Time travel
I've been on something of a cleaning binge since the new year began, and I like it -- not necessarily the process of cleaning, but having a clean house, relatively de-cluttered, dusted and not too much dog hair.
Today, in the process of cleaning and minor furniture moving, I opened my cedar chest for the first time in at least a year. It's a nice cedar chest; I 've owned it for probably 20 years and use it to keep some precious baby clothes, a quilt that will be handed down to my daughter, a Christmas quilt my sister made and a few other odds and ends. I had forgotten that somewhere along the way, I'd tossed an old briefcase in there. I had to open it to remember what I'd stashed inside.
Sure enough, there were several of my old journals. Now, I've been journaling since junior high so I've had time to amass a pretty impressive collection. I looked through a few pages of the journal I was required to keep for 9th grade English, and found a note from my teacher that was quite touching: "I want to hear from you in the future...it matters to me what happens to you. Is is silly for a teacher to feel that way?" Mrs. Corn was her name, and all afternoon I've been wondering if she's still alive. But even if she isn't, her words touched me, and made me wonder: how many of my daughters' teachers would be brave enough to write something so emotional and honest to either of them in this day and age? The power of the pen to reach across years, maybe even through death, and spark an emotion -- gratitude, amazement, admiration -- still stuns me.
Then I opened another journal, and had to shut my bedroom door for a few minutes to be alone. Reading several passages from 11 years ago brought memories flooding back. Not that they've ever faded entirely -- I doubt that will ever happen. But the detail is what struck me today: How my ex's outbursts affected me every day, practially every waking hour. How his moods affected my mood and my ability to be a good mom. How I braced for the really bad ones days in advance, how I developed a shorthand for the things going on: "a big outburst about the usual," or "he drove it off."
I was struck by the tightness of my handwriting, how it looked small and closed and cautious, as if it was trying to be secretive on the page. A few pages later, there was an entry from a time when he was traveling for work, gone for four days -- and my handwriting loosened, became freer. I was surprised at the anger I expressed at the joy and energy he drained from me -- but then remembered that setting aside that anger was a conscious decision I had to make after it was all over to keep from becoming the same as he was (maybe still is).
I didn't have the time or the privacy to go through those notebooks for as long as I'd have liked, so maybe some evening or some cold, cloudy Sunday when the girls are occupied or out of the house I'll pull them out and do a little time travel to see what I can glean from the pain I poured onto those pages during that horrific time. And maybe I'll pull out the journals from happier, less complicated times as well. But for now, they'll stay in the cedar chest, under lock and key. And I'm not telling where the key is.
Today, in the process of cleaning and minor furniture moving, I opened my cedar chest for the first time in at least a year. It's a nice cedar chest; I 've owned it for probably 20 years and use it to keep some precious baby clothes, a quilt that will be handed down to my daughter, a Christmas quilt my sister made and a few other odds and ends. I had forgotten that somewhere along the way, I'd tossed an old briefcase in there. I had to open it to remember what I'd stashed inside.
Sure enough, there were several of my old journals. Now, I've been journaling since junior high so I've had time to amass a pretty impressive collection. I looked through a few pages of the journal I was required to keep for 9th grade English, and found a note from my teacher that was quite touching: "I want to hear from you in the future...it matters to me what happens to you. Is is silly for a teacher to feel that way?" Mrs. Corn was her name, and all afternoon I've been wondering if she's still alive. But even if she isn't, her words touched me, and made me wonder: how many of my daughters' teachers would be brave enough to write something so emotional and honest to either of them in this day and age? The power of the pen to reach across years, maybe even through death, and spark an emotion -- gratitude, amazement, admiration -- still stuns me.
Then I opened another journal, and had to shut my bedroom door for a few minutes to be alone. Reading several passages from 11 years ago brought memories flooding back. Not that they've ever faded entirely -- I doubt that will ever happen. But the detail is what struck me today: How my ex's outbursts affected me every day, practially every waking hour. How his moods affected my mood and my ability to be a good mom. How I braced for the really bad ones days in advance, how I developed a shorthand for the things going on: "a big outburst about the usual," or "he drove it off."
I was struck by the tightness of my handwriting, how it looked small and closed and cautious, as if it was trying to be secretive on the page. A few pages later, there was an entry from a time when he was traveling for work, gone for four days -- and my handwriting loosened, became freer. I was surprised at the anger I expressed at the joy and energy he drained from me -- but then remembered that setting aside that anger was a conscious decision I had to make after it was all over to keep from becoming the same as he was (maybe still is).
I didn't have the time or the privacy to go through those notebooks for as long as I'd have liked, so maybe some evening or some cold, cloudy Sunday when the girls are occupied or out of the house I'll pull them out and do a little time travel to see what I can glean from the pain I poured onto those pages during that horrific time. And maybe I'll pull out the journals from happier, less complicated times as well. But for now, they'll stay in the cedar chest, under lock and key. And I'm not telling where the key is.
posted by Mary at 5:22 PM
1 Comments:
Joan Didion said that keeping journals helps you keep in touch with all the people you used to be. Seems you've got some catching up to do with some of those folks. I think it will help to a certain degree, but remember that who you are now is not only freer; you are wiser too for the experience.
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