It All Started With A Spark

Have you ever had a moment where you know your life has drastically changed? A single moment where you get this undeniable feeling, a spark in your brain or your heart? You don’t know why, but from this point forward you will never be the same. Yes? No? Well let me tell you about the moment that changed my life, thankfully for the better.

It was a pretty normal day, nothing too special about it. I met my sister at the mall. We had lunch and then started wandering through the stores. Trying on clothes, gushing over cute babies or how cute the baby clothes were, laughing at random signs, people watching, and of course a stop for smoothies. We decided to walk through one last store before leaving the mall and going on our way. We walked through the clothes, the jewelry, shoes, and home decor. As we passed by the checkout counter on our way to the exit, that’s when I felt it, that spark. And that’s when I saw it, the thing that would change my life beyond recognition.

Now I know what you must be thinking, this has to be something amazing right? Maybe the love of my life? And technically you wouldn’t be wrong, but this is no person. No. Its a beautiful, glittering, eye catching, Little. Black. Notebook.

What a letdown, am I right? But hear me out. On the counter, meant to be an impulse buy, is a single, hard cover, spiral, black notebook with glittering gold letters exclaiming #Goal Digger. Something within me screamed that I had to have this notebook. So I listened. I bought that notebook and it spoke to me, not literally, but figuratively. It lit a fire within me and I started writing in it every day. I brought it with me everywhere. To work, in my car, on errands, the coffee shop, everywhere. Whenever inspiration hit, I wrote in this notebook. It opened worlds within me, and I felt like an explorer, diving deep in an ocean cave, or hiking to the top of a glorious mountain. Up. Down. East. West. Wherever the moments took me, I followed.

I carried this book with me everywhere for a year. Somehow I never filled it completely, just kept turning the pages and letting the pencil fly until I couldn’t feel my hand or couldn’t think straight. It felt like my lifeline.

Exactly one year after buying this notebook, I had what I thought was the worst day of my life. I woke up late, stubbed my toe, and spilled my coffee. I was late for work and written up, I got bad news at the doctor’s office, and was entirely drained. I didn’t want to deal with anyone and I knew there was only one thing that could get me through the day. That’s right. My notebook. I went to my favorite coffee shop, for a nice warm drink, and secluded myself in a quiet corner for hours. Writing until I could hardly see straight. I was exhausted. Ready to go home and forget this day had ever happened. I packed up my stuff, went home, and fell into bed.

The next day I woke up and realized my notebook was missing. My therapist. My inspiration and imagination. My lifeline is missing. I searched my entire house, my car, and retraced my steps back to the coffee shop. Once there I, almost in tears, pleaded for them to help me find my notebook. But no one had seen it. I didn’t know how I would go on without it but I had to get to work or I would lose my job. I forced myself through the mundane tasks trying to control my panic and to sooth myself. I tried to accept that I would never see my notebook again. I mean someone probably found it and threw it away. It was gone. I must learn to accept it. I. Must. Accept. It.

A week went by and I was adjusting to life without my notebook even thought it felt like I was missing a limb. A vital part of myself. I bought seven new notebooks, one each day since I lost mine. But none of them inspired me, they felt like a dead weight in my hand and rejected my pencil. They were not comforting and didn’t bring me joy or any escape. But I was trying. I stopped going to the coffee shop because I felt lost there and I suspected the staff thought I was crazy after my frantic search, meltdown, and calls to see if anyone found it.

Two weeks passed.

Maybe it was time to give up writing, maybe I no longer had anything left to say.

Three weeks passed.

I had adjusted, I felt I had learned how to live without that limb. At least I could go through the motions.

Four weeks passed.

I still had an empty space within me but I no longer hurt with every breath.

Five weeks passed.

I had accepted the loss and decided it was time I moved on.

Then came week six. I had accepted my notebook was gone and felt I had returned to normal. In fact I felt slightly ridiculous for mourning a notebook for so long. I had even decided to return to my favorite coffee shop.

I walked in, not sure if they would remember my crazy reaction, or more accurately, whether they would remember me as the person who reacted that way. I walked up to the counter and started my order. That was when someone came out from the back, gasped, dropped the towel she was holding, and ran around the counter. She grabbed my arm, turned me around, hugged me, and started jumping up and down. She then began to scream. “We have your notebook! Someone brought it in a few weeks ago but we lost your number! I’m so excited to see you, give me one minute and I’ll bring it to you!”

She screamed this all in one breath then took off running to the back, all before I even realized what she had said. It didn’t sink in until she cam back out carrying my notebook with an envelope on top. She thrust it at me with the biggest smile I had ever seen on her face. I took it from her, more of a reflex than anything else. I was in shock. I never expected to see this notebook again. In disbelief I walked to a table, forgetting my order or even to say thank you. I sank down in a seat and picked up the letter. I wasn’t ready to believe I had my notebook back yet, starting with the letter was safer.

I cracked the seal and my jaw dropped open as I began to read. I felt my hand lift to cover my mouth and tears streaming down my face.

This man had found my notebook as the shop was closing and they were rushing him out. He figured he would come back the next day and put it in the lost and found. That night as he headed home he got hit by a car and ended up in the hospital for a month. The notebook was among his possessions. He opened it to see if there was any identifying or contact information. Instead he was instantly absorbed in the story spilled across the pages. He wrote that it was this story that kept him going during his recovery. The day he got out of the hospital he brought the notebook back, desperate to return it and find out how the story ended. He included the letter to let me know what the story meant to him and said that if I would contact him to let him know how the story ended he would be forever grateful!

I put the letter down and grabbed the notebook. My notebook. It still had my pencil clipped in the spiral. I flipped to the last page I had written on and the words started flowing.

I poured my emotions into the pages, writing until I filled every last line. The story finished perfectly in the last amount of space. I felt complete again. But something had changed. It no longer felt like my notebook. It felt like his notebook. I borrowed a piece of paper from the shop and thanked them for returning my notebook. I wrote him a letter in turn, thanking him for returning the notebook, sharing his story, and for his kind words. I answered his questions. Then I told him the story was complete and the notebook was now his and he could do with it whatever he liked. I mailed the letter and the notebook to him the next day.

I felt whole again and was able to truly feel happy and like myself. I was able to write when I needed to, but it was no longer my life. The story was always meant to be for him and I was happy to send it off and move on.

Exactly two years after I bought the notebook I received another letter from the man, along with my notebook.

In this letter he thanked me for finishing the story. He told me what it meant to a lonely old man to have a story that felt like a friend. Since I told him the story was his, he had taken it to a publisher. He said it would be released, with my name as the author if I wished, in one month’s time. He said a story that meant that much to him should be shared with others who might need a friend. He thanked me again and said goodbye.

Behind the letter, there was another page. The page explained the man had died from complications caused by the car accident and he had left all of his belongings to me, including $20,000. He left this to me, the one who made the last year of his life feel full and complete. I had done that. With my words. With my notebook. He had no friends or family left. My spark, my notebook, had changed his life. It changed my life. It changed the lives of those who the charities that receive the proceeds of our story support.

That is the story of how one single, beautiful, eye catching, hard cover, spiral, glittering, little, black notebook became a part of me. How it touched another so deeply, that he in turn, changed my life. Forever.