Mango, Banana And Black Tea Smoothie

I have never been good at keeping a journal.  As much as I crave routine, it is something that is largely missing from my life.  I find it difficult to sit down every day and write out my thoughts.  Of course the catch-22 is that I have this blog, which needs constant reassurance – much like a hormonal teenager – so in that way, I do keep a journal.  Just not a hide-it-under-my-pillow, these-are-my-most-sacred-thoughts sort of journal.

(Clearly, I’m more comfortable “journaling” in a complaining, venting, gushing, obsessive sort of public forum.)

Since this blog is The Thing Which Must Be Fed, literally and figuratively, I have a number of “journals” that help keep everything straight.  Naturally, there’s my cooking scrapbook, of which I have waxed poetically.  In addition, there’s the recipe notebook I keep with me in the kitchen while cooking, to notate my recipe measurements and cooking times.  It’s stained and ripped and some pages are stuck together, but I would be lost without it.  And then there’s the “writing” notebook I carry around with me, which is more or less an extension of my brain.  That is to say, when I remember to carry it, and am not resorted to leaving rambling, half-baked ideas on my smartphone voice recorder.  It’s full of article ideas, grocery lists, parts of blog posts written out, and random things written in margins like, “corn syrup freak out”.  (I dearly wish I can remember what I was thinking about when I wrote that one.)

I was flipping through the writing notebook the other day, looking for a grocery list from earlier in the week.  Instead, I stumbled upon a scrawly paragraph that I remember writing while waiting out the slow boring death of jury duty.  It says,

“There is a life if experiences grand and vibrant, and then there is a life that is full of only vibrancy and routine.  I am discovering more and more than life doesn’t have to be this constant explosion of the unfamiliar and the thrilling.  That drinking a cup of coffee at sunrise in Spain is still the same as drinking a cup of coffee in my kitchen in New York, for no other reason than it is still me that drinks it.”

It’s the only thing written on the page.  I’m not sure what I was ruminating on at the time, or what was going through my head (waiting around at jury duty brings its own special kind of mindless daydreaming, I’ve discovered).  This morning, though, sitting in New York at my desk in my crappy little apartment, I can drink my coffee and feel like today will be a good day.