“I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here. It is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time.” —Mina Murray in her journal
Sunday morning. I had considered going to my parent’s house for the day as it was only an hour and a half drive from where we were in Pennsylvania. But I was suffering with a cold and we decided to stay where we were. Grace showed us a nice coffee shop and the three of us had breakfast together there.
We spent the rest of the morning at a bookstore and Grace bought a journalling Bible with a beautiful cover and nice wide margins for her thoughts.
She was craving macaroni and cheese for lunch and we went to Ruby Tuesdays.
By this time, Joanna’s family was back from church and she was able to meet us with her daughter.
I love her.
Joanna took Sarah along home with her. Grace and I went to the hotel to get her things so she could do homework at Aunt Joanna’s house. And then we spent the rest of the afternoon until bedtime with them. It was as cozy as could be with all the family and me and my two girls all together in the cozy kitchen, dining room, and living room. We had delicious Dominoes pizza for dinner.
We love to exchange our big journals and look through them as we visit. Joanna’s journal is big and heavy and full of quotes, pictures, found papers, and art. Coco stayed by us and was inspired enough to get up and find things to glue into her first journal.
Inspiration, Idea, Execution (the top corner of her journal shows a picture of how she came up with the art on the wall—her own photography))
(photo by Jo)
“Some may say [journal keeping] is a great deal of trouble. But we should not call anything trouble which brings to pass good. I consider that portion of my life which has been spent in keeping journals and writing history to have been very profitably spent. If there was no other motive in view [except] to have the privilege of reading over our journals and for our children to read, it would pay for the time spent in writing it.” —Wilford Woodruff
“Never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things — childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves — that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.” —Salman Rushdie