I started art journaling for the first time in spring of last year, gradually filling my Totoro sketchbook with doodles, collages, freehand patterns, written and found words poems, thoughts, ideas, and inklings. Some things I enjoy flipping back to and others that make me cringe a little. And to my surprise, I've just reached it's end. Looking down at the final page, I feel a bit incredulous because it rather snuck up on me. I didn't set out to fill its pages within the year.

I’ve been fascinated by lines for as long as I remember. The way they curve or hold still or underline something important. How they have the ability to divide or bridge or intersect or direct. How they can make space and hold space and frame space. How even the simplest lines can make beautiful things, and how drawing them can feel meditative and calming. Last night, I sat in bed watching "Encanto" for the second time, enjoying the creative cleverness of the animators and so