I had a little black book in which I’ve been writing my research ideas. The book was only about 1/10th filled, but it contained a map of my progress over the past couple of months. There were diagrams, some outlines, and pieces pinned together with scratch-outs in-between. I took the book to class; it sat next to me whenever I read; we would find each other when a thought sprang during a late night shower. There was nothing irreplaceable within its pages—no thought was climate changing, but as a whole, the book was irreplaceable. The book was a traditional Moleskine with a nice place to write my name and give a dollar amount if found. I filled out neither. So, on Wednesday, when I left the book tucked up in a fold-out tray on a train, there was no hope for its recovery.
I have watched how attached I am to my thoughts. Knowledge of this attachment is nothing new, but the loss of the book has drawn it with three dimensions into my awareness. One of my hardest tasks is to turn my mind from my thoughts; it is the main process that keeps me from the moment and keeps me from center. It isn’t the thoughts of rainy days, bills to pay, or fear of an economic recession that grab and hold on tight. Rather, it is the thoughts of theories, new ways to read the biblical text, far flung theologies, and new ideas about preaching. Some part of what I call “I” is captivated by abstract thinking. It is this I that grieves for that little black book. A book that somehow legitimated “my” existence and said, “You go girl!”
