I remember my first journal, a diary actually, it was a gift on my twelfth birthday and was red leatherette with a closing band and an honest-to-goodness lock and key. I do not have that journal but I have more than seventy others, the story of my life in composition books, purse size wire bound tablets, cloth covered mini books, art embellished sketch books, embossed leather treasures, and more recently, Moleskins of all sizes. There are travel journals, fitness and workout journals, journals from weekend professional development retreats, a journal of my time with my mother as she was dying, and journals filled with deep pain as I weathered the storm of my husband’s betrayal.