Is that actually a word? was asked, when my latest journal opened at a page with face of an inky splodged spotty woman and badly scribbled question "How to become a journaler?" Well, who knows, but I like the fact that predictive text hates the word, so I probably made it up. The process of journaling for me, allows random questions, spiralling thoughts, worries, anxieties, showing off bits, some facts, but mostly badly behaved free as you like talent to ooze across the pages. This small gifted leather bound journal, took me from my desk, to walk part of the Il Camino St James pilgrimage trail, Spain, to a costal enclave retreat gathering in Cornwall, back home. Then another part of Cornwall again, this time documenting the mindful cloth stitched and bundled cradle in which to let go of my sister's ashes in the autumn tide. The pages become a space in which to reflect and mindfully record relationship to myself and others, with stories unfolding. I love noticing small details of place and surroundings, plus mapping a world between real and imagined experiences. In this journal, I had decided to limit my use of and document materials used, as journeying, so travelling light with a pencil, calligraphy /colouring pens, not much collage or stitching this time, and mistakenly art bars. Rubbish idea that bit. At end of day was my time for journaling, as noticed I felt more self-conscious in writing/drawing in my journal pages when in public, so usually in the evening, just loved surrounding myself with objects I may have collected along the way, creating temporary assemblages, time based museums of myself, which in themselves become 3-D journal pages.
