I haven't picked up a paintbrush in years. Years. I once loved to mix blues and greens splash in on paper and allow my hand to flow. I recently bought a visual journal, one I had been eyeing for awhile. I urgently got home and dug out what I could find of my watercolors and sat. I just sat and painted, painted and wrote, wrote and painted.

I did it for hours.

And it has continued almost every single night since I bought it, almost two weeks ago.

I was the young girl that adopted the idea of a diary then a journal - but this is different. I can take any raw emotion bring it to life with color and paint brush stokes.

Art Journaling.

It sounds so bizarre. I thought that at first but I have sat down every night to paint at least one page, if not several. It everything that I feel, I think - and I love it. The 9 by 12 white pages take me away to a place that even I am unaware I am at. I mix the colors without even thinking, drag the paintbrush without second guessing - and then there it is. Something extraordinary.

I like to think that one day when I am old, Tom and my children will thumb through the pages, admire the art, read it line by line and try to understand how madly in love we are and how happy we are.

I think that part of me wants to think it allows me to release something - anything.