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I have always been the kind of girl who rips out the pages of a notebook when she can’t deal with seeing them anymore. Rubberbanding them up and tossing them in the back of a dresser, leaving them to yellow. I have to re-glue the bindings, redo the covers, clean up the insides.

The truth is, I love fresh spaces. I find staring at the past is too difficult sometimes. It guides the present when left around. Sometimes it leaves me tied up. Unable to speak. It doesn’t let me break past.

Entry by entry, post by post, I’ve knocked it all down again. But now I’m slowly, mindfully, building it all back up again. New insights, new theories, new hopes and dreams. Nothing but a northern star to guide me. Everything else is locked away. Nothing to hold myself up against.

This is my field journal. This the my record of life. One day, when the world breaks, it may be all I have left.

I want to make it count.