For Christmas in 2015, my husband bought me this five year journal. In it, he wrote:
Happy Christmas! I’m giving you this journal on December 25, 2015. I can’t wait to hear abut all the wonderful adventures you’ve had in 2020!
When I started this journal in 2016, we were in Taiwan, our first (and so far only) trip there with the 8 year old, who was then three. As we were were waiting for our flight out of SFO we received news that my grandmother had passed away. The trip became quite a larger family reunion than we could have imagined as all my aunts, uncles and cousins came back to Taiwan for the funeral. It was quite possibly the last time I was together with all my uncles, aunts and cousins on my mother’s side.
I think about where we were then. We were about to experience our third miscarriage in two years, and the idea of a second child, let alone a third, was seeming quite remote. That was the year I got to work on a Ring Cycle, that pinnacle of opera-dom. It was my last year working summer opera.
And here we are, 2020 just having ridden off into the sunset, taking with it times that I couldn’t have imagined, even if I were the type to speculate about the future.
Sitting down with this journal and a cup of hot tea has become a morning ritual whenever I can manage it. Over the years, my writing and pen tips have gotten smaller as I try to cram more and more thoughts onto the lines assigned for that date in that year. (I now use a 0.38 Pentel Energel Pen. Also periodically the Muji 0.3 coloured gel pens, but those tend to bleed, as I found out after an unfortunate incident with the baby and the aforementioned cup of tea.) As I write I like to glance at where we were in life the year before, then two, three, four years before. Often there are striking parallels – like coincidentally meeting up with friends on the same date two years in a row.
I tend to write about the day past, reflecting on what happened. I try to think of the whole day because so often what sticks in one’s mind is how the day ended. There have been many a day that have ended miserably that started wonderfully and I know I can’t let how a day ends define the whole day.
All in all, there are more entries that I thought there would be, even if, some days there is just a hastily scrawled “Tech.” or “Two chorus day”. No further explanation needed.
Even though sometimes there feels like there is a same-ness to life, that life has a certain repetitive rhythm, no two entries over five years are identical. Sometimes I do record an event that is recurring (case in point… “Still no sleep for baby”), but that event is nestled in a whole day that is different from the one before it. Similarly, the usual rehearsal/ tech / performance routine is only repetitive on paper; each show has its own challenges and moments of triumph. And when I look more broadly, at the weeks rather than the days, I realize that even when I feel stuck in an interminable grind, things do change and life does eventually move on to the next thing.
There are also empty entries. My second trimester pregnant with the baby is largely blank, for example. But this in itself is telling- I was horribly tired and working two operas back to back. I don’t need to have written it down to remember how I would steal away to take a nap in my car on breaks between rehearsals. Or how I didn’t tell anyone at work that I was pregnant again, even as I worked a gala in a slinky sequined dress and heels while six months pregnant. This I remember acutely without having written it down (and now, ironically, I’ve recorded here for posterity).
Such big things I do remember – glamourous once in a lifetime galas, births, deaths, family reunions. Also, surprisingly, the ranting venting entries of many frustrations all read surprisingly familiar. At some point in the past five years of looking back on journal entries, I’ve come to realize that I tend to remember how I felt about things more than what I did; the little things that annoy me still tend to annoy me. The rage and anger I felt about certain things have perhaps not been let go as much as I had hoped.
On the other hand, it is the mundane details of my day to day that that I have difficutly recalling and thus am most grateful for having a recorded. For some reason my memory of the daily grind is ephemeral. Looking back at the 183o (+/-) entries documented over five years really brings back for me the smaller moments of life- the long walks, the chilly days, what we ate, friends we saw. Sunshine. Playdates. Paperwork. Library visits. Naps. Snuggles. The banal. It is these things that Emily Webb speaks about in Our Town when she says:
“Do human beings ever realize life while they live it – every, every minute?”
Emily Webb is right. The anger and negativity, while definitely therapeutic to write down, is not what I want to remember. Realizing life I think is in those little moments of joy and security. I recently read a definition of bliss as “a second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive and conscious.” (David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King, quoted in Kieran Setiya’s Midlife). I don’t want to be inauthentic about what I write in my journal, but I do think that I need to remember to record the bliss as well as the blech – to balance writing for the moment and writing for my future self.
A couple of months ago, Levenger was having a sale on their five year journals. I scooped up three of them. At the time it seemed quite indulgent. These journals are beautifully made- the paper is smooth, the linen covers are durable, the binding is sturdy- and they are not cheap – though I suppose if you look at cost per entry, they are actually quite affordable. The Levenger sale definitely prompted me to stock up, hoarding them like toilet paper. When they arrived I looked at them – decadently packaged in an elegant silver box and wrapped in a soft cloth. And it struck me that I just purchased something that I intend to use in the year 2035. There is something comforting in that. I can’t predict whether or not my child will sleep tonight, or what the three year old will next have a meltdown about. But, if all goes according to plan, in 2035 I will write something in the last of these three journals that I bought in 2020. Suddenly I feel like I didn’t buy enough. There is a whole other lifetime beyond 2035.
