I’ve kept a journal since I was thirteen. Multiple ones in fact. If you went back and read through every entry that I’ve made in the last three years, you’d see written in visible ink my own character ark. The changes of my personality, the morphing of my thoughts, the forming of…me.
But please don’t. That would be weird. Just take my word for it.
Periodically, I will pull out some of my old journals. Like I did last night. Crawl into bed late, propping open the notebooks on my pillow. Read the scribbling of my soul. Some passages bring sadness and melancholy, remembering hard days, wishing I could re-live them, change them. Some bring laughter. I smile at my naivety, the blunt honesty of my words.
It’s fun. This review of my growth. The reminder of lessons learned. Re-living of happy days, of blessings.
As I flipped through the pages of my life, I wondered. Why has it been so important to me, this journaling? It’s become such a habit of my life. I don’t think about it much.
But as I think, I realize. That jounraling isn’t just a recording of everyday moments. It’s an outlet for my heart. It’s the place where I figure out what’s going on inside my own head. After a rough day, I know that if I can get it out on paper, it will help. Fears, ideas, hopes. They’re not so intimidating when they’re scribbled in a notebook.