I have been writing in a journal since I was ten years old.
I have no recollection of how I got my hands on my first “diary”. I’d like to think it was given to me by one of my older sisters to distract me from following her around and prying into her secrets.
As a teen, I had diaries with clunky locks and covers with popular art, quaint patterns or fancy leather. During my college days, my dairies became “journals”–not so precious, just something I couldn’t live without. My journal and I made sense of foreign countries and passionate, baffling relationships. I habitually woke up to a little time with me. Until I stopped, gradually giving it up over a period of drama-free years.
Still fairly content and stable, I have decided to pick up the notebooks again. But not without questioning why do it. Why journal? For me, writing allows me to recollect a feeling or event without worrying about boring someone else with the details or wondering about their response. There are some events or feelings that occur in my day that may not interest anyone else but get me thinking about all sorts of things. Taking the time to write down those inklings usually amuses or provokes. And when I feel that I don’t have anything to write about that void raises the question-how can you possibly not have one thing you’d like to give more thought to. Every day holds its mysteries.
In this age of sharing everything, journaling can seem a bit passe. But it was in one of my conversations with myself that I gained clarity on exactly what I’d most enjoy writing about in this blog.