35 Years in a Landfill

I have always loved journals. I can't remember exactly when I purchased my first bonafide journal, but I do remember writing with pen and unbound notebook paper for many, many years. As a young child, I wrote more pages than I can count while lying on a lumpy mattress in my grandparents' upstairs bedroom, where pale wallpaper fell in sheets off the walls and the a warm breeze blew through the open window.  As I got older, I wrote in notebooks, college-ruled. I kept all of my writings, throwing them in a box that, with time, bulged from all of the filled binders and folders and scraps of paper with scribbled ideas on them.

Sometimes, on lazy days, I would lug that box out of storage and rummage through the writings, laughing at my childish 7 year old self and my dramatic 14 year old self and then, at my 20 year old self who was falling in love and dreaming of marriage and adulthood and all of those things that young people on the cusp of adulthood think about.

Much of my writings were autobiographical; however, the bulk of it was creative. Oh how I loved to experiment with stories--inventing characters that struggled with love and relationships and insecurities. I rarely, if ever, let anyone read my writings--they were purely for my own eyes. But no matter: I could and did spend hours inventing and experimenting and exploring.

And then I grew up and got married and finished college and had my first baby and then my second baby and then my third baby and then my fourth baby and juggled marriage and children and a job and a household and...well, writing became a distant memory.

One day, when we lived in Wisconsin, I decided to declutter our home. I'm not sure of the source of my inspiration--maybe it was growing kids which, of course, means outgrown clothes and outgrown toys. Or maybe it was the promise of a summer garage sale that we participated in on occasion. But whatever it was, I made my way downstairs to this large room that was basically storage and held long shelves that Roy built and we loaded down with boxes of books and old photos and canning jars and clothes for the kids to grow into and a variety of other miscellaneous, some usable and some...well, some not so much.

I sat down on the cold cement floor and began to pull boxes out and open them up. I rummaged through the contents, sorting and considering and and boxing some back up, and eliminating the contents of others,  and then combining...and so on and so on.

And finally I worked my way to the very back wall and found a large, dilapidated box. I pulled it out, puzzled as to what lay inside. The top was folded in an alternate pattern that kept the contents safely inside, and it was evident that it had been opened many, many times through the years. I quickly pulled the flaps up and there before me lay notebooks and looseleaf pages filled my handwriting and folders and 3 ring binders and stories and journals and ideas and feelings and memories.

Thirty five years crammed into a cardboard box.

I have no idea how long I sat there, rummaging through that box--reading and laughing and remembering. But I do know that I spent several hours down there over the course of several days, sorting through the years of my writings. Suddenly all of my good intentions to eliminate and declutter and downsize got lost in my walk through memory lane. But then, I came to the bottom of the box, read through the very last page, and crammed it all back inside, folded the top back in criss-cross fashion, and shoved it to the "to keep" pile. I didn't throw a single page as each page defined a stage in my life, a piece of my true self. It all stayed, contained in the dilapidated box.

And then? Well, then I got back to work and completed the process of sorting and decluttering and downsizing. I had a "keep" pile, a "garage sale" pile, and a "throw" pile. I distributed it all appropriately and went back to my regular life. Neat and organized and compact. Confident.

Job well done.

I'm not sure when I realized it. Maybe it was within a few days? Months? Maybe it was when we moved from Wisconsin to Texas? At this point, ten years later at least, if not more, the timeline is dim. But here is what I do know:

Somehow that box of writing got shoved into the "throw" pile.

Thirty five years in a landfill.

When Jace was two years old our computer crashed. Our computer held all of his photos from the age of nine months to about 24 months of age. I was devastated. We realized every photo was gone--GONE--just before my Senior English class started, and I went to class with red eyes and tears streaming down my face. I just couldn't believe it. Photos from our camping trip and summer fun and cheesy grins and Christmas gifts and birthdays and family.

Normally I could contain my emotions when I was in front of a class and I switched into a completely different gear. But this time? I was raw and didn't even try to put on a brave face.

Gone. Poof. Just like that.

I am taking an online class with Brene Brown called The Power of Imperfection.  It's six weeks in length but, of course, one can take it at a relaxed pace so that, in the end, it can take as long as one likes. Anyway, I listened to the first session this evening as she explained the first assignment: a journal entry.

Just my speed.

I got out my permanent markers with a fine tip--14 colors in all, my water paints, my colored pencils, and my journal with 100 pound paper so that it doesn't bleed through. Can I just say, I'm about as artistic as a slug? But that's okay. I'm experimenting. Dreaming. Inventing.

And who knows. Maybe someday this journal that I'm creating will inhabit a landfill. Maybe the photos of sending Jace off to camp or our summer fires for roasting hotdogs or the ones I treasure with my parents will vanish into thin air. Our remnants of yesterday can be fleeting...except in our hearts.

In our hearts? Well, those memories and experiences and life lessons...they burn brightly. They don't flicker. They define us.