I used to be a journal keeper. It’s where I turned to process and reflect. To deal with big questions and emotions. It was my place to connect with “me,” and it was such a part of my life that I didn’t think much about it. Until it stopped.
It was never a daily practice. I definitely experienced many lulls and pauses in my journaling. But nothing like recent years. Granted, the timing of my lack of journaling does seem to coincide pretty much exactly with parenthood. There have been seasons of these mama years when there just feels like no time at all. And when I’ve crawled out of those times, journaling just hasn’t taken priority. Since my life seems to be a never-ending game of picking what I’d like to be doing with it, this choice to not turn to journaling is interesting. Does this mean I’m not prioritizing myself? Am I not taking the time for a practice that used to help me find my center and feed my soul? Or have I simply moved on to other ways of connecting? These questions nag at me, and I let the idea that I haven’t journaled make me feel guilty.
In recent years there have also been some silly overthinking reasons for my journal hesitations – Are all these journals just more clutter and more to haul if we move? What’s to become of these when I die – will they be a burden to somebody or something I’d rather someone not read? It’s strange and deflating to think these questions would prevent me from journaling, but they’re there in my head.
Whenever I read or hear about writers and their daily writing practices, I get an ache. Writing, whether it was school papers or journaling or letter writing or even texting, makes me happy. I don’t know that I want to *be* a writer (whatever that means), and yet, here I am – writing this post. So, I am a writer, am I not? Is a writer someone who writes or someone who is read? Either way, I came to a realization today that this, here, is my writing space. It’s not exactly the same as a journaling process, of course, but it is still a place for me to write and reflect. To ask questions and process some of what I’m feeling. I love the idea that on a blog there is potential for my words to reach someone else and possibly give them a boost or an idea, but mostly I recognize this space as mine. This is my 40-something journaling.
So, Diary, do I miss you? Not really. And I’m starting to feel okay with that.