I’ve written in one journal or another for 40 years. Here’s a picture of them. You can see my very first one, a paisley print on the far left tucking out from beneath a dark blue leather journal. Fourth from the top. Amazing that before they were colorful, bound or wire-ringed books, they were trees.
But last week, with a very full glass of wine that I filled twice, I went through my journals, reading some passages, skimming others. And then, I thanked each one, ripped out the pages, built a fire and fed the pages into it.
Here’s what it looked like in its early stages:
The fire burned for four hours as it consumed rants, to do lists, plans for the future, vents, wishes, dreams, annoyances, story ideas, rage, gratitude, doubt, praise, doubt, uncertainty, fear, doubt, whining, joy, relief, and more doubt. Me, usually with a pen, working things out. To get to here.
You can see it burn here:
I couldn’t let go of them all. I saved both of my pregnancy journals for my daughters. And I couldn’t let go of my first one from 1973.
I also kept the covers. I have an art project in mind.
But I wanted to remember the burning. So I can remember the mix of emotions I felt as I watched: light, strong and giddy.
In the morning, in addition to my memory and the images I’ve shared with you, this is what remained. I’m going to take the ashes and bury them in the earth where they began so another 13-year old girl will have paper on which to practice her writing and work things out.
I understand but still dont know where you found the strength.
your old friend
jeremy
Hi Jeremy. Thanks for your comment and for asking.
Several things led me to it. I think I’ll address those in my next blog post!
Hope things are well with you.
Ellen, I also let go of my old journals. I mentioned this at a writers’ retreat, and there was a collective gasp. I’m not that girl anymore; on with the new and fresh. Congratulations on your courage!
Thanks for writing, Leslie. You said it! About not being that girl anymore.
This is one of several things that led me to this decision which I think I’ll address in my next post.
I understand. I read, then ripped up and threw away my journals from middle school and high school in a flurry of decluttering about five or six years ago. The same day, my son had a friend over, a student and a writer, who moaned when he heard. I had second thoughts. I went through the recycle bin in the alley and
retrieved the torn shreds. I began to tape it all back together. Then, I stopped. I didn’t want to read it anymore. I didn’t want to hear my voice saying those words. I knew it was okay. I’ve written plenty more since then, and I reread my words from time to time. So far, they sound okay to me, but if and when I feel my cheeks redden when I read them, when I reject how the words sound in my head, out they will go.
I knew when I started to read the post that the journals had been burned, but when I saw the photo at the top of the page, I started to mourn the loss of the covers. I was quite thrilled to see that you saved them for an art project. I can’t wait to see what you do with them.
Thank you for your understanding and your story, Roberta! I’d love to consult you about how to connect those covers in a sort of patchwork quilt so that I could keep them close. More on that to come.