I started keeping a journal when I was twelve years old. For most of my life, I have crafted a written/reflection in some way, every day.
Tonight while my family and I were pulling books from shelves, packing for our upcoming move, I found my treasured first ten years of journals. Then, my books all had to match. Theses were my blue-black years; the journals with the satin tongued ribbons. Each year engraved in gold-leaf. Each page filled with me.
No one can read them. In my will I actually state I prefer my daughter to destroy then, unread. Though, I am familiar with her head-heart-strong nature. This is highly unlikely; she thrives on research.
Also, my refections served invaluable during my thesis journey. Of course, by then, the nightly journal had morphed to four different texts, depending on my need.
Now, the notepad on my phone lives full. And I write in every margin. I map narratives from my reflection. Catalogue my outlines into collections, thematically. To finish in a few years under the sun.
So. Tonight I packed them. Moving them again from one out of the way location to another. Oh, I’ll find another. Hidden well. In plain sight.
To finish…. in a few years 🙂