Sticky Notes

Several weeks ago I lost a note book. It's a small spiral notebook the size of a mini legal pad. It's where I would write down thoughts so I won't forget them. In grad school I used to journal in a nice hardbound book type journal that I would pick up a Barns & Noble or somewhere like that. They had wonderful textures on the covers, or fantastic and inspiring illustrations. They smelled good.

I enjoyed writing in those books but I did find that I tended to reserve entry in them for only the thoughts that I found most deserving to be written down in such a nice book. That's why I just got a more down to earth simple book. So I could put anything in there. Which I had done. Thoughts that wouldn't mean anything to anyone. But I was glad to have them somewhere.

Then it was gone. And it bugged the heck out of me.

It really did. I would just be walking through my day, doing something totally unrelated to anything in my personal life and this pang would hit me. This faint little whisper of frustration and mild little imitation of sadness that said "man, I'd really feel more complete right now if I knew where that stupid book was." It felt like I had written down all my best, most wise inspirations in that book and now I would never be able to recapture those thoughts and mankind would suffer as a result, or at least my destiny would flounder. I knew that was a little over the top, but it still rattled around in my head like that, buzzing like a mesquito in my ear.

After a couple weeks without it I got desperate. I dug out the nice fancy journal with the satin place marker from the back of the roll top desk, buried under the clutter of all the unpaid bills and old bank statements yet to be filed. The one that I had put away because of my constant hesitation to write in it. I'd just have to start from scratch. And this time I was determined. I was even going to degrade the nice book by putting fragmented, disjointed thoughts in it. I wasn't going to self censor.

And about the time I'd entirely given up on finding my little spiral and was only thinking ahead about what I would write in my good book----I found it. Like a frantic, unplanned game of hide and seek with a three year old you suddenly can't locate who ends up just playing quitely in the back corner of the attic or something, it just popped up. Holding out the bear with the missing button eye and looking back at me in my frazzled state with an expression that said, "What? I've been safely over here they whole time. Would you like to come play? I think you'd feel better if you did."

The relief was tangible. It was like an irritant had been washed away from the surface of my skin. Like a shower after a day at the beach, washing off the sand and salt and making you feel new again. Human again. The stars and planets could all go back to orbiting properly now.

But I hesitated to open it. When it was gone I remembered everything so profoundly. Would I start to read and find it was all just a joke? That my deepest thoughts were just bla bla blather. Would I read what I had written and judge myself as too mundane and inarticulate to have even worried about it? Was this going to be a little paper mirror to show me things about myself that were clumsy and ugly? Would I feel like it would be better if I had never found it?

But in the end I did read it. And it was good. It was like a divine hand had hidden it from me to read again at a later time. This very moment. Because it was like a letter to me from a very different me. A me from just several weeks ago, but who seemed so vastly different. The me that stood on the other side of my time with our house guest and my bruising confrontation with my own limitations. A me that was inspired, hopeful, optimistic, who thought he could have thoughts that would make a difference in the lives of people. A me who had yet to be so challenged by an experience and fail so deeply that he would think that nothing he could do would amount to any significant change in anything. A me that didn't pull back out of concern for doing more harm than good. A me that wasn't ashamed of these feelings yet because he still had a vision. For something. Not sure what. But it was some something better that he could contribute. Somewhere.

I liked this other me. And I wanted to believe what he wrote. I'm trying to believe again. The first step was that I picked up a pen and began writing again in that little black book. Hopefully I'll find myself in a place again where I'm not writing like a maudlin 14 year old girl feeling sorry for herself (like I have here).

I look forward to then.

Now if I can just find that rook missing from the chess set on the entertainment center in the living room. Man, I wish I knew where that thing was.