I turned twenty this year. Twenty, I’ve decided, is an awkward birthday year--not a teenager but not quite twenty-one—and it is kind of weird to figure out how to celebrate, besides for eating inappropriate amounts of chocolate cake, which is always mandatory. Apart from turning twenty, this birthday was different than any other birthday that I’ve ever had for a whole bunch of reasons, mostly that I feel older, and I feel like I've grown. And how much I’ve grown is marked, in my life at least, by birthdays and journals.
A lot happens in twenty years. That’s two hundred and forty months. Seven thousand three hundred days. That’s enough time to make some serious headway on laugh lines and worry wrinkles, and I’m sure I’ve got both. Twenty years is a long time. And my twenty-three journals can tell you, in detail, what I was feeling and when, how it’s affected me, and how much has changed in my soul. My twenty-three journals over the past seven years are a testament that twenty years of life has been wonderful and hectic and fun and spontaneous and anxious and sad and happy and awkward and uncomfortable and challenging and exciting and all of the above, times fifty.
Some journals are more special than others. One begins in a particularly hard time and documents, over the course of seven months, a journey from paralyzing anxiety and self-doubt to noticeable joy and confidence. I love that journal. That journal has within its pages the excitement of a new relationship and my constant freak outs that accompanied it, some of my biggest fears coming to the very forefront of my mind, impossible to ignore; that journal traveled the world with me, and documents every eye-opening experience, every intimate moment spent with Jesus, every creative burst of energy. It’s amazing to look back and remember, and to look forward with hope, knowing that if that was possible, then really, anything is.
Some, many, were gifts, and anybody who has given me a journal has done me a great service, more so than I even understood when I began writing in them. Writing in journals used to just be a way to write my history as it was happening, a cool gift that I could give my children in the future, and a way to look back on how I’ve grown and transformed, and I really have. These journals, though, have become so much more because as I’ve grown up, I’ve discovered a love, a passion, for writing, with journals being my outlet, my blank canvas.
I turned twenty this year. The fourth of August. For my birthday, I was given what was, at the time, the most beautiful and thoughtful gift I’d ever been given. A journal that was so much more than a journal. A hand-made, hand-painted, hand-sewn journal with a hand-written note; truly, it was an incredible gift, and I felt that this gift meant that I, with my passions and my quirks and my daily routines, was truly known. I was nervous to write in it, hesitant that my words would destroy it. It was so special, I thought that it should be saved for something equally as beautiful, equally as inspiring. I wanted to fill its pages with the best I had to offer, just like I wanted to give the gift-giver the very best of me, too. I just wanted to read and reread that letter, over and over again, letting its words sink into my heart. I never did and never will write in that journal, regardless of the empty pages that I see staring back at me. In the short period of time where writing in this journal was acceptable, no inspiration came. And I had angst over what to do with it once that window of time closed—I couldn’t throw it away and waste the creativity and affection that went into making it, just for me. I couldn’t write in it, and I certainly couldn’t leave it on my nightstand, waiting in vain to be filled with inspiration. My hopeful and scrambled thoughts would need to find their home elsewhere. I packed it away at the bottom of my hope chest, and moved onto the next journal.
It was just a journal. I guess.
I’ve written in three since then, which, given the four short months since August, makes me wonder what else I did with my time. The answer: a lot. These months have been the most wonderful months, filled to the brim with people, laughter and spontaneity, sleepless nights and life. I wrote about it all. I especially wrote about the big changes on the horizon, where I see my life headed and what is next, constantly peering into the past, trying to learn from mistakes, gathering as much insight from my experiences as was humanly possible.
At the semester's end, when my two best friends at school drove me to the airport to say goodbye, not just for break, but in a way, for good (we’ll never cuddle in my bed until four in the morning and tell stories and take pictures on Photobooth, and we’ll never yell for each other from the room next door, and things are certainly about to change), they pulled out a journal. It wasn’t hand-made, or hand-painted, or hand-sewn. It was mass-produced and I could find hundreds, if not thousands, of people with an identical journal. The handwriting was barely legible, but when I read the words, and felt the thought behind them, I discovered that though they had hardly known me for three months, they knew me. The thoughtfulness of this gift proved it. No person, they said, should have a monopoly on giving journals with nice letters in them, regardless of who that person was. They knew how much I loved that journal, and how hard it was to put it away for good. They knew about my passions and my flaws, they saw it all--they saw me when smiles and laughter were bubbling out of me and they saw me when I couldn’t stop the tears; they saw me when I was too nervous to say how I felt, and they saw me when I spoke with boldness; they saw me at 3 in the morning, after the delirium had set in and they saw me, cranky and edgy and stressed, after writing three papers. They knew the real me. Crazy study habits, ridiculous bursts of energy, awkward interactions, talkative, quiet, and everything in between. With such knowledge of me, they gave me this journal, with two of the most beautiful letters, the most heartfelt and thoughtful things that anybody could ever say to me. I sat in the airport and cried, looking like the biggest weirdo in the Southwest Airlines waiting area, reading what they wrote me, acknowledging that this gift, this journal, was by far the best gift I’d ever been given.
I wasn’t filled with hesitation about filling its pages with my life, as messy and complicated as it sometimes is, or as hopeful and passionate as it can be, too. In fact, knowing the people who gave it to me, the only way to even do this gift justice was to fill it up with the most honest expressions of my heart, with every frustration and every passionate whim, every logistically planned out detail, every fear, every revelation about the greatness of God, every single dream about where my life is going.
When I got home, I pulled that other journal out of my trunk, and I opened it. I remembered how I felt when I looked at it for the first time, when I read the letter and hugged the gift-giver, feeling so special that this journal was for me and was created with me in mind; I remembered the value that I had once placed on this book and the words inside. I traced the cover with my finger, traced the picture that had been delicately painted on, traced the used binding, traced the words, reflecting on the creativity and, I daresay, love that went into making it. I reread the letter, wondering what kind of feelings it would evoke, because that letter once made me feel like the most beautiful, special girl in the entire world.
It paled in comparison. Because with time, I’ve changed. Things have changed. The girl who got that journal so many months ago is hardly around anymore. I’m the same, and yet, I’m incredibly different. I’m part old but mostly new. This new journal marked a new moment in my life. I didn’t celebrate it with balloons or a fancy dinner or cake, but, in my heart, and in journal world, I celebrated just how far I’ve come, and I celebrated the people and the deep love that I do have in my life, as unexpected as it was.
I’ll still keep that old journal, and remember affectionately what it used to mean to me, with no hard feelings. I’ll look at it and remember how perfect it was way back then. And when I write in my new journal, I’ll remember who I am now, a new creation, a better, more creative, inspired, laughy, joyful, passionate, confident, still anxious, still awkward, still indecisive, version of myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment