The Dream of the Blue Notebook

This afternoon I listened to the beginning of Max Richter's The Blue Notebooks in the van on the way home from work. The music suddenly palpated my brain and I had an epiphany that in order to write on a daily basis as I want to I needed to stop using black notebooks and switch to blue ones. It was as if I had woken from a long sleep and I knew then what I had to do. I searched the better part of the evening for somewhere to buy a blue notebook.  It didn't have to have lines or dots or matrices, it only had to be blue. Perhaps decent paper would be good given my choice of pen. The rarity of such a thing only inflamed my desire, my need to own one. I finally found one but am now forced to stew in my passion until it arrives.  While I wait I will take the black notebooks and journals that I have written and drawn in and collected over the last 10 years on a bookshelf and put them in boxes to sit in the studio closet where eventually they might get discarded since they represent something that I was at the time but am no longer.  

Every spring the dormant 
seed that lies sleeping 
below the ice and snow
emerges from the
dream of being just a seed
and becomes a flower
or a tree
or a blade of grass.