Such a dangerous place for my wallet.
I bought a moleskine journal, tiny, easy fit into my purse. I want to write down those sporadic thoughts I lose to a possessive memory, daily sights, creative ideas. For five minutes I debated between a lined or a blank paged journal. Being a lefty, my freehand begins to slop, curving slightly up before trailing downward. But tonight I thought to myself, “No more boundaries,” and took home an unlined journal.
My original intent was to look for a birthday gift for a friend. Having different views on most topics, we find beauty in image, photography, to be a common thread, and new music finds on occasion as well. I got him a ‘table’ book so-to-speak, Ansel Adams’ Yosemite and the High Sierra. Then stumbling upon the religion section aka asking for budget trouble, I snagged Douglas-Klotz’s The Sufi Book of Life and an anthology entitled The Life of Meaning: Reflections on Faith, Doubt, and Repairing the World with authors ranging from the Dalai Lama to Jimmy Carter, a foreword by Tom Brokaw, and editors Bob Abernethy and William Bole and the contributors to PBS’s Religion and Ethics NewsWeekly. When I’ll get to these, I’m unsure, as the collection of my neglected and borderline orphaned books grows. In time, I think, in time.
And making my way to the checkout line, I came upon the postcard rack, which I’ve always loved finding random, artistic, poignant, thought provoking postcards, the images always striking something within. A simple black and white, a sign at a convention perhaps, it read “The key to success is following your heart.” I grabbed it. It’ll find its home on the inside cover of Adams’ book, and on the back, I have written in black marker, “It’s not too late.” I’m not sure of the reaction I’ll receive, if one at all. Quite the disgruntled stoic typically. But I hope he’ll think on it for longer than the time it took to read. I’m also somewhat unsure if I got it more for him or for me, perhaps both. Maybe I should make a copy and hang it in my cubicle. I used to say when my cubicle becomes covered with photographs that everyone will know my time there has ended. But I don’t think it’ll make it even that far…