I used to be a prolific journaler. I always had a journal in hand. I used them as a diary, a planner, a scrapbook, and storage space. I still carry one with me, but I just don’t seem to use it as much as I used to. It is something I would like to get back to. I pulled out my old journals recently to help me write a poem for my poetry class, because I had a list of things I could be when I grow up and the poem needed to include a list.
Today I was looking at these amazing pieces of my history. Taking a moment to read back through old relationships, how I have never really known what I want to do with my life, lists of things I want to do, buy or be, fun articles, my favorite horoscopes, and bits of overheard conversation. There are feathers, leaves, bits of ribbon, little drawings, poems, cards, and so many stickers. I read through the first days of Seth and I’s relationship, how hopeful I was while being cautious, it is so cute to read being a couple for almost 14 years (the anniversary of our first date is in May).
My journals have been composition books that I decoupaged and decorated. They have also been beautiful art books that I have purchased from artists. I don’t know that I have a preference on which of these is better. I have loved them both, and worn them both out to the point that they are fraying on the edges and very well loved. The composition books have more me on the outside but it is the inside that counts, right?
These books hold so much of my past in their pages. And I am shocked and dismayed to see so many similar themes popping up from then to now, wanting to be thinner, feeling directionless, hating my job, fearing change…over and over again. I can see that there are some big changes needed in my life. Or, I can see that my mindset needs to shift beyond these things.
Here are some of my favorite pages, pieces, poems, and such from my journals over the years.
I am feeling a pull for a new journal. I feel like I might have a new composition book upstairs. Maybe it is time to break out the ModPodge, magazines and ephemera to make a new one. And start making lists again and wishing and dreaming to myself.
Also, in case you were curious here is the poem I wrote for class from my list.
When I Grow Up…
English Professor, or author
or maybe both?
Journalist, or radio host, or
One of those crazy morning shock jocks.
The girl who makes orgasm noises for songs,
or the opera singer for horror movie climax (just a different climax).
Counselor or psychiatrist.
800-number psychic friend,
“Call me now for your free tarot reading.”
Belly Dancer? Lawyer? Warrior Princess?
Open a bookstore, with a cat and lots of comfy chairs.
As a girl I was told that when you hit 40 you are old.
Here I am breaking the mold
And trying to decide what I will be when I grow up.