If thoughts were made of ink, oh what a library of works I'd have.
Sifting through my stack of old journals, excavating memories scrawled in my handwriting from moments stolen mostly late at night after little girls were in bed. Random thoughts and musings; funny little things my little girls said and did; milestones; laments; dreams; lists and bits of paper -- copy of my first commission cheque, pros and cons of my new job offer, and lots of treasure notes. I called my daughter to recite one of the adorable entries I wrote about her.
At times the handwriting is meticulous and strong in permanent ink; and other times, it is hurried lines scrawled in faded pencil - each entry a desire to express and archive.
And now I blog. My MIH had my posts rolled into print; three years of thoughts put to ink in one big fat volume. Thank you MIH. And now as I flip through the pages, my words coming back to me, it confirms what I have always known to be true: that I write that which I need most to remind myself.
So it turns out that my thoughts are indeed made of ink. And oh what a library of works I have.