Updated: Jan 6, 2020

My collection of journals and the lifetime of memories and secrets they contain.

I stood on my tiptoes, stretching to grasp the pink and white checkered journal from the top shelf of my closet where I had tucked it safely between Monopoly and my tattered baby blanket that I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. My narrowed eyes and angry glare went unnoticed by the gold lock that I had entrusted with the secrets I had divulged. It rested innocently and lifeless in my shaking palm. Did you expect it would notice your feelings of betrayal?

My first journal had been a Christmas gift from my parents six months earlier. I couldn’t prevent the flush that crept across my cheeks when I thought of my brother and his friend uncovering the humiliating details of my first kiss. I winced recalling how I had poured my twelve year old broken heart into that journal when my boyfriend had broken up with me a couple months later.

With the pages tightly clenched in my fist, I lifted my chin and marched to the fire pit in the front yard. My brother and his friend snickered as they watched me toss my first journal into the flames, my memories turning to ash as I turned my back to them and returned to the house. Well, I can see by the time you were twelve years old your overdramatic tendencies were already developing nicely.

For the next twenty years I would spend hours rummaging through the collection of journals each time I entered a bookstore, enticed by the blank page and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I might create something beautiful where there was only emptiness before. I would carefully select a new journal, only to rip the pages from its binding or let it collect dust as it mocked me with its blank stare…terrified that it would fall into the wrong hands. The foreboding that had made a home in the pit of my stomach had been whispering for years that my writing would get me into trouble, as if it could somehow foresee the day my words would eventually fall into my husband’s hands.

Many years would pass before my deeply embedded fear of writing was overcome by the fear of what might happen to me if I didn’t.

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”

~ William Shakespeare

And Excerpt from CROSSROADS: My Search for Truth Through Music and a Lot of Red Wine

"And So it Begins..."

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