Thinking Notebooks
It’s always there, waiting — my small, pocket-sized notebook. I keep it nestled in my bag, close at hand.
Sitting in a talk, I find myself reaching for it. Discreetly, I open my notebook to a new blank page and put pen to paper. The marks begin.
Sometimes leaves and vines morph into the abstract. Patterns emerge. Repetition reveals something new.
My mind slows. I can breathe. I can listen. I can think. Then the writing begins.
For many years, I felt badly about this perceived “slide.” Writing? After all, I love to draw. Why don’t my notebooks end up becoming a sketchbook gallery of doodles or drawing pages? It was confusing.
As I pick up one notebook and then another from the pile and flip through the pages, I smile to myself. So many questions. They are about 80% writing. Writing here is not like journaling. It’s something else. I am exploring.
It was once suggested to me that these were my thinking notebooks. Ah, finally! Yes! That’s exactly what they are. There is a lot of thinking in those small pages—mostly me trying to understand the world, my place in it, and myself.
So what are these notebooks?
I enjoy drawing.
I enjoy writing.
What if these little books are my quiet place for both?
Now, I don’t feel so badly that my notebooks are often more writing than drawing. I’ve come to let them be what they are.
Always there.
Listening quietly.
Holding the questions.
As if to say — yes, I’ve wondered that too…
Nodding.
Maybe asking, tell me more.