Flip Through My Journal: Late Winter Pages (And What They Taught Me)

Can I show you something?

I've been journaling almost every night lately. Not because I'm being disciplined or productive about it — honestly, those words make me cringe a little when applied to art. But because it's been cold and dark by 5 PM and there's something about these in-between weeks, when winter is technically ending but spring hasn't quite arrived, that makes me want to put things on paper.

I sat down this morning with my journal and realized I'd filled more pages than I thought. Let me walk you through a few of them. Not the pretty ones. Well, some are pretty. Some are disasters. All of them taught me something.

Page One: "The Permission Slip"

This was from a Tuesday night when I was supposed to be answering emails. Instead I found myself reaching for my watercolors at 10 PM.

I started with zero plan — just wet the page and dropped in ultramarine blue and a touch of alizarin crimson. The colors bled together in that way that looks like a sunset or a bruise, depending on your mood when you look at it. I was feeling both things at once, I think.

I wrote one sentence across the middle in white gel pen: "You are allowed to rest."

The lettering is terrible. Wobbly, uneven, I ran out of space and had to squish the last word. But I keep flipping back to this page. I needed to hear that. Apparently I still do.

What I used: Strathmore Visual Journal, Koi watercolors ($12), white Gelly Roll pen ($3)

Page Two: "Receipts"

This one's a mess and I love it.

I've been saving receipts lately — not for taxes, just... moments. The coffee shop where Sadie and I had that conversation about her library program. The art supply store where I bought masking tape I didn't need but wanted. The pharmacy, because sometimes life is just that mundane and that's worth documenting too.

I collaged three receipts onto a page that I'd already painted and hated. (It was this muddy brown-green that made me think of stagnant water. Not the vibe.) The receipts covered the worst parts. I added some washi tape borders — not decorative, just holding things down. Then I scribbled dates and fragments of memory next to each one with a ballpoint pen.

"2/18 — Sadie laughed so hard she spilled her latte"
"2/22 — Bought tape. Don't need it. Wanted something small and colorful."
"2/25 — Just antibiotics. Boring. But I'm grateful they exist."

The page is chaotic. Nothing matches. But it's honest. Some days are just a collection of small moments and errands, and that's okay.

What I used: Leftover receipts (free), glue stick ($1), washi tape (stash), ballpoint pen (any pen works)

Page Three: "The One Where I Cried"

I'm not going to show you the actual words on this one. They're for me. But I'll tell you about the page.

It started as a blind contour drawing of my hand. You know that exercise where you draw without looking at the page? Mine came out looking like a spider had a medical emergency. But I kept going.

I painted over the worst parts with gesso, then added a wash of yellow ochre when the gesso dried. The contour lines showed through slightly, ghostly, which felt appropriate.

Then I wrote. And wrote. The writing is messy, overlapping, some of it painted over so only I know what it says. There's a coffee ring near the bottom because I set my mug down without thinking.

This page isn't pretty. It's not for Instagram. But it holds something I needed to release, and now it's there on paper instead of circling in my head. That's the whole point of this practice, isn't it?

What I used: Graphite pencil (any), gesso ($8 for a jar that lasts forever), watercolor, coffee (accidental)

Page Four: "Spring Pretending"

I got impatient for color. It's been gray in Portland for... I don't even know how long. Months.

So I made a page that pretends it's April. Bright turquoise wash, collaged flowers from a seed catalog (I seem to have a thing for seed catalogs lately), some haphazard lettering that says "NOT YET BUT SOON."

It's wishful thinking in art form. And that's a valid reason to make a page. Because you want something to look at that doesn't match your current reality. Because you need to practice hope with your hands.

I look at this page and I believe it. Not that spring is here — I can see the bare branches outside my window, I know better — but that it's coming. That color returns. That this is a law of nature, not just a theory.

What I used: Strathmore journal, cheap watercolors (the $5 kid set from the grocery store works fine for bright washes), seed catalog scraps, glue stick

Page Five: "Monday Morning"

Sometimes I make pages about making pages.

This one is just text — no paint, no collage. A list written in the sleepy handwriting of someone who hasn't had enough coffee yet.

"Things I want to try:

Wax resist with crayons
Stitching into the page with actual thread
A page using only one color
Letting Gesso walk on the journal while his paws are muddy (just kidding Sadie)
Blackout poetry from junk mail"

Underneath, I wrote: "The list itself is a page. Permission to plan. Permission to not know what I'm doing yet."

Sometimes your journal is a sketchbook. Sometimes it's a diary. Sometimes it's a to-do list that got out of hand. All of it counts.

What I used: Just a pen. Any pen. The cheap one from the pharmacy.

What I'm Noticing

Looking back at these pages, I see a pattern I didn't notice while I was making them. I'm drawn to layering things — paint over pencil, receipts over failed backgrounds, words over words. Building up. Covering up. Revealing what's underneath.

That's what late winter feels like to me. Layers. The accumulation of months of staying inside, of heavy coats, of waiting. And the slow, stubborn belief that something green is happening underneath.

Your journal doesn't have to be pretty. It doesn't have to match. It doesn't have to make sense to anyone but you. Mine certainly doesn't.

But it has to be honest. That's the only rule I follow.

Your Turn

What's in your journal this week? Did you make something you're proud of? Something you hate? Something you don't understand yet?

Share a page if you want to. Or just tell me about it. I'm here, paint under my fingernails as always, ready to celebrate whatever you've got.

There's no wrong way to fill a page. There's no wrong way to feel while you're filling it. The mess is the medicine. The process is the point.

Go make something true.