Dear, dear diary,

I have mentioned it before, but I am a big fan of my journal. I think that the would-be writer in me has always written in a journal to keep my writing a constant and daily practice. When I arrived home from school for March Break on Friday and couldn't find my diary in my purse I was in a full-fledged tizzy. Part of me fearing the hands that would find it and discover this gateway in to my soul, the other part seriously concerned about how to start a new one in the meantime of finding the missing one. Journals are my constant companions, and to be out of order and without this full-time therapist on me, would just totally screw me up!

I decided to blog about journals today because I did something yesterday that floored me. I just finished reading Note to Self: on Keeping a Journal and Other Dangerous Pursuits by Samara O'Shea (FABULOUS) and I was stunned by this fellow journal-writer who reads hers over and over-- in fact, even bravely published excerpts from them in this book. So I took the leap and followed her lead and opened one: a full journal that I kept from 1997- 2001. In my hard-covered large-page book full of my sprawl, were my own accounts of years of being in University, teachers college, starting out a career and meeting the man I am now married to. I don't usually reread what I write in these books-- at least, not in a fell swoop like yesterday's.

Over the course of one afternoon, my emotions were all over the map. I was surprised-- did I really write this? Did I really have these feelings for that guy or this anger towards some event? I was embarrassed by my narcissism and whining-- do I sound like this to others? I was annoyed by me-- how has anyone ever been my roommate? I felt protective of my younger and more naive self-- my current self warning me as I read the daydreams and plans, Don't believe him, Tamara-- he was bad news all along and you should've known better...... I felt sad to think of all the time that I have spent worrying, or stressed, or hating my body. What a waste of time.

At the same time, I felt proud of my triumphs, and commended myself on some of the conclusions I was able to draw. It turns out that many of the dilemmas I am having about myself right now were there all along, and many words of wisdom that I still need were penned by none other than me. While journalling yesterday after re reading this old journal, I told myself to take my 23 year-old self's advice and stop taking myself so seriously. I felt bashful and giddy while reading about when I first met my husband, and read to him a few things I had written about him in those crazy days of infatuation. The look in his eyes after reading descriptions of him from over 8 years ago, is one that is now captured in the pages of yesterday's journal entry forever.

I don't imagine I will read the rest of them (there are 7 more) for a while-- even though my purpose in keeping them has always remained the same: writing for me, not an audience. But it is a very cool feeling to look at them on my shelf, the volumes that make up the life I live.

It turns out, by the way, that I had placed my journal on the coffee table before even putting my purse down. Phew!

Salad Girl's tips of the post:
Start a journal today if you don't keep one. Write every truth you can, without thinking about what people will think when they read it. If you do keep one, make sure your entries are well dated and include the time and place you are writing. Keep your journal on you at all times to sneak in a good write when you are given the gift of a delay at the dentist or on the subway or when a friend is late meeting you. Write with tea, with a glass of wine or with nothing at all but the honest question "How are you today?"