All my journals have different bits of love and intentionality.  All are unique.  However, some in particular echo inside me long after they’ve been sold.  This one has been coming to mind a lot lately:

A fabulously energetic lady (from Atlanta if I recall correctly) bought it at the Berea Craft Festival a few weeks ago.  Most folks come into my booth and linger and take time really enjoying the essence of it all, making careful decisions about what book they want.  Not this lady.  She marched right in, took a glance around, and picked this one up, saying she wanted it.  “It speaks to me…you made it for me,” she told me.  I love that.  I love that it spoke to her and is what she needed at that particular point in her journey.  Sometimes folks tell me that they don’t have good (significant, poetic, etc) enough words to write in beautiful books.  I try to help them alter their perspective a bit:  the books are not meant to be intimidating; they are meant to be an invitation.  The lady in Berea was a poignant reminder of this for me.  These books are an invitation to write, to reflect, to sketch, to grieve, to celebrate, to wonder, to dream, to create, to grow, to inspire and on and on.  I make them in hopes that they will beckon and remind you that you are worth noting and reflecting on— the joys, the sorrows, the lessons, the seemingly mundane, all of it.