showering the gift of self upon us, but I am often too busy or preoccupied to notice. Every once in a while, though, a blessing hits me over the head and I cant miss it. The first one in this book? The love of a daughter: a daughter who, while on vacation, remembered me and my journal keeping and brought me an exquisite book to fill as I wish.
© 2010 Mary van Balen
Speak Your Mind