Because a journal translates: my experience is but babel, even to myself, unless I first interpret its nuance. Only then can it resonate for others.
Because a journal enacts verbal photos that pause time’s flow. As such, a journal comprises my finite grasp for immortality: the moment preserved, the emotion captured, the elusive past amidst frozen time. Here I can rollick in love never over, rekindle departed friends, mourn separations fostered by time from place and event, measure my steps and trace paths, Not only can I re-enter my past, I can unravel its meaning, grow wiser. Journals serve as correctives, providing future trajectories.
Because a journal reminds me of my individuality, my need to define who I am, to make contact with my psyche, and achieve its integration and, in wholeness, reach out to others. Journal-keeping bears my thumbprint, my passport witness to who I am.
Because a journal teaches me to see and hear and smell and touch and taste and compels my signature as a witness to teeming life–that nothing is without its meaning or interest. A meaningful act, journal writing fosters insight and thereby widens the circle of my compassion.
Because a journal is like talking to a best friend you can share secrets with, defining heart-issues, mining the psyche, tapping new veins of rich yield in the recesses of the Self. Journals not only record, they provide passage into the light.
Because a journal is like keeping seeds, good for future plantings and resultant harvests. Every invention began with an idea. Journals help ideas grow.
Because a journal helps my mind stay nimble across the years. The mind, like muscles, needs exercise to maintain its tone.
Because a journal fosters capacity to make life interesting, a whetstone turning dullness into sharpened blade.
Brimmings: up from the well 