My dad takes care of an apartment complex and he often brings us found items. Over the years, we've gotten everything from a kitchen table to bunk beds, but more often it's clothing, books, canned goods or household cleaners. A few months ago, he brought a load that included a couple of unused journals, like you might find in stationary at Barnes n Noble. Edyn grabbed a brightly colored one with some floral motif, if memory serves. The remaining journal was plain, with a bright red, vinyl cover. I set it in my filing cabinet and left it for a month or so. I finally picked it up one day when I was rather emotional and decided to try writing. It had been one of those days (read more about it here) and I needed to blow off steam like a volcano, bubbling just beneath the surface. A week later, I didn't like what I'd written. Here is my second attempt:
Dear red journal,
Last week I wrote four pages and was then interrupted. At the time, I had been very upset. The day hadn't gone well and I vented... a lot! Of course, that is part of the purpose of a journal, I suppose, but I can't truly enjoy that. What if I never came back to finish my entry? And what if, heaven forbid, I were in a tragic accident and later, my family would find that my only journal entry had been a four page rant? No. That won't do.
Now, in that light, I really should fill the pages with deep, meaningful observations, humorous anecdotes and witticisms. That way, in my absence, I could be remembered as thoughtful, loving and funny.
Ugh! So much pressure! This is what I do with everything, over think, over analyze, over stress! I can't even enjoy a private conversation with MYSELF without making it too stressful!
I tore up and threw away the four page rant. Can't have that laying around.
So, how can I utilize this red book of empty pages in a way that is healthy?
I haven't written in it since. I'm starting to think that journaling isn't for me. As long as no great apocalypse takes out the electricity, I have a digital journal, of sorts. It's just in short, sweet, Facebook posts and random, rambling blog posts. Besides, I only want to put out what I'd like to get in return, and only what will show that I love my life and my family. I put the red book back in the filing cabinet.
Dear red journal,
Last week I wrote four pages and was then interrupted. At the time, I had been very upset. The day hadn't gone well and I vented... a lot! Of course, that is part of the purpose of a journal, I suppose, but I can't truly enjoy that. What if I never came back to finish my entry? And what if, heaven forbid, I were in a tragic accident and later, my family would find that my only journal entry had been a four page rant? No. That won't do.
Now, in that light, I really should fill the pages with deep, meaningful observations, humorous anecdotes and witticisms. That way, in my absence, I could be remembered as thoughtful, loving and funny.
Ugh! So much pressure! This is what I do with everything, over think, over analyze, over stress! I can't even enjoy a private conversation with MYSELF without making it too stressful!
I tore up and threw away the four page rant. Can't have that laying around.
So, how can I utilize this red book of empty pages in a way that is healthy?
I haven't written in it since. I'm starting to think that journaling isn't for me. As long as no great apocalypse takes out the electricity, I have a digital journal, of sorts. It's just in short, sweet, Facebook posts and random, rambling blog posts. Besides, I only want to put out what I'd like to get in return, and only what will show that I love my life and my family. I put the red book back in the filing cabinet.
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| The red book and my favorite coffee cup. I was hoping for inspiration. |
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