Monday, April 9, 2012

recorded


This morning I spent some time absorbed in an old journal of mine. As I read those words, my thoughts, I felt a great tenderness toward that twenty-something year old self who was writing. I recognized myself, my voice, in the writing, even though I've forgotten most of the thoughts and moments recorded in those pages.

One entry from the late 1990s, in which I recounted a visit with a great aunt and uncle who are no longer living, gave me particular pause. "We discussed the Roosevelts. They thought he was a great president and that 'Hoover was happy just to let everybody starve.' (My great-uncle) Henry remembers Eleanor visiting his unit when he was overseas. He was stationed in Euphrata, Washington for his training.' " I find myself wishing I had written more; that I had asked more questions; that I could remember more. Time passes.

4 comments:

Life with Kaishon said...

What beautiful pictures. I always have high hopes of keeping a nice journal...and then I stop after a month of so. My friend Gretchen is so good at it. She inspires me : ) Wishing you a beautiful day. Love, Becky

Denise | Chez Danisse said...

It does pass, often too quickly.

Allison said...

Just about every relative I have is gone. I wish I had asked questions, too. Where did my grandparents come from - how did a 17 year old young woman find the gumption to leave Europe and come to America? Everyone's family has a story, and I'm sad that I didn't find out before they left us. Great post.

KPiep said...

Touring my old journals has been an eye-openiing experience. It does take a large dose of compassion to reread those old words, and it is amazing to find what was and wasn't recorded. My journals have made me laugh, cry, cringe, beam with pride, and - most importantly - appreciate myself just a little bit more.