I’ve been going through old notebooks. The highs and lows of my life for the past 30+ years. I’m a die-hard journal-keeper. I document everything I do, see, think or feel! Got rid of the stuff I don’t want the kids to see. Kept the good stuff for my memoirs.
It’s been fun. Like putting the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together. The Big Picture. There’s a comfortable equanimity about it. My boyfriend says, “Why look back?” I say, “Why not?” I like seeing the progress. I like re-visiting the woman I used to be: the young mother, the new divorcée navigating her way through the scary world of dating, the bout with a debilitating physical condition, the religious phase.
I’m mining the gems of my Past and looking at it through a gentle lens. Compassion and even tender admiration for things endured and conquered, for weaknesses, for remorse, for just being a beautiful, slightly fucked-up human being.
Now that I’m in my Autumn years, there’s way more past to remember than future to anticipate. And there’s some satisfaction in having gotten this far. So going through my past feels a little like a quiet celebration, a tidying up of things, a senior-citizen coming-of-age ritual.