Too Many Journals

One of the best presents my husband has ever given me is a 10-year journal. It is set up with the same date on the same page for 10 years, so I can see what happened on that date the year before, or the year before that. I find this encouraging because sometimes it seems like things don’t change or improve, but every day when I write in it, I get perspective. The down side is that it only has a few lines for each day, so I tend to write only brief notes on family events, the weather, and what I ate or did that day. So…I write longer entries somewhere else.

 I started a notebook of “morning pages” when I tried to follow Julie Cameron’s “Artist’s Way”, but I have been sporadic at best; there are huge gaps. Then I have another notebook where I started jotting down ideas for my blog, some poetry fragments, and greeting card verse. At some point I grabbed it when I just felt like writing to release some stress. So…now I have a pile of books, and aside from the more “diary” type entries, I’m not keeping up a regular journal the way I have been since I was 16.

 I have stacks of notebooks in my closet, the result of journaling for 35 years. I was always doing it for myself, until recently when I realized what a feat that was, and my age has started making me think about what I will leave behind—a mess. Switching journals at different times means it is difficult to follow entries in chronological order, and the scraps of paper with a line or two, written in the middle of the night, or on a train…where do they belong? Somebody would have to be very interested to take on the challenge.

 I don’t want to be too hard on myself however. I am probably not much different than a lot of other people who feel driven to write, on whatever they can get their hands on, at random moments. I can vow to get my journals under control, and I may, for a while, until the urge strikes and I grab whatever book is handy…