My current journal and two fountain pens
So much for preserving footprints in the sand
After 50 years of keeping a journal, though more often of a weekly than daily regularity, I’ve passed the 200-volume mark. By now, most are hardbound, while others, especially early on, were of spiral-bound notebook nature or smaller size.
A few people in my past who admitted to trespassing into their contents were all disappointed. Guess they were expecting juicy details, though one was quite angry and accusatory. Look, mental health requires someplace to spew forth, and if a journal isn’t safe, corking up will only mean the feelings will fester.
Except that few of my entries articulate my emotions, feelings, or sensations. Yes, there were way too many of the hippie-era wow variety, but mine soon became a matter of tracking my ongoing activity. Just trying to remember what I did, who I met, what I saw filled the pages, when I could get to them.
Even so, they remain prompts into so much that happened at the time. And without them? There are no photos. Could that be why everybody is shooting like crazy with their cell phones?
The first newspaper editor who hired me, Glenn Thompson, urged me to keep a journal, though I didn’t get around to the practice until three years later, shortly after graduating from college. Still, I am everlastingly grateful. For the record, I was trying to puzzle together my “problem,” at least as it applied to the lack of a love life. Instead, it began noting the highs, even in the absence of a lover. And then began going from there.
Yes, I wish I had started earlier, there are so many details of my life I’ve forgotten and a trail from there would be deeply helpful in seeing how I eventually landed where I have.
Still, looking back, maybe mine aren’t journals, after all, but maps of my time, movements, and interests.
How do you keep track of where you’ve been?
Jim’s Woody
Ten things about the leading lady in my life
Quite simply, she’s the coolest woman I’ve ever known. Warts and all. Now for some details.
- She’s an idealist while having no tolerance for b.s.
- Witty, even caustic, but never cruel. The truth, however, can sting.
- Much smarter than me, and better read, though knowing everything can be a problem. In other words, she remembers everything, especially what I’ve done wrong.
- I love watching her, the way she moves, the twinkle in her eye, the perplexed twist of her lips while solving a problem. Oh, yes, and her long, long hair.
- Has an artsy, natural style that leans toward earth-tones, folk sources, and simplicity.
- She’s frugal but generous.
- Has never been remunerated in just compensation to her societal contributions. If she were, we’d be living in high style.
- Is one of the world’s great cooks. And that extends to the garden, though she rarely has time for the weeding. The problem is, neither do I.
- Is gifted in spades with empathy. Only she can’t understand why the rest of us can be so lacking in it.
- Should have been an astronaut.
Our little city stretches from heads to coves
When it comes to finding your way about town, you need to know more than just the names of the streets.
Eastport’s a city of islands, with Moose Island the biggest and most inhabited. It’s roughly six miles long and three wide, at the most, but that still adds up to 20 or so miles of shoreline, I’m guessing.
So people will refer to Buckman Head or Estes Head or Todd Head or Kendall Head or, for variety, Harris Point, punctuated by coves.
So there’s Broad Cove or Deep Cove, which flank Shackford Head, or Prince Cove, for instance. As well as Carrying Place, Half Moon, and Johnson coves. Plus a few more. And that’s before we get to the neighboring towns, up and down the coast, which also name places this way.
Welcome to my new world.
Do you follow a to-do list?
I thought everyone did. And then one day, at the close of Quaker worship, I casually asked the circle if anyone in the room didn’t do such a checklist. I was surprised by the number of hands that went up, even if they were a distinct minority.
How do they get everything that needs to be done, done? It’s still a mystery to me. It’s like I need a map if I’m gonna get anywhere.
My wife and I have multiplicities of such lists. The problem is keeping them all straight. Sometimes, once we find where they’ve gone missing, just trying to read the handwriting is confounding, but even guessing still helps.
For years, I kept both seasonal and monthly lists, broken down into categories of Personal, Domestic, Creative, Quaker/Spiritual, and, at times, even Computer and Astro. I eventually kept a master file on my PC for easy updating and printed out pages as needed for a clipboard.
You know, reminders of auto tag renewal, driver’s license, income tax filing, ordering firewood (and the phone number), furnace and chimney cleaning, medical exam and dental cleanups, birthdays and anniversaries, Yearly Meeting sessions, drafting our local Meeting’s State of Society report, and so on.
To that I added goals like weekend escapes, writing and publishing agendas, gardening chores, home improvements, even exercise, which never did actually happen. Reviewing these can be embarrassing.
Yes, we can regiment ourselves or else try to go with the flow, even if that means trying to put out endless fires we hadn’t planned on. The frustrating part is all the stuff that never got done – or as I’m seeing in my review, did so only years later. Others remain unfulfilled dreams or promises.
The more practical solution has been my keeping of weekly planning calendars, though a master list would still help in inserting some of the tasks. This year, I’ve gone with a smaller book – make of that what you will. I do miss the big artwork, though.
Kinisi 95
where was the silver spoon?
was it always this hard?
Science in the mirror of religion
Eternity?
What’s beyond the Big Bang!
Where they get the big boats out of the water here
Darling Ilene
perhaps you remember the one whose moon-eyed lovers were reflected within the ringing gravel } none of them yet the maid of honor or a best man’s cattle, hogs, goats grunt in discomfort, sniffing the usual rounds without any drum healing wounds at least only to burn away { somewhere in the distance
