Hidden under the mattress, or in a cranny in the wall of a childhood bedroom, lays a diary. Perhaps you had one. Perhaps you kept it. But have you read it? What does this diary tell you about yourself? Or your experiences?
I never used to write. I never used to keep a journal. Well, that's not actually true. In fact, when I was younger and when I was a teenager, I periodically wrote things down in a book. I would pour my little twelve year old heart out onto a page or I would write down, in anger, about something my ____ (insert parent/sibling/friend here) did. Later, I would read it and I realize there was nothing worth reading or realize how pathetic I sounded and would burn/destroy/erase all traces of the diary. There was a proverbial graveyard where all my thoughts went to die.
What saddens me about this reflection is that I clearly missed the point. I thought it was important to record a history of my life so I could look back at it in its "reality." But this was not something that I would actually read and enjoy. My first attempts at diary writing were painful to read. Embarrassing. Maybe too starkly honest, and slightly pathetic. Why do we keep journals if they are sad reflections on our lives?
I said this to a co-worker, "Why would I want to remember all that stuff. It's just uncomfortable and painful." She laughed and said, "Not mine!" Her diaries were full of the memories of adventure and witty tales of experiences growing up. Not because her life was perfect or that she didn't have rough periods in her life, but because that was how she chose to write them and how she chose to remember those moments. Perhaps I am just slightly masochistic, but I thought that was cheating. Aren't we supposed to write open, honest reflections of lives? Isn't that was diaries are for? Talking to ourselves? And yet, apparently not. Joanne is a vibrant woman full of life and fun and mystery--you never know what to expect with Joanne around. I can imagine that her writing was not much different.
It was only recently once I began writing, and writing purposefully that I came to realize that she had a point. There was something to this method of writing. Writing is not so much a recording of history as it is a retelling of its most emotional, wildly adventurous, turmoilously beautiful, frankly human experiences. It is not a mundane list of the day's events in sequential order.
The beauty of writing is that we possess the abilities to write our own narratives from whatever perspective we choose, (embellishments included!). And in doing so, we rewrite our histories, thereby determining our own outlook in life, refocus our vision of "self" and perhaps--to the degree that this is possible--direct the course of our own futures. I believe that we speak truth into our lives; what we tell ourselves and others, becomes true through speaking it. Through speaking it, we begin to believe it and through believing it, we act upon it, like a self-fulling prophecy.
This has been true for me. What could become negative experiences for me, have transformed through quiet reflection, before my eyes in my attempt to recapture the moment on paper. Suddenly, an experience that was painful, exhausting or stressful creates moments of clarity or beauty. Not every day is pleasant, not every experience painless, but somehow the act of writing and retelling, a fine balance is stuck. A satisfying balance between stark fact and poetic freedom.
It's not so much a fabricated retelling as it is perspective. Life is too short not to be beautiful.
No comments:
Post a Comment