i keep shit like that. my friend deemed a nickname for me while i was packing my 6 months of life in spain into two suitcases: paper packrat. i am utterly obsessed with paper. some of my most treasured possesions are journals, books, old letters, the stuff of paper pulp & hand writing. what does that say about my life.
i keep a letter posted on the wall in front of my desk, from my beloved friend jane, and i read it occasionally for the lifting of my own soul. it's absolutely nothing special to look at, but it's a handwritten (in pencil, that's her unique style) on college-ruled notebook paper, and perfect. it isn't dated, so i will make a mark to assign it a spot on the timeline of my history. the first line of this letter reads: "yes, you have to read this in dreaded pencil." her letter is intensely personal, and it wouldn't make sense to quote from it here, but it's one of my treasures. i pull it down from the wall, read it slowly, remember what it felt like the first time i read it, remembering how it feels new each time i read it, remembering my own life written out on those pages, and sometimes thinking: is that really mine?
so i write letters. i keep stamps in my wallet, in my car, on my desk. good pens are everywhere. gluesticks & old dictionaries cover my room. i wake up on sunday mornings and can't move around for an hour without searching around for my journal, my watercolors, my paintbrush, bits of inspiration collected throughout the week..and finding myself once again in my chair, at my desk, creating. these are the proud moments of my existence. it feels natural and right and organic to sit there and let out what is burstinf forth from within.
it blesses me. it blesses my existence. it is my opening. my awakening. my heartbeat.