record life
it’s been raining all weekend and it only seems appropriate in response to the week i’ve just had. the past couple of nights i just sat on my porch and enjoyed it. i had a best friend whom i loved to share nights like this with. we loved listening to the soft hum it made upon the pavement, the smell it left in the air, and the way it stills your heart. you see it doesn’t matter what kind of mood you are in before it starts, a gentle summer rain always brings a calmness, a peace to your soul. i miss that friend and i miss sharing moments like these with him.
jillm vol. 12 is now complete. last week i finished my 12th journal. i say this not out of pride or arrogance, but satisfaction. the last 8 years of my life are cataloged in the worn books neatly stacked on the prized bookshelf above my bed. i think all of the other books in my room secretly wish to be there knowing that only the most important books are assigned that space; perhaps they feel like a child’s forgotten christmas toy from the previous year sitting on their dusty shelves. but if ever there is a fire, those are the only things i will take. every other possession in my life can be replaced; but those words, those memories, those thoughts, can never be recounted again the way they were first recorded. in my excitement to add another compellation to my set, i called my dad in to see them all splendidly standing in a row...he was proud of me, but not quite as excited.
my first journal is the smallest of them all and took over four years to finish. but it was in it that i discovered the therapy i find in writing. writing for me has become an addiction, a good addiction, but an addiction none the less. what i share on this website is only a fraction of the thoughts that fill those tattered pages. they aren’t diaries like little girls have, full of crushes and secrets; they are the record of my life. i laugh when i read their humbling beginnings in volume one going all the way back to my 16th birthday…”trent told me after school today danny thinks he likes me…” so maybe they started as a diaries.
paralleled with my evolution, my writing has also changed and developed. today i write not just to record life, but to sort through my thoughts. a lot of times i cannot follow my thoughts until i sit and write them down. there is something very therapeutic in the connection between my hand, the pen, and the paper. it’s hard for me to sit at the computer and write anything,.. it’s labored, unnatural, and uncomfortable. i don’t remember the correct grammar rules or what a participle phrase is, i just write. my journal is like an old friend, one in whom in confide in and just listens. she doesn’t feel the need to tell me what she thinks or what she would do. she just takes it all in and let’s me see the answers for myself. each time i begin a new one, i select it carefully; no lines, paper with texture, soft cover. it's the only thing that works for me. likewise, i must have a pen which writes thick, spilling ink onto the page. the more ink, the smoother my pen glides across the page. i think i've become annoyingly anal about these tools. must be the architect in me.
upon the pages are taped song lyrics and ticket stubs, receipts and notes. sketches fill the space when words are not enough. i can flip through them and find most every struggle and triumph i have encountered. i can read about travels to far off places, as well as tearful moments in my bedroom. i find encounters with people whom i have crossed paths with for brief moments and impacts from people who are still walking with me today. there are so many memories i have tried to etch into their pages that i might remember them again as vividly as i felt them when they first happened.
i think i would be embarrassed if anyone were to pick them up and read them; sometimes i write about such silly and insignificant things. but they aren't silly to me; at least not the moment i write them. i can picture my kids someday standing around flipping through the pages of my journals laughing, “mom, i just can’t imagine you in college!” i laugh because i know i feel the same way about my mom. i look back at pictures of her when she met my dad and wonder what she was like. i hope these pages tell my children what i was like.
whatever fits you, do it. if you blog, blog more. if you sketch, sketch bigger. If you sing, sing louder. whatever you have to do to record your life, do it. then do it more.
jillm vol. 12 is now complete. last week i finished my 12th journal. i say this not out of pride or arrogance, but satisfaction. the last 8 years of my life are cataloged in the worn books neatly stacked on the prized bookshelf above my bed. i think all of the other books in my room secretly wish to be there knowing that only the most important books are assigned that space; perhaps they feel like a child’s forgotten christmas toy from the previous year sitting on their dusty shelves. but if ever there is a fire, those are the only things i will take. every other possession in my life can be replaced; but those words, those memories, those thoughts, can never be recounted again the way they were first recorded. in my excitement to add another compellation to my set, i called my dad in to see them all splendidly standing in a row...he was proud of me, but not quite as excited.
my first journal is the smallest of them all and took over four years to finish. but it was in it that i discovered the therapy i find in writing. writing for me has become an addiction, a good addiction, but an addiction none the less. what i share on this website is only a fraction of the thoughts that fill those tattered pages. they aren’t diaries like little girls have, full of crushes and secrets; they are the record of my life. i laugh when i read their humbling beginnings in volume one going all the way back to my 16th birthday…”trent told me after school today danny thinks he likes me…” so maybe they started as a diaries.
paralleled with my evolution, my writing has also changed and developed. today i write not just to record life, but to sort through my thoughts. a lot of times i cannot follow my thoughts until i sit and write them down. there is something very therapeutic in the connection between my hand, the pen, and the paper. it’s hard for me to sit at the computer and write anything,.. it’s labored, unnatural, and uncomfortable. i don’t remember the correct grammar rules or what a participle phrase is, i just write. my journal is like an old friend, one in whom in confide in and just listens. she doesn’t feel the need to tell me what she thinks or what she would do. she just takes it all in and let’s me see the answers for myself. each time i begin a new one, i select it carefully; no lines, paper with texture, soft cover. it's the only thing that works for me. likewise, i must have a pen which writes thick, spilling ink onto the page. the more ink, the smoother my pen glides across the page. i think i've become annoyingly anal about these tools. must be the architect in me.
upon the pages are taped song lyrics and ticket stubs, receipts and notes. sketches fill the space when words are not enough. i can flip through them and find most every struggle and triumph i have encountered. i can read about travels to far off places, as well as tearful moments in my bedroom. i find encounters with people whom i have crossed paths with for brief moments and impacts from people who are still walking with me today. there are so many memories i have tried to etch into their pages that i might remember them again as vividly as i felt them when they first happened.
i think i would be embarrassed if anyone were to pick them up and read them; sometimes i write about such silly and insignificant things. but they aren't silly to me; at least not the moment i write them. i can picture my kids someday standing around flipping through the pages of my journals laughing, “mom, i just can’t imagine you in college!” i laugh because i know i feel the same way about my mom. i look back at pictures of her when she met my dad and wonder what she was like. i hope these pages tell my children what i was like.
whatever fits you, do it. if you blog, blog more. if you sketch, sketch bigger. If you sing, sing louder. whatever you have to do to record your life, do it. then do it more.
posted by jill m at 5:01 PM
1 Comments:
I really like this entry jill, you put things nicely. there is a way that you write, i can't quite explain it, but i find peace in it. you seem at peace the way you write things, even during the sad times you write about, i can still feel the peace in your words.
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