Running out of Space…in my Journal

Long before I picked up a camera or composed a frame in my mind, I was using a pen and paper to turn words into images. I have my Mom to thank for my writing habits. She handed me an empty, spiral bound notebook at the age of 8 and told me to write. Tell the story of my life, through my eyes. Fortunately for me, I happened to have an eventful day for my first entry, complete with falling into a cactus and touring Carlsbad Caverns. I can’t say the same for the rest of my life, though. While those first years of writing were fraught more with spelling and grammar mistakes than incredible stories, I am so thankful my Mom encouraged me to practice, practice, practice.

Of course, there were a couple of years where I let my journaling slide…years with only one or two entries total. But I remember the stories, nonetheless. And then there are several volumes of journals from high school that I’d rather not have to read through again–mostly filled with silly musings, painful events, and the awkwardness of growing up. But even those I would not want to lose–especially the entry I wrote to my future self. Finally, at the end of high school and beginning of college, my writing began to get more interesting, albeit slowly.

My favorite volume of my journal is one I began around the time Jay and I started dating and ended right after we got married. Not only do I enjoy reading about my thoughts while I was “falling in love,” but I also love reading the chronicles of the summer I studied abroad in Russia before we got married.

So for the past five years, I’ve been journaling my married life and adventures in Pittsburgh in a simple, black ring-bound journal. I’m now almost out of empty pages, which is both thrilling and a bit depressing to me. Silly though it may be, every time I’ve completed a journal, I feel like I’ve closed another chapter of my life. I suppose I have. The oft-used notebook then joins the ranks of my other journals, gathering dust under my nighstand. In its place will be a new journal, complete with clean, blank pages for me to write on. I’m now searching for said new journal, keeping an eye out for simple ring-bound books to hold the next years’ stories.

My earlier journals come with nice illustrations, courtesy of moi. Here I am falling into a cactus and touring Carlsbad Caverns.

One of my journals apparently doubled as my Russian class notebook in sixth grade. Ha, “repetition is the mother of learning,” a favorite saying of my teachers.

My favorite journal.

And finally, an excerpt from that journal, “For every photo we did not take, I etched a groove in my brain to remember the time and place.”