My journal has been “lost” for a month. My nightmares figured a stranger who happened to know everyone in it picked it up and was judging me with very good reason.
I found it in my car today. I could have spent hours revisiting thoughts and emotions, remembering who I was, and considering how my story has played out (the parts of it that have, anyway). Each entry is an art of sorts, one that makes most sense when it’s recollected.
I noticed several meaningful jottings were preceded by “Randy said…” or “Dave said….” I can honestly say I have forgotten those things they said. Isn’t it funny how some statements stick in your mind forever, but some of the most profound things you hear just slip right through, not taking root?
Perhaps some things we hear and subsequently record in our journals are simply for the Lord to reveal story to us when we revisit the words years later. We see that he has been designing experiences to work out a certain understanding in us. That was a quote from a meeting with George in May of 2010. What I scribbled was:
“George: words –> then experience –> then understanding.”
Now I get it! His statement applied even to itself. And I realize I may need to pass this very wisdom along to a special friend who finds herself as unknowingly stuck in the words phase as I was last year.
Over the years, my Dear Diary has taken many shapes: feelings trying to work themselves out, prayers, lists and bullet points, scripture, and a plethora of phrases that just hang out unattached to sentences. Only one thing is consistent: guilt emanates from its pages.
Write more. It doesn’t take long! Are you avoiding your thoughts or just being lazy? Either way, gross.
I heard of a middle-aged man in terrific shape. When asked his secret, he revealed that many years ago he committed to one push-up a day. While he couldn’t always find the motivation for an early morning workout, he could make himself do a single push-up when he got out of bed. Often this turned into twenty push-ups, ended in a plank, then moved to crunches or jumping jacks. In his mid-50s he was in good enough shape that a stranger asked for his secret.
That’s how this book, One Line a Day: A Five Year Memory Book, seems to me. Can you (will you) write for an hour a day when it’s not your job? Probably not. Can you write one line a day? Sure. Will that lead to writing a short story or recounting an event from your day? It’s likely. It’s worth a shot anyway.
And if it doesn’t work, if it assumes the guilt-ridden role of other journals, at least it’s a pretty color on the bookshelf.
