The Adventures and Life of...

I remember the first journal I was ever given. I was young--7 or 8--and my sister gave it to me for my birthday. Inside was an inscription and a photo of the two of us in front of Big Thunder Mountain at Disneyland (the scariest rollercoaster I was old enough to ride at the time). It replaced my old journal, which was just a red-covered spiral notebook. In that journal I recorded some of my first spiritual experiences; it is a sacred book to me. The journal my sister gave me is also sacred in a way. I remember being so excited at the idea of having such a beautiful book in which to write down my thoughts and observations. This journal is probably one of the best of my collection because there was no hint of a self-conscious, censored writing style. This journal is filled with cringe-worthy confessions, such as my delight in my secret hiding place (my tiny closet), my feelings of jealousy of being left out of activities with my brothers, and my ideas of how life should be enjoyed. It also recorded some very tender moments, such as when my brother Bruce returned home from his mission. These events are recorded with the priceless candidness of a child. It is sometimes hard to believe that child was me.

I only recently became aware of the fact that over the years my writing has become increasingly censored. The last two journals I have kept feel stiff and lifeless, recording events but little emotion. I look back on days I know I felt things deeply and yet the page feels lifeless. There are bursts of excitement, there are moments of sorrow, but they are guarded and articulate. This week, as the ending of this particular journal loomed, I thought about how I arrived at this place in my writing. How is it that I am so candid in my discussions with my best girlfriends, feeling free to expose my follies, my girlish hopes and dreams (many of them utterly ridiculous), my deepest fears and sorrows, but I can't do so when left alone with myself and my journal? My time with my journal should be my most safe, and yet I am afraid to commit those thoughts to the page. Why? After some thought, I realized with more than a bit of sadness that I am afraid. I am afraid of being disappointed, and I am afraid of appearing foolish to myself in the next few months or years, that when I reread these entries (as I often do) I will shake my head at myself and think, "Silly, Julie. Was it really this dramatic?" Somewhere along the way I lost my ability to be accountable to myself for those thoughts. I have them and are aware of them, but the moment I start to write about them, I reign myself back in, exerting all of my control to remain level-headed and cool on the page. The undertone of the writing is an alternate Julie saying: don't shed tears; don't show weakness; don't be angry; don't get too excited. What nonsense! Because in reality sometimes I am crying. Sometimes I am weak. Sometimes I am angry. And sometimes I am way too excited. I wonder when exactly my personal writing took this turn.

I always like to give myself a little epilogue at the end of each journal, a little record of what I feel I have learned over the last few months (5 months in this case). This time around, though, I instead spent the last page writing what a week ago I would have called drivel. I tried to make a greater effort to capture the reality of my feelings inside of the facts. I quickly realized it is going to take some time to get back into recording life honestly. Even as I was writing this week I felt embarrassed, and I even wrote that I felt embarrassed and that I was going to stop writing before that feeling got any worse. But then, days later, I went back and read some of those things, and I wished I had gone into even greater depth. I wished that I had captured what was really going on in my head and heart. So this morning I tried again. It came easier. In fact, so much so that my writing got smaller and smaller as I tried to milk the last of the pages out. It felt like the relief that comes after holding your breath to the limit. I was disappointed when the last page was full and I had to stop. I wanted to keep writing, afraid that if I stopped I would unconsciously stop breathing. Again. (Metaphorically, of course.) They were the most honest words I had written in months. I reread them. They were terrifying. But they were also empowering. It was no formal epilogue, no goal setting for the next journal, no self-conscious assessment of growth. But for some reason what I wrote rendered all of that unnecessary. What I had written seemed to sum up the theme of this particular journal very well. It was the culmination of a long five months, full of trials as well as joys. It showed the result of patience and longsuffering. It showed that after all that has transpired in these months, hope is still alive, probably more so than it has ever been in my life. Of all the things I have been blessed with in the last few months, finding a greater hope in life is the best of them all.

Volume 17 begins today. I always love starting a new journal. As I end one journal and begin another, it seems to coincide with one phase of life ending and another beginning. The ending seems to come at the end of a certain trial, or at a moment of discovery, or at the beginning of a new adventure. I feel like this transition comes at a time of all three occurring at once. Isn't that exciting? I can hardly wait to record it all.