Well, I was sorting through a box of journals, putting them in chronological order, when I realized (or remembered) that I journaled for only a short period in my life. From 1998 to about 2005. By journaling I mean writing in a bound book with some sort of consistency over time. The first words in my first journal were, “Hello, Ma. I am fine. I miss you.”
A good friend had given me the journal shortly after the unexpected death of my mother. Of the eight years worth of journals, probably the first four years are all written to my mom. If the journal entry was written in the morning, I’d tell her good morning. If it was written as I lay in bed, I’d wish her good-night.
Gradually I stopped writing journal entries to her. I don’t know if that was a good thing or bad thing; it simply was what happened over time.
Sorting through them is hard.
And illuminating.
There’s nothing especially unique about what I’ve written, but it is humbling and hopeful to be reminded of the journey that my life has taken, and to be reminded that we do survive what’s horrible. That we do survive and find happiness.
Words + Images 