I threw out my journal when I was young.
After taking copious notes about the challenges of grade school and compiling years of my memories, tantrums and life altering challenges into wide-lined pages, I ripped out said pages and tossed them in the garbage like a pair of old, smelly shoes that pinched my toes into tiny triangles.
Because it stinks to be a kid and read your diary a few years later. The trials and tribulations are so trivial. It just doesn’t fit anymore.
Since then, I have always been hesitant to take up a journal.
During major disasters I have written notes in my day planner (like my divorce drama) but in general, I have lived a diary-free life.
I must have a thick skull, a layering of extra membranes that prevent me from hearing important messages. It could be genetic, or learned.
I blame Sesame Street and all the repetition (One! One crazy looking Dracula counting. Two! Two crazy looking Draculas counting!)
Whatever it is, for some reason it takes me many attempts to hear a calling before I completely give-in to the wisdom of it.
With The Promise 365, I have vowed to listen closer to those inklings of intuition. It is part of taking care of my heart and my head.
Of course, it is always the head part of me that gets in the way.
So it is, after a month of hearing the word “journal” pop up on TV, in conversations, during the cleanse, and out of the sheer blue, I have decided to listen.
Tonight, I cracked open a journal.
Dear Diary, Part Deux.
The Year I Didn’t Shop and Invested in My Head, Heart, Body & Soul
I’m not sure what my journal is for … not yet anyway.
I just know that I am supposed to start writing in it.
So, there, Ms. Naggy-Pants Intuition.
Stop shouting, I’m not ignoring you.
I am listening.