I’M STILL ME
My first journal was The Black Beauty Journal with a crimson ribbon marker, a cousin’s gift for my seventh birthday. I began chronicling my life that same week. My first subject was, naturally, my recent birthday party: ‘When I went to my 7th BirthDay it’s a cookey bake off it was fun!’
I remember being cheerfully ignorant of the correct form. My first entries were random sentences run together: I had watched a funny movie, made a Christmas craft, played an extra good game with my sister, or finished schoolwork early. Later, my mother showed me how to write the date at the beginning of each entry. Never having bothered about dates before, I would ask her often: ‘What’s today?’ Sometimes I couldn’t check and there would be an entry dated ‘October somthing, 1998.’ {Notice the dutiful comma.}
I love to read my old journals; I have most of them still. I am reminded as I read their scrawly pages, that I am always still me. My penmanship and spelling have vastly improved, I am happy to note; my writing style has changed; but the topics are those that continue to interest me.
I wrote about the games I played with my siblings. I rhapsodized over books I was reading or pined over books I wanted to read. I invented parties and clubs. I noted accomplishments. I made elaborate plans. I copied favorite poems or excerpts. I wrote my own poems. I sketched. I recorded ideas for stories. I created lesson plans.
{I know you want excerpts. How’s this? In lumpy blue cursive I agonized: ‘writing of sad I ate 7 pancakes and have a bad stomik ake and it hurts so bad I feel sick and want to go to hevem I didn’t know ther could be such pain on earthe!’ I still have a tendency to decorate my worst feelings. Also, seven pancakes?!}
My ambition and perfectionism are there. My struggles with guilt are there. My dependence on God is there. My occasional obsession with romance is embarrassingly there. {Maybe a few pages are missing.} The fun I always have with my family—and a few struggles as well—are all over the pages.
I haven’t changed at all!
I was reminded of this again during our winter housecleaning. It was finally time to tuck my teddy-bear figurines away in my hope-chest. As I washed them and wrapped them in green tissue paper, I smiled to think once more that I am the same little girl who enjoyed putting things in order, liked to plan parties, and gave everything a personality and a story. {Even those little plastic rings on the tops of plastic jugs. Yes, I did. And don’t ask.}
These teddy-bear figurines I have had as long as I can remember. I played with them sometimes, but they were not toys; they were Decorations. When they were done having quiet conversations on the bed they went back on the shelf in artistic groupings.
At first I laid them out according to my whim—favorite to least favorite, perhaps. But as I arranged and rearranged them, a narrative emerged. It seemed to me I had discovered something actual—apart from myself, and the figurines were afterwards arranged in exactly the same order every time. {Except for the few times I debated whether one would bathe before preparing food. I finally decided afterwards, because cooking could be sweaty work.}
First, Teddy Bear calls her dearest friend. Will she come to lunch? Yes, she will!
Teddy Bear picks ups her toys and tidies the house. {This is almost the best part of having a party.}
Teddy Bear shops for food—thick, crusty loaves to dip in honey.
Now that the heavy work is finished, Teddy Bear scrubs her fur in a scented bubble bath.
Teddy Bear dresses in a pretty frock and beribboned hat, and decorates the table with a rainbow of flowers.
Teddy Bear and her friend enjoy a sweet meal together.
• my first journal, and teddy-bear figurines •
December 24, 2013