I did something this morning that only happens every few years. It’s been happening in that time span since I was in the second grade, though less often as I get older.
I finished a journal.
The way I use a journal has changed since I was a child. When I started, in second grade, it was a chronicle of my day: what did I do, who did I talk to, what was going on with my family, with my friends. It’d be boring if it wasn’t so adorable.
In about sixth grade, it shifted focus primarily to friends and boys–and not necessarily in that order. That sort of angst continued until high school. The college years meant I had less time to jot my thoughts, but it was still an important part of my life.
After graduation, the entries trickled, sadly. But my topics became more important than those that preceded them.
Today, what I write about is all over the board. This latest installation, 793 days covered in 192 pages, is full of poems and lists. Thoughts about friendships and my marriage. Things that made me excited and sad. Favorite quotes I found, and the first pages of the book I’m writing. Detailed memories from visiting my grandmother in Las Vegas after my grandfather died and a few recipes she gave me there. In the front, I tried to list all the places I used the journal. In addition to my home, we have
- My friend’s parents’ lakehouse in Sardenia, Ohio, and
- Her childhood bedroom in Liberty Township, Ohio
- A local cafe
- The Cleveland Museum of Art
- On airplanes, from Fort Wayne to Vegas and back; and from Orlando to home
- And my favorite, the balcony of our hotel at the Marriot Grande Vista on the Orlando trip in April
I am notorious among my friends and family for my shoddy memory, and I love that I can open up a journal at random and find a memory that I’d likely forgotten. I open this journal at random, right now, and find myself on Feb. 22, 2014. It turns out, I hadn’t forgotten this particular memory, but I didn’t recall this particular thought:
“This is a trip that should be chronicled. I feel it will be a big one for me. Even if nothing life-changing or earth-shattering occurs, it will be the first time I see Nani without Papa …”
Now comes another exciting part, nearly as exciting as scribbling thoughts in the final pages of a journal: starting a new one. This book is kind of small, and the lines are far apart, so I suspect it won’t take me 2 1/2 years to get through, like the one I just finished. But the sentiment on the cover was perfection.