Journaling and drawing, in one form or other, seems to have been a part of my life since I was a very little girl. I have no idea what happened to my childhood writings and drawings,
but I remember a few of them quite well.
My best friend in grade 3 and I had a way of sharing our ideas through stories and drawings. On rainy days we would, together, share the same wooden chair and desk in my room where we would have a beautiful blank piece of paper laid out in front of us. One of my relatives in Scotland had given me one of those ridiculously ginormous pencils for Christmas, and it was with this that we would create the most wonderful tales.
I would begin by positioning my fingers around the base, as near to the HB lead as I could get without the huge pencil eraser at the top tipping the whole thing over, then I would draw an impressive arc in the middle of the pristine paper, and utter the words,
"once upon a time, there was a beautiful green hill."
... and the story had begun!
The pencil would quickly change hands as my friend would then eagerly add her own drawing to the page and utter her own, imaginative words. The whole entire process usually ended up in a fit of giggles as little stick people emerged with their equally stick-y little dogs, with lollipop heads perched precariously upon almost none existent necks.
I do remember, however, that although the stories changed with each new sheet of paper, the sun was always predictably huge in the upper right hand corner, while hundreds of blades of grass and flowers were added along the bottom with each exchange of the pencil.
Last week as I was engaged in a lengthy phone conversation, my hand inadvertently picked up a pencil that was close by and finding a piece of stray paper began to gently move in effortless ease across the blank expanse.
My hand began a slow dance of straight lines and swirls, of bends and twirls, while I remained oblivious, carrying on in the conversation at hand.
Later on that evening, I returned to my desk to tidy things up for the day. As I was crumpling up papers to place in the garbage, my eye caught sight of the edge of something different from the others.
I slid it out from between two sheets and I just stared for a moment.
It was my mindless doodling.
Crudely drawn pencil lines, childlike in dimension, simple in its form,
but there it was...
my heart was telling me a story.
It was my heart's happy thought of the promise of Spring, just around the corner.
The beauty of the garden just waiting for me to come and play, create and enjoy.
The anticipation of the renewal of Life in the midst of winter's chill.
Then I giggled.
A hydrangea blossom.
A watering can.
Given enough time,
I'm sure my hand would have predictably had the sun,
huge in the upper right hand corner,
while hundreds of blades of grass and flowers were added along the bottom of the paper.
"For behold, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone,
The flowers have appeared in the land;
The time has arrived for singing..."
Song of Solomon 2:11-12