Most days, I don’t remember to write my heart down.
I know it when it breaks. When it shines. When it feels like maybe I’ve put a few too many Sweet ‘n’ Low packets in my tea and I’m zinging from one browser window to the next, trying to figure out which project to tackle next.
I forget that in two years, I won’t remember any of it. Not those small moments of elation and depression. Not the way it felt to find your name sitting in my inbox, the strength it took not to keep your words unread until I had time for them. Time to let them simmer inside my brain. I won’t remember.
So when people send me messages like, “I’m thinking about blogging, but I’m not sure if I should,” I want to shout from the rooftops that they don’t have to expose the world to their problems, but Target is just down the street.
Target is just down the street. And I am pretty sure I would walk there, find you a journal, and mail it to you if you need me to. Or tell you to take a few sheets of notebook paper or a pack of sticky notes and fix a makeshift one.
I wish I had kept better track of the last four years. The song in my head on the way back from Spanish class, leaves blowing past me as I broke into a sweat climbing the macadam hill. And the moments I sat against a cinderblock wall with every single 18-year-old boy on the planet watching me trying to compose myself while my big beautiful life plan came to a halt.
And it doesn’t matter that you’re seventeen or twenty-six or laying in a nursing home bed, wondering if God wants to give you a tomorrow. There is something magical about flipping back through years of pain and sorrow and joy and reading them like your favorite novel because you know the ending.
You know the chapter without the bookmark.
My mother can set a book down without dog-earing the page. She knows where to pick it back up. She’s engaged in a life that will never be hers. And I am trying to learn the art of remembering and detailing and saving for later. I am trying to learn and trying to appreciate it.
So anyone who is on the fence about writing it down, the good, the bad, the mundane, don’t be. Hold onto the wind in your hair and the ice cream dribbling down your knuckles and the laugh that made your stomach hurt for days.
Write it down. Write it all down. There is magic in the journey, magic in knowing where your first chapter began. We can’t always learn each others’ lives, can’t always tell you how they got to today. But you, your life is the one thing you deserve to understand.
By the way, every month I send out a short + sweet newsletter brimming with cool finds related to the monthly theme. It'd be stellar if you subscribed. If it's not worthy, it doesn't go in the newsletter. That. Simple.