The idea book

It looks misleadingly impressive

thick leather binding with gold leaf embossing

"Ideas Journal" was to be my stepping stone into

the world of entrepreneurship and innovation

a constant stream of ideas whirling inside my head at twenty

I could hardly capture them all

neatly penned musings in blue and black ink

ripe with brick-and-mortar education

brimming with youthful optimism

I bought into the capitalistic, idealistic lie dream

that anything was possible if you just

set your mind to it

~~~

at thirty, motherhood left me rocking

my firstborn upright in a glider

bouncing sleepless hours on a yoga ball

up and down the hallway

the crib lying vacant like a blank canvas waiting for its artist

one endless night tumbling into

the next day and onto the next night

"colicky" they called her

(and then, "highly sensitive")

I learned to wrap her tight across my chest

all notions of writing lost in a fog

glancing at the thick matte binding peeking

from the overflowing bookshelf

whispering later

~~~

But later brought her sibling in tow

afterschool enrichment following

rushed school mornings

work-life "balance"

filled every nook and cranny

time compressed and folded onto itself

as it often does

grief made its surprise entrance then

stealing a few more years of awareness

before settling uncomfortably between the space of

my shoulder blades

and underneath my eyes, at forty

the binder stuffed in a cardboard box

hibernating in the garage

its crisp lined pages forgotten

~~~

Enter fifty

wiser and worldlier

nuanced in greyscale with splashes of color

I unpack a random box in a new home

and pull out the familiar compendium

my fingertips brushing across the rough canvas

It feels the same

unchanged through the years

a stream of thoughts and emotions

escape in a rush from their self-imposed prison

jump starting my creative muse back into consciousness

I lick my lips

tasting the sweetness of possibilities

and reach for a pen