I’ve kept a journal since I was 14 years old. It’s a place where I record my highs and lows, pleas and petitions, doubts and confessions. There are periods when I’ve journalled daily, sometimes several times a day during particularly vexatious times, and other periods where I’ve not journalled for many weeks (to my own loss). I sometimes flip back and squirm at some of the things I wrote. Other times I am filled with delight at the memories. But journalling has helped to keep me sane and honest to myself and God. It’s a habit I’d recommend to anyone.
One of the great excitements of journalling is finishing one volume and starting a new one. There’s always a wonderful sense of anticipation, wondering what the days ahead will bring, how the pages will be filled. My handwriting is always noticeably neater on page 1 of a new journal!
Which brings me to the subject of this post. I started a new journal a few days ago, in a notebook that was a gift from a dear friend. Here is what it says on the cover:
“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass
And maybe that is a most fitting way to start the day!