I have written in journals my entire writing life though I only have about 20 years of them that have survived. Early this morning I began writing with a neon green pen on paper that was not a good look, too light and dreadful looking on the page.
I tried another green pen, a recent reject that I thought was so bomb months ago, but was recently added to the reject bin due to it turning into Count Blobula. So, on to the next.
I knew there would be a chance that pen #3 wouldn’t last. I love the color and love the line but these bad boys dry up and stop writing out of nowhere, then write again, then stop again, then write again. This morning low and behold I got about four sentences in and it was caput, then restarted again.
I finally settled (note the word choice) on #4, old faithful, and guess what happened? She worked like a champ. As I continued writing it dawned on me that what happened with those pens was a very LOUD message. This is what I received:
- I was trying to make do with the first two pens even though I knew the results would be unsatisfactory. This says to me that I was reaching for what was convenient, even though I KNEW from experience that convenience and proximity don’t necessarily yield the best results.
- The third pen was like a former lover – the thrill was there, I was hopeful that it would last this time but once again, the experience ended in disappointment.
- The fourth pen was the truth – It was inconvenient, not the closest to me and was not glittery, shiny nor new but it was real, stable and reliable which made it beautiful.
Life is like that for me anyway. I’m always chasing after the next big thing, thinking that this thing is IT, IT IS THE ONE and baby it almost never is. What I already possessed is good enough, it is:
BEAUTIFUL as is.