Okay, so I have an “intellectual/life” “boil/conundrum” I need to lance, so here goes…
I’m having this problem lately. I don’t think it’s me; I think it’s the way I’m wired. I have things that I leave certain places, and the things seem to disappear. Since I’m spatially oriented and go back logically to the last place they were, it’s made me a little nutty. Until the last month, it was just things: keys, spices, shoes, jewelry. I complain, and they magically reappear or not. Since I’ve learned I’m not wired for tracking things and as a result I don’t have very many things of great value, I’m okay with that.
However, the latest things to disappear are not good. My stack of journals has been removed. And I’m scared. As a writer, sometimes I need to explore ideas and feelings that just aren’t safe to explore publicly; no one understands the darker side of life with its dark emotions and steamy turns of expression, so a journal for me as a writer becomes a dumping ground for ideas and feelings that are just too toxic to express out loud where someone of a lesser constitution might feel sullied or overwhelmed. I don’t have to worry that my journal will broadcast what I’ve written or be offended; I can process everything with all the passion and fire and intensity I need to, and then I can return to being a sane, normal, logical human without too many being any wiser.
My husband keeps trying to remind me that I’m getting to “that age,” where I’m close to “the change.” *rolls eyes, mutters about patriarchal notions* On one hand, he may be right; I might be slightly crazy for a few years.
On the other hand, in my heart and mind, I go back to high school, freshman year. Assignments were magically disappearing, particularly for science class. Everyone kept telling me it was my organizational skills that were lacking. I sat one night, tottering on the brink between destroying my room and crying like there was no tomorrow. My father, ever the beacon of reason, decided it was time for me to understand the problem was my lack of organization. At 10:30 PM, he took me to the school (also where he worked) and took me to my locker. While he hovered, I dutifully pulled out every book and notebook and flipped through every page and folder. He admitted defeat when the assignment was not found (I wasn’t the kind to not do an assignment; it just wasn’t me).
We went home. I redid the assignment, tumbling exhausted into bed around 12:30 AM. The next morning, the assignment reappeared with a dead flower. (Did I miss a reference to “The Godfather” somewhere?) Amazingly, only one answer was different, but it was an essay question.
I should probably just take a page out of that experience. Either the journals will come back or they won’t.
The problem is that I am a writer; I can see all kinds of plot lines. I’ve lived in the world of science fiction and fantasy–everything that those writers have created eventually exists in the real world. Writers tend to think big thinks and dream big dreams.
I have the following plot lines running through my mind all at the same time and all being played out to brilliant and excruciating endings:
- My kids tend to befriend the bizarre and unusual; these friends have decided we should be a staging ground for adolescent pranks.
- My level of honesty as a writer has so angered some people in several denominational pews that they have decided I no longer deserve to have a voice; they are hoping that the disappeared journals shut me up for a long time. They also want to figure out how to show many people exactly what I feel in my own handwriting in an effort to ensure I give up on the whole “really reflecting Christ” thing. (Like Gandhi, I love your Jesus but can’t stand you Christians, or words to that effect. Call it eliminating hypocrisy out of agape.)
- The social services people who have worked with my kids for the last several years are so impressed with the way our home runs like a well oiled machine *laughing and snorting and choking and coughing* that they borrowed the journals to figure us out without taking up much of our precious time.
- The demons from the alternate dimension of Panmultimegadaimonium have been working overtime and gotten a little confused; usually, they focus on removing one sock in a pair from the dryer and sending it to the blackhole of Calcutta, but recently, they extended their operations into objects. (Yes, it is a bit far fetched, but I did mention science fiction and fantasy.)
I finally broke down and spent a few bucks to replace the journal. No, that’s not right. I spent a few bucks to get another book in which to collect my ideas and feelings.
The reality is though that I really need my old journals too. They testify to where I’ve been, the issues I’ve wrestled, the record of wins and losses. They stand as a memorial stone to the Sovereignty of Jesus Christ in my life and serve as a reminder that feelings are not reality and I must choose to craft the masterpiece of my reality based on His Instructions.
Hopefully, this is enough to set my keel in a balanced motion. We shall see.
Onward and upward…