2h • 🌱 6 Weeks
Interstitial JournalIng
I watched a few short videos on YouTube about Interstitial Journaling and the little brown notebooks I bought, to give it a go, arrived today.
First I crafted a poem with ChatGPT to stick in the front as inspiration on tricky days. Sage thought I should share here incase it’s helpful to anyone else.
If probably won’t make too much sense unless you have an idea of what Interstitial Journaling is… if you ever feel a kind of paralysis for doing normal daily tasks it might be worth your time to check out the videos for yourself.
“I’m opening the little brown gate in rhyme,
to make this notebook a lantern through time.
Interstitial Journal
This book is not for polished thought,
nor proof that all is smoothly wrought.
It is a bridge from stuck to small,
a handrail in the hallway wall.
Interstitial means: between -
between the dread and the routine,
between the wish and what gets done,
between the fog and any sun.
Here I do not have to shine,
or wait until I feel “just fine.”
I only have to tell the truth:
what I am doing, minute to minute, in proof.
I am sitting.
I am staring.
I am scrolling.
I am despairing.
I am making tea.
I am finding socks.
I am standing still
like a jammed-up clock.
And then perhaps:
I am uncapping one pen.
I am breathing out.
I begin again.
This is a book of gentle spells,
of tiny knocks on frozen wells.
Not “fix your life” and not “push through” -
just name what’s here,
then choose what’s true.
Because the mind can tangle tight
in all-or-nothing, noon-or-night;
but movement often enters small -
a note, a sip,
a step, a wall
at last leaned on
instead of feared,
a path made visible
because it’s cleared.
I write what is happening now, not best.
I write what is true, and leave the rest.
“I am avoiding.”
“I am tired.”
“I am cross.”
“I am uninspired.”
“I am washing one blue cup.”
“I am standing up.”
No moment is too poor to name.
A spark is still a kind of flame.
A thread is still a way to sew
myself back to the next small go.
And when the day has slipped its frame,
this book can give my hours a name.
Not vanished, wasted, lost, or wrong -
but lived in fragments,
thin and strong.
So I let these pages be a field
where hidden motion is revealed;
where stuckness loosens, line by line,
and doing need not feel divine.
I come here when thought becomes a cage.
I come here to turn a single page.
I come here half-broken, bored, or numb -
I still write.
Still mark:
“I’ve come.”
This notebook does not ask for art,
yet truth, set plainly, is an art.
And every entry, spare and slight,
can tilt the hinges back to light.
So I write the now.
Then write the next.
No grand solution.
Just the text.
A breadcrumb trail.
A breathing chart.
A quiet rope
thrown to the heart.
And if I cannot do the day,
I name the inch.
That is the way.
A life is not restored in leaps,
but stitch by stitch,
and sweep by sweep.
Let this small book become a way -
not out of life, but more each day
into the moment, as it is:
unfinished,
human,
wholly mine,
toward a life that’s more aligned.
By Corinne, in conjunction with ChatGPT 🥰
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Interstitial JournalIng
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