Most of our boxes are unpacked. Today I unpacked boxes that I haven't unpacked in years. These are the boxes that got stacked in the back of overstuffed closets, that were among the first to be loaded into storage, that have been taped shut, some of them, for years. These are my journals.
For the first time in my life (I think), I have a place (other than taped-up boxes) to store my journals. These notebooks date back to 1980 (when I was 10), though I didn't actually begin writing every single day until I was 13 or 14. And I haven't stopped.
I know this is probably navel-gazing. But I learned how to use the "macro" feature on Hubster's camera and think it's really cool to look at handwriting up close. Don't you?
As I read these few journal entries, part of me wants to laugh at myself. Some of them are funny. My penchant for hyperbole apparently goes back about a million years.
But this is also making me feel pensive. I've been wanting to sit and journal-write (or blog-write) for a long time, but I've been so busy with work. The thoughts that are coming out here aren't in quite the format I'd planned (not that I'd really planned anything), but here they are. And there will be more to come, I'm sure, the very next time I have a slow, lazy Sunday to myself.
I hope I get another one of these lazy days soon. I have a lot to write about. Notebooks and notebooks and notebooks full.