Ha - not the movie. Fab chick flick, but what I've got for y'all today is so much more than popcorn & Kleenex.
Anyone else have boxes of journals packed away? The ones with locks and heart-dotted-i's from your elementary years? The hundreds of spiral bound notebooks from high school, where the i's start being dotted by tears, and the angry capitals sometimes rip through a page here and there? The college journals that might be leather-bound graduation gifts, containing complicated prose, experimental poetry, and still the angry capitals?
Yep, thought I wasn't the only one.
Have you looked at them recently? How'd that go? I smile over some entries - the first time I heard the Beatles, for example, at the age of 11 and they Rocked. My. World. Some still make me cringe, and yes, some still make me weep. Somehow I am mostly able to forgive myself much of my youthful ignorance. Looking back I see how poor my judgement was at times, and in other spots I am actually impressed with a few of the smarter decisions that still seem to make sense to me.
But something that each and every one of my old journals has in common is the sheaf of empty pages at the end. Some journals are almost 90% blank, and often those are the ones where the pages that are filled are so raw I just couldn't live that pain for a whole book's worth.
My girl Heather over at the Extraordinary Ordinary wrote about those empty pages this week. A powerful, powerful post on misspent youth, mistakes that we can't forgive ourselves, and the redemption offered to us by the blank pages, and the people who will finally help us fill the pages. (Hint: their capitals are a little wobbly still.)
Heather's post may not suit everyone out there - maybe you've forgiven yourself everything, maybe you filled all your pages, and continue to write the New You every day? If so, well done - keep it up. But this one is for those of us who find the idea of redemption compelling, and for those of us with the blank pages everywhere.