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.