Happenings

I have kept a diary since I was six years old. They live in that increasingly heavy cardboard box in the attic. I recently looked through them with my own daughters. They delight in returning to them to sit quietly alone with my thoughts, and then to exclaim excitedly at some treasure unburied. Some have padlocks and patchwork cases, some have pages falling out and receipts, labels, clothing tags: reminders of shopping trips and christmases past; some have doodles, and deep inner turmoil. And some make me blush. Yet those ordinary every days, those details, come rushing to the surface, memories all part of who I am today. My childhood sketchbooks live on in my mind: I released into the flames many that I had carried from home to home for thirty years. I often think of those completely un-self-conscious paintings and drawings fondly, wishing I could look at those thoughts once more, but perhaps I can see them more clearly than if I could touch them with my fingers. A sketch book, a diary, a journal is a journey. A place to experiment, explore, to clarify and release. A collection of thoughts and happenings, put down with some kind of permanence, lest the fleeting moment should be lost and I should forget what makes me.