I have kept many journals over the years. Some I have filled in the space of months. My current journal dates from 2005. I write in it sporadically, but the habit has died.
Its front is decorated with a postcard showing an unnatural number of birds crammed onto one tree. The picture is getting worn from rubbing up against other items in my purse, as I often (pointlessly) carry my journal around with me.
Inside are amusing fortunes from fortune cookies. I don’t really believe in fortune-telling, but have you noticed that the fortunes you get fall into patterns? My husband, for instance, gets kinds of fortunes that I never receive–like the ones telling you to forget your troubles and have a good time.
During the years I lived alone before getting remarried, I relied on my journal for steady-going. I wrote pages and pages–an amazing record, really. Our lives are amazingly crammed full and varied, even when outwardly the days are the same.
I don’t think blogging can take the place of a journal, do you? It’s art to make a blog that incorporates the self fully. If a blog mirrors even one part of yourself faithfully, that’s a great achievement.
Blogging is social, and that’s why we do it; but in a journal the self reigns supreme, over a kingdom of one.
As my written contributions to my journal have dwindled, mementos of an active life have taken their place. Filling the remaining pages of this volume could take many years. Perhaps this is even my last journal; who knows?