My heart nearly exploded last week when I went to tuck my son into bed. There was he, propped up on his elbows, pencil in hand, reading light shinning, writing in a notebook that he told me was his new found journal. Friend, I cried! I then of course waited until he fell asleep and read it…don’t judge, he’s 8! It was a darling recount of his day, including a riveting tale of a fight he had with his sister, which he made very clear to his diary ‘was totally her fault’.
It spurned me to rummage through boxes in the crawlspace and find a massive storage bin I have full of diaries I have kept since I was 9. I began with my first diary (pink with a lock on the spine…obviously) and read a few entries about tales of BFF drama and a confession thinking I killed my brother’s pet turtle (spoiler, I didn’t – Terry the turtle left this earth as a result of natural causes). I picked up a black book from my teens, full of angst towards my parents, but honestly, mostly hate about myself. Bummed out by that teen journey, next up was fun tales in my twenties of travel, not knowing where I wanted to be and lots of half finished entries with scrawling writing which progressively got messier as the page went on (clearly these were part of the ‘late night wine chronicles’). Finally, my most prized possessions – the journals I have kept since having kids. Full of worry, funny things they have said, and wisdom I want them to be able to read when they become parents.
I write almost everyday. Sometimes in a journal, sometimes on my computer, sometimes it’s just a voice-to-text of something I found funny or interesting I want to remember. There is something therapeutic about experiencing the world and then retelling it through the written word. Through storytelling I am able to process what is hard to feel, and then move through it. I can’t tell you the amount of pages I have written detailing heartbreaking, seemingly life alternating circumstances, only to have the next page dedicated solely to gratitude for getting the perfect rise on my sourdough! It’s really a perfectly summed up life – sometimes things are rocky, sometimes they are amazing, and both deserve to be immortalized in print as the story of you.
I am so glad my son has started to journal. I hope it is a practice he will continue for as long as it serves him. And I promise, once he turns 9 I’ll stop reading!
Do you journal? Daily practice or when it moves you?
Have you ever re-read old diaries? Have a glass of wine handy and prepare to laugh and cry at old you!
xo mm
Recent Comments