It's snowing in October which is my signal to start writing again. I've been keeping journals on and off for the last 10 or more years and I've run out of room for them in my bedside cupboard. I will not be re-reading them for any deep insights. I wrote them as a form of mind exercise to get to that entry point where meditation can begin. Once I got there, I had an illuminating realization that from my 70s onward, contemplation, meditation, and SITTING would be my major occupations in life. I've got my sunset years to find inner enlightenment (or not). The saddest thing for me now, is that those cheap Sheaffer fountain pens have been discontinued and I must go to an upscale art supply store to get refills. I feel like such a fraud, standing at the counter next to india ink, origami paper, gesso, and all of those fabulous pastels and water color papers. But there is a reason an art store would keep a little shelf space for people like me. We are distant kin to artists, because of our joint ancestor, imagination.