I picked up my old journal today and added an entry. I hadn’t written in it in months. It made me think about how hard it is to write in detail about the events that happen every day, even when the events are important.
When we moved into this house a bit over a year ago, we wanted it to be a place where a lot of memories are made. We’ve already made quite a few since we moved in. So MUCH has happened in the past 14 or 15 months, I mean SO MUCH.
I guess there was always a lot happening. I remember how much a difference a year could make when I was a child. I might have different friends, be in a different school, have different hobbies and interests …
But since we have been living in our new place, it seems like that again, except that all sorts of really big emotional things have happened and instead of having Mom and Dad holding our hands as the consolation, we now have the support of friends and a home as the continuity that makes things calmer when big things happen (good or bad) and other areas of our lives seem chaotic, nutty, or aggravating.
I think I will try writing in my personal, non-online journal more often than I do. Even if I don’t write down all of the memories I have, there might be little triggers there that cause me to remember what it all was like when I am eighty-five and I don’t remember it as well.