I’ve kept a journal (formally known as diary and then I turned fifteen) since I was in the third grade. I’ve got a trunk of these notebooks sleeping in the basement — a mountain of paper/ink accounts detailing the bulk of my life thus far. The purpose of these writings was more to purge and reflect in the moment rather than to re-read, remember and entertain at a later date. Although I have waded back through on occasion I find that it is best to leave them in the dark and let the cushion of time between them and me — then and now — continue to grow.
These days I write less and less and this troubles me. My latest journal (nestled under my side of the bed) has about thirty pages filled and covers the last two and a half years! I feel like I’m neglecting a life-long project and leaving huge chunks of time to wither. Now when I write it’s out of guilt and obligation and I hurriedly scribble details like someone making a grocery list. Past journals are so heavy with frequency, emotion, and confession that the pages practically drip.
So what’s different? I used to turn to my journal mostly during times of distress, drama, confusion, upheaval. Writing helped to sort out the vast tangle that ensnared my teens and twenties. Writing about peace, contentment, happiness and functionality have never been as necessary. I should fear the day when I’d need to write as much as I used to.
I also used to have more time. With a full-time job, much valued intimate time with Jake, sleeping, and filling weekends with travel and activity I struggle to find a moment when I can empty the contents of my mind on paper.
I guess by addressing this topic here I am looking for absolution. It is okay that the things we’ve always done fall from us as long as equally important things fall in their place. Really, this is about examining your life and not drifting away from your soul. I can do this with or without the journal… but I’ll keep pulling it out from under the bed and touch that pen down to the nerve as often as I can.
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