Old journals

 The task of downsizing and discarding never seems to end. The treasures are the hardest things to tackle: the collection of letters my father wrote to me after I left home; the scraggly teddy-bear I once loved; the china doll that sat on my dresser; pictures the kids drew when they were little; and so on. You have your own lists.

Passing them on to the kids and grandkids seems the best option. I made a catalogue with photos and descriptions. I distributed it to the tribe, asking them to write their names under the stuff they wanted. I ended up with a few names here and there but was still left with boxes of old vases, paintings of Bolivian landscapes, my wedding dress, and thousands of photos. Why don’t they want this precious stuff?

The conundrum I currently face is the most difficult—what to do with my old journals. I’m a writer and I’ve been a faithful journal keeper all my life. Now, in my years of retirement, I’m left with boxes of notebooks dating back to my teenage years. They’re full of struggles, triumphs, complaints, and prayers. Full of stories. The conundrum—to leave for the kids and grandkids to read or to spare them the burden and throw them all out before I die?

It's enlightening now, reading them. It’s also sometimes distressing, even embarrassing, to remember how immature I once was. I’m thinking of purging the journals (the parts I want no one to read, ever), and selectively passing the rest along. But that seems a bit dishonest.

If I were famous there would be no question. I’d be obligated to leave the whole story to the researchers and literary academics to craft into biographies. But I’m not even close to famous, except to a small group of people (which contradicts the concept of “famous”).

I’ve decided to keep one of my high school diaries—a day by day list of which boy looked at me that day. I’ll keep it because I find it hilarious, and proof that I was once an adolescent.

Frequently I face my struggles through poetry. Here’s an old-journal poem, inspired in part by a paradox I found in the book of Isaiah about “the old ways.”

 

Old Journals
Isaiah 43:18-19; 46:9-10

1
Do I keep them, all the notebooks
of stored memories, stories and struggles?
Years of anecdotes and meditations—relational problems,
cute things the kids said, past resentments I don’t want to reveal
to anyone, spiritual highs and shadowed valleys,
dreams good and wicked. Will my kids and grandkids
really want to read this stuff, to know and fondly remember
their dead grandmother? Or will all this paper burden them?
To toss or to store in the attic? Guilt if they toss, loss
of storage space if they keep.
Remember the old things, those of long ago,
says the Lord God.
How seriously do I take that?

2
Why not unburden myself and spare the kids
a difficult decision? Do I really want them
to know how immature I once was? How petty at times?
How cast down and struggling to keep the faith? Not really.
But somehow, I can’t let go. Not yet.
It feels like destroying part of my identity.
Does throwing out old journals
erase the stories, mean I’ll be forgotten?

3
God once again muddies the waters,
seems to contradict himself by telling me to
Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past.
How do I apply that to my personal pilgrimage?

Why forget? Because, says the Lord,
I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up!
Do you not perceive it? I am making a way
in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

That sounds good. I could do with a fistful
of new about now. With a truckload actually.

4
Are my old journals a barrier to new life?
Remember the former things. Forget the former things.
Why do you so often send me mixed messages?
Is it either/or? Or both/and? How do I do that?

Once again I am perplexed by paradox.