Thursday, July 30, 2009
One of the good (and bad) things about moving is the opportunity (or requirement) to go through every single thing you own.
(Or in some cases, just sweep everything off the desk and figure that you can take the time to sort it at the new house.)
With the walls painted and the new carpet just in, we can finally start unpacking.
(Yes, that's right. Nearly two months of being at our new home, and we are just starting to unpack.)
As I was moving boxes to the master bedroom, I came across my collection of old journals.
Yep. That's right. Collection.
As a pre-teen and as a teenager, I was a prolific journal writer. I wrote every singe day. I filled at least a dozen journals full of my scrawling, ever changing handwriting. I poured my dreams and ambitions, insecurities and heartbreaks onto those multi-colored lined pages.
(Maybe that's why I love blogging so much. A new forum to share those same emotions. Hopefully in a slightly more articulate manner.)
When I met Hubster, the journal writing slowed. It's gotten now to the point that I haven't filled a page in nearly 7 years.
Part of the reason, I think, is that I didn't need the journal as much. I had finally found someone that I could share all my fears, hopes, and joys with.
At the bottom of the stack of journals was a thin yellow book with a cluster of orange poppies on the cover. The first page reads, in my best calligraphy...
I had forgotten all about this book. I started it when I was about 17 years old. I was growing apart from many of my childhood friends, for multiple reasons, many of them due to my lack of self-identity at the time. I had started this book as a chance for me to discover what was actually true in life and what was just peer-pressure and popular.
I continued to write my "discoveries" in the book until just after Bug was born.
Re-reading, as it always is re-reading things your younger, less-experienced, naive self wrote, is both painfully hilarious and reassuring at the same time.
I've decided to occasionally share the discoveries my younger self made that I find to still be true now.
This does not include entries such as
"Letting others be the idiot sometimes will save you from being one," or...
"Plants to not handle stress tests very well,"or...
"Sometimes, all it takes is white fluffy socks to make your day."
Yes, apparently my teenage brain thought these were fundamental truths that should be documented.
Okay, enough of the funny (or painful) ones.
Turning the pages, there were things that still resonated with me.
"Despite what the magazine covers say, weight gain does not automatically make a person unattractive."
"Not every single thought I have needs to be deep."
"Allow room in our comfort zone for those close to you to grow in their own ways."
"I do not need to apologize for other people's mistakes."
"In the long run, I will be the only one responsible for my decisions."
When ever my blog material is running dry (as it has been with the mental fatigue of residency) I've decided to turn to my little book of Discoveries, to see if any of the realizations I came to as a teenager as still true now.
What do you think?
What discoveries have you made along the way?