When I was young, I was an obsessive journaler. I had very little to write about then other than a less-than-ideal home life, the occasional heart-wrenching teenage crush and my smaller-than-a-thimble view of the world erected within the confines of my own backyard. I now (ostensibly) have much more to write about, but I rarely ever seem to put pen to paper. Perhaps it is because most of the writing I contemplate doing is in the form of a blog and it is difficult not to be self-conscious when you know others are reading (even if it only amounts to the 2 people that read this blog on a not-so-regular basis).
I do believe, though, that there is something to be said for journaling. At the very least, it forces you to think about the events that have happened, the decisions you made and the things you felt during that day and that simple act changes everything.
When I was a child, I used to love to hide out in the attic of the house where I grew up. It had a certain stale dry-attic smell that I loved, but even better than that, it was littered with boxes filled of remnants from my father’s past life with my mother. My mother is a topic that we very rarely addressed when I was growing up (and never do now) and so I cultivated a mild obsession with trying to figure out who she was in the vague hope that I would learn something about myself. In one of the boxes, among her paintings and 70’s jewelry, I found her high school year book. Inside she had penned a quote (by whom, I don’t remember) but the meaning was something to the effect of: I wish to leave something good in the place of each day that passes — kindess, not cruelty; happiness, not saddness, etc. Even though I was very young at the time, I recognized the significance of that quote. It occured to me that it certainly would take on a different meaning for a girl diagnosed with leukemia, who unlike many other 18 year olds, probably realized she had a finite number of days on this planet.
Tomorrow I will turn 33 — an age that I used to think was so incredibly old (you know, there was the Big Bang, then dinosaurs and people in their 30’s). I am 7 years older than my mother was when she passed away and today, instead of feeling full of life, I feel unmistakeably world-weary. I also feel guilty because I know how incredibly wasteful it is to feel this way (so I got that going for me, which is nice).
The past three years have been a series of endings (or beginnings): the end of my marriage, the end of an all-consuming job, the end of a few friendships and the end of the person I was before all those things ended. So, today, on the eve of my birthday, I am fervently hoping for a few positve-type beginnings or maybe just a sense of well-being and vitality. I also recognize the need to make a plan and execute, what I don’t know, but I will figure it out.
You go.