Good morning from brisk, clear Vermont. As last week I wrestled with writing a Christmas letter, today I’m wrestling with whether or not I should start journaling again come January 1. My mom, who’s been journaling ever since she was ten, has one of those pretty seven days on a page books where she writes the most important daily events in a smart, little block–who came and went, what appointments she had, how many deer surprised her at the front window.
She’s done this style of writing for years now, and when we’re allowed to read them, we’ll easily get a picture of the rhythm of her days. She keeps her book on the counter (right next to her purple orchid) for easy access and as a reminder to write. I think her cursive is still lovely.
In sum total, I do a large amount of writing during the course of a week. There’s work on my book (still no news yet), blogging here, keeping up with Liv’s journal, sharing a journal with my sister-in-law Maggie in Alaska, designing help guides at work to help students research, regular correspondence with friends and family, and even the inevitable grocery list. Remember a prior blog where I gave up to-do lists; I still am holding true.
The year passes so darned quickly, and if you ask me what I remember of it (especially those exquisite moments of being human) I will look at you blankly and mumble, “What?” So I want to write them down again, like I used to before life got, well, like it is now. And once I die, I want my girls to get a sense of my life’s rhythms too. And maybe if I just have a smart, little block to fill in, I’ll actually keep up.
Perhaps when I finish writing today’s blog I’ll have some fun searching online for a journal like my mother’s. Maybe it will have sparkle on it and be left-hander friendly. My husband just chimed in, “When it comes to writing, it’s just a pain being left-handed; let’s face it.”
Writing a journal again isn’t really a resolution–I’ll save that for exercising. No, it’s more of a necessity of leaving some of my genetic code for future generations. And, in case I lose my mind as I age, it will be a prompt into my personal history. But where will I keep it? How will I remember to write every day? What if I fail?
My mother doesn’t worry about any of that stuff. She just gets it done, and she loves the process. If she can do it at close to 85, then I can do it a double nickels, purple orchid or not. Do any of you keep a similar journal?
Check back next week for another segment of Finding Home.