They Are Fascinating

We had a kiddie gig at an elementary school today. We talked some about how kids learn and think. I don’t want kids, but I do think they are fascinating. Especially when they are old enough to have personality. Their minds are fascinating. - Miranda, 2004

There is something incredibly difficult/annoying about reading your own journals. I guess I am the lucky one in this project, because I can choose which of my entries I publish. I try to choose entries that are real and relevant, but I confess that I sometimes avoid entries that are uncomfortable.

Occasionally during my pregnancy, I have thought back to my early twenties when I didn’t want to have children. It seemed like such a far-fetched idea for me, and with all the problems in the world, I shied away from the traditional expectations of ‘settling down’ and creating more people on the planet. I was certainly not shy about expressing those thoughts in my journals. Some entries were more harsh than others.

This entry, though, reminded me that even when I was not ready to have children, I was still thinking about how interesting children are. I have always enjoyed working with kids. I took several developmental psychology classes in college, and I loved learning about how the human brain develops in the early years. I am really excited to see how this new little person comes out, and what she or he will become. I could have never imagined that feeling 15 years ago.

I am still journaling through this pregnancy, and I still use my journal to work out my fears, worries, and concerns. Journals are a wonderful way to get things out of your brain. Still, even now, I look back on entries I’ve written over the past 4 months and I cringe to think that someone will read those words someday. But that is exactly the reason to write the words. It is part of the process - at least, part of my process. My pregnancy will not defined by any one journal entry, just as my thoughts on children are not defined by thoughts in my twenties. We don’t know how our lives will change. We don’t know where we will be (physically, emotionally) in 5, 10, 15 years. The best we can do is continue to make space for our thoughts and work through them in whatever way we can. Acceptance. Using words from a Hamilton song, “Can you imagine?”

The Three Journals

Many, many years ago, I read my grandmother's diary.  It wasn't as sneaky as it sounds.  It was more like a rite of passage.  The journal came to me in a big, red 3-ring binder with page after page of handwritten entries - one for each day - from January 1941 through April 1944.  She and my grandfather were missionaries in China during WWII, so there were stories of air raids, food shortages, downed pilots, and more.  I was captivated - but not always by the historical context.  What struck me the most was the emotion - her disappointment when a recipe flopped, her excitement when a Redbook magazine arrived, her joy when her sons were born.  The real-life account of a woman in her mid-20s as she navigated the world around her.

As a child, I loved to bake.  My mother taught me the recipe for the family pound cake - which is still both my go-to gift and my guilty pleasure.  Later I learned that the original baker of that pound cake also kept a diary.  My great great grandmother lived in Alabama with her husband, children, and 'housekeeping staff' in the late 1800s.  Her diary entries, also from her mid 20s, give a glimpse into her world - her struggles, joys, and fears.  Every time I baked that cherished pound cake, I thought more about the similarities between the two diaries of my ancestors.

All my life I have kept diaries and journals.  The writing process clears my head.  In the days before Amazon, I remember searching every bookstore and gift shop for the perfect journal and pen - spiral-bound, unlined pages and gel ink.  Though my journal preferences evolved over time, the habit stuck with me.  I journaled extensively in my 20s - through graduate school, my first job and my first apartment, my father's struggle with cancer, and more.  My journal was my therapy.  Years later, I was finally able to go back and read my own writing.  The things that I struggled with seemed strangely similar to the diaries of my grandmother and great great grandmother.   

I love the humanity in these diaries - the details, the recipes, the stories, the lists.  Three women, three centuries, three very different circumstances, yet all three had common themes.  Love.  Family obligation.  Self doubt.  Financial worries.  Birth.  Death.  Purpose.  Fear.  

This blog is a journey through these three journals.  I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I have.