I have filled many pages with words, phrases, doodles, thoughts, dreams, ideas and yearnings throughout the years. Boxes filled with paper journals share shelves with other mementos of my life. I sometimes wonder if after I'm gone from this existence if anyone will approach those many many pages and dare to open the books that hold parts of my life captured in words. And if someone does, what will they think, what feelings will arise, shock perhaps at some of the racy entries, sadness at the teardrops that dot some of the pages. Surprise? That I loved so deeply, and suffered because of it?
An old friend recently told me that she found her journals and burned them all, not wanting her children and grandchildren to know her darkest truths. I have no plans to destroy my words. I think there is wisdom somewhere within the many pages, even if it's just a lesson in what not to do. Besides no one may want to read them anyway. But, I do know I wish I had a record of my own mother's thoughts and experiences. Maybe then I would know her better and in knowing her could more easily understand my self.