I'm not sure what continuously draws me back to digital journaling. It must be whatever mood I'm in. There are times - more whimsical times - where I yearn for the steady rise and fall of a delicate cursive writing in a small, unassuming, tan-paged notebook. Other times like today, the steady tapping of a keyboard is the most cathartic - like ASMR that cuts through the brain fog following a long week.
Sometimes, I have the funny thought that any of my progeny who wish to look back upon my journal entries from these unprecedented times will have to go on a bit of a scavenger hunt. There's the completely full hand-written diary, leather bound on the bookshelf in my study. Then there's the .docx files scattered away in folders on my PC when the best I could manage was opening an empty Word document on my already-cluttered desktop to pour my thoughts into. The notes app on my cellphone is cluttered with ideas, micro-journaling entries, and character pages for tabletop campaigns that I've yet to take part in. The half-finished planners and notebooks of various sizes, shapes, and page qualities that were abandoned simply because they didn't "feel right" are found sprinkled anywhere from the study, to my bedroom, to the old forgotten tote bag that I'd put aside because it didn't seem to match anything I wore. It seems that collectively the chronicles of my adult life are scattered everywhere, like lost puzzle pieces.
My two cats sit beside me as I type this. I figure my "progeny" is safe from this chore, unless these two somehow achieve human curiosity and opposable thumbs.
I recall finding one of my grandmother's journals a few years ago when we were cleaning out some old items from storage. I don't think any of the family knew that it was actually in there, as it was such an unassuming gray notebook. Only the first few lined pages were filled, but the script was sentimental to me - my grandma Joan's handwriting. In these particular entries, she was venting her sorely tried nerves on her and my grandfather's recent relocation from the big city to the rural, lakeside country. There was so much work to be done in the yard, and in their new home, as well as cleaning and selling their old home. I recall a phrase she'd written - something to the tune of, "if our marriage survives this move, it will be a miracle." Of course, their marriage had survived it for many decades. Still, I had to smile at the sentiment. It seemed so... relatable. I believe that I'd found her entries at just the right time in my life, where I needed reassurance that nobody really has anything figured out.
Due to the otherwise empty nature of the grey journal of hers I'd found, apart from those few pages of entries, I wonder sometimes if she did the same thing - squirreling away bits and pieces of her life like puzzle pieces, albeit unintentionally - using journaling in whatever format was available to her in that moment when she needed it most. Unfortunately, that was the only bit of her inner monologue I had been able to find.
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