I have been keeping a journal for most of my life. It started with small diaries that locked with the simple key (that could be substituted with a fingernail). When I was young they would capture what time I woke, what I ate, the score of the Cubs game, and a sentence or two about my day. An entire week of my life could fit on a 2 page spread. I liked the repetitive nature of their entries and the simplicity of my days.
By middle and high school I graduated to full-page diary entries that often captured my scores on tests or other grades, how volleyball, basketball, or softball practice went that day, and who I sat by at lunch. Riveting reading, no doubt.
There are gaps in journaling over the years when I couldn’t (or didn’t) find the time to document those moments of my life. They marched on regardless. On the verge of motherhood, I knew I wanted to capture life and contain it somewhere so that I wouldn’t forget. I began incorporating photos, ticket stubs, and other mementoes with my entries. Now they are half images, half words on most days.
Each time I fill up a journal it feels like closing a book on a part of my life. I flip back through the 7 or 8 months that are captured within and relive moments, feelings, tastes, and sounds. There is something sacred in finishing a book and knowing that it represents the memories of the past and then opening a blank book and recognizing that it holds the promise of a future.
So today I sit here between past and future with a blank book in one hand and a pen in the other. I am closing the book on a part of my life and beginning another. My life is more than a trilogy, quadrilogy, or heptalogy…
I guess I don’t know what you call 20 or more books.
Perhaps, A Series of Fortunate Events?