This vulnerable thing is not my bag. I've spent the better part of the last three hours contemplating (in a journal, in a gym class, in my car...) how to blog about journaling without feeling like I'm walking around in my underwear. For me, my core is linked to all these journals. They house my dreams, my fears, and my to-do lists. They are littered with inspiration, sketches, ideas, blunders, and the occasional story by one of my kids.
I have a few... ATLEAST three in every room of my house. I can't even comment on the quantity in my car. I even have a tiny paint set in there just in case the urge strikes me. I reference them daily, while painting, and just to catch myself up to speed.
Sometimes I draw, sometimes I paint. Often I write. I'm realizing I find much catharsis from writing. Pen to paper. Brain to soul. Helps guide me steadily.