I started journaling in 1996 for various reasons. I was an introverted, angsty teen who liked to read. I aspired to be a writer. And life suddenly became incredibly complicated. I was wary of talking to anyone, as each person in my life seemed to be woven into some facet of the drama that now surrounded me. Even with the benefit of hindsight, I can still agree with my 12-year-old self, "that was some heavy s*it." So I started puzzling through all of the thoughts, anxieties, and gray shades of morality by writing....at home in my room, on the bus, outdoors, in class, at lunch, and during any downtime I had. To this day, writing is often the only way I can work through a difficult problem. After tediously putting the problem into words, a realization immediately smacks me in the face.
Today I finished my 26th journal. At this point in my life, I don't have as an intense or frequent need to write as I did back then. Recently my frequency has dwindled down to marathon writing sessions every six months. But even this affords me surprising insights and peace as I see a bigger picture emerge from individual moments strung together.
In March when a loved one passed away, these chronicles became even more precious. At one point after his passing, I realized with a sinking feeling that every moment we spent alone now existed nowhere else on earth but in my mind. A select number of them were captured on film, and a general impression of events was preserved in my journals, but hundreds of thousands more quiet moments, glances, jokes, sceneries, and conversations that we shared reside in my mind alone now that he's gone. It was a lonely, odd, and weighty feeling to suddenly be the sole owner of this history. And I'm infinitely grateful to have my journals as a framework on which to arrange these bits of memories with more certainty and clarity than my mind alone would allow. From the journals I'll always be certain of the course of our relationship, significant events and talks we shared, and I know our last words to each other, which were charitable.
In light of this deepened appreciation for them, I decided to unpack my journals from their temporary storage spot. I've never known quite what to do with these old friends in terms of displaying, locking up, or storing them given both their importance and their sensitive nature. I sorted through all of the familiar covers and arranged them by date. There are the spiral notebooks that I started off with before I could work and pay for the fancier ones. The designs range from hippy, outdoorsy, flowery, and animaly to quiet, reflective, spiritual and even dark. Each of the journals came to characterize the span of my life that it documented. The one that I just finished ironically or providentially has a beautiful sunset on it.
Then there are the secondary journals that also helped me along the way for specific purposes. I have 10 dream journals spanning the same time period. A few books of meaningful quotes and songs. A prayer journal. And three Al-Anon inventories from the various times that I completed the fourth of the twelve steps ("a fearless moral inventory")
As far as possessions go, these are 43 of my most meaningful ones.
