"The
act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn
makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our
equilibrium."

  ~Norbet Platt

I was in an amazing old Seattle bookstore last week. For a book lover it is nearly heaven. Books line the old brick walls from floor to ceiling. The weathered wooden floors show the path of all the bibliophiles that have come this way before. Tall wooden ladders can be moved on wheels to fetch that out of reach volume. While it is indeed a store, it has the feeling of an old fashioned library, before they became media centers filled with computer labs, back when the Dewey Decimal system still ruled. It was a store that was filled with mostly silence, reverence.

Keeping the silence was what two young girls were doing when I walked in. They were scurrying about, whispering to one another with the excitement you might find at a Hannah Montana concert. But these two preteens were in search of journals. I was standing by the shelves of these sought after blank books when they squeezed in front of me. They picked up each beautiful book with the expectation that 'this might be the one'. They put others back with a sure rejection. They whispered some more. Each had a crisp bill held in their delicate little hand. $20.00.

They opened the journals and saw the price. Their eyes flashed disappointment. "They are handmade" I explained."That is why they are so expensive." The girls turned and went in search of a clerk who led them to another bookcase of journals. These were more conservative, business-like. They picked them up and rejected the brown, black and even red utilitarian books. These clearly would not do to hold whatever stories needed to be written, whatever important observations needed to be recorded. They quickly headed downstairs to where a book reading was taking place.

Some minutes later as I made my way back to the same shelf filled with the multi-colored, unique journals the girls returned. In silence they chose the 'perfect' journal for their reflections on their sweet, young lives. I noticed they had more money clenched in their fists this time. They marched to the clerk and put the books that will hold their dreams, their observations, their deepest hopes and their most silly wishes on the counter. I was so pleased that the young,hip clerk treated them and their purchases with the grace and reverence he would any author. With journals in hand, they looked at one another with glee. "Now we begin." I could almost hear them say. My heart was filled with such joy watching those two young ones. Thank heaven for the adults who gave them the resources needed for their quest.

What will those pages hold in the journals of these young girls? What stories will they tuck away for a time in the future when they need to remember who they were? What hopes will they record so they can buoy themselves up on dark days? What secrets will be known to only those pages put together lovingly by an artist who understands the power and promise of a book of blank pages?

I can't answer those questions except in my imagination. But, inspired by their enthusiasm, I placed a my own journal whose cover was handmade paper, deep greens and rich blues with fanciful leaf prints on the counter. I plopped down my money and walked out with a new blank book waiting to be filled with my own stories, dreams, secrets. As I write in it, I plan to remember these two who filled me with such joy, such anticipation, such desire of the words that will find a home there.