1991 was the one year in my life where I routinely kept a written diary. I stuck with it that year because it was a school-mandated activity. I’m really grateful for that experience. It’s an incredible record of a year as well as a lesson in how useful and calming that practice of regular, written self-reflection can be.
I also kept a journal for drama and theatre studies I recall … but that was a slightly different matter. In that case, it was (I think) a part of our assessment and our teacher would read and respond to what we had written. I very much enjoyed that experience too … but it was not a private act. Though, in retrospect, I remember having a pretty foggy grip on the idea of the private and public and I know I would have been extremely candid.
Hmmm… not sure that I really mean what I just wrote above re the private and public …. I think I mean something closer to having had then (as I do now) an openness to the interconnectedness of things; so that I would have defined what was relevant to self-reflection on a specific class activity quite generously. I would have shared both deeply and broadly. And made myself seemingly vulnerable in doing so.
This month – to regather myself – I’ve started journalling again. And it’s lovely. And I’m particularly enjoying the symbolic clasps on the notebook I chose. It feels a little magical. And mine. And me.