WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • The Magic of Keeping a Journal

    Recently, a request for volunteers to decorate personal journals caught my eye. The organization requesting help—The Family Partnership—says journaling is helpful to their counseling clients. I’ve kept a personal journal off and on since I was a teenager, and it certainly improves my mental health. Journaling also provides useful material for my writing projects.

    Writers are always advised to keep journals. In high school, when I first realized I wanted to be a writer, I drafted poems and stories in spiral-bound stenographer’s notebooks. In graduate school, I made notes about some of the encounters I had as an ER clerk.

    One of my early journals
    One of my early journals

    From the beginning, my journals also included impassioned blurts—here’s what’s bothering me and why. Finding words for my surging feelings made them concrete and more manageable. The process of writing calmed me. Often I felt like, “There. Now I understand what upset me and I feel better, so I can move on.” I thought the insights might be useful someday. If I ever feel so concerned about XYZ again, I can return to this hard-won insight and get feeling better, faster.

    That’s funny now. I’m never going to be 19 again. Why would I need to look up the entry about fighting with my parents?

     

    The journals became historical as well as therapeutic.

    Journaling reminds me about how I got to this place in life, and that’s useful. I’m not still a heartbroken 24-year-old graduate student or an overwhelmed 34-year-old mother. Seeing that I’ve grown and changed is reassuring. I do figure things out. Things do get better.

    Asking why and wondering about the meaning of certain events, comes naturally to me and is central to the essays, memoirs, and blogs that I write. I’m making sense of the big world as well as my own world.

    A friend hand made this journal, which I used while teaching at UMM
    A friend hand made this journal, which I used while teaching at UMM

    When I was in my late 30’s and early 40’s, I began writing essays and memoir in earnest. Then the old journals offered valuable documentation about what happened when I was 24 or 27 and what I thought of it.

    Rereading passages from old journals can be cringe-inducing. When skimming old journals, I understand why some people view them as the height of self-involved navel-gazing. Who is that whiny awful person? But that’s the magic of keeping a journal—within its pages, I can be my worst self on my worst day and spare the rest of the world a lot of my angst, anger, depression, and tedious analysis.

    That’s also the danger of keeping a journal. The words and feelings included there would necessarily be taken out of context by anyone reading them. I journal when I’m confused or distressed. Good times don’t require explanation and analysis. I want to keep the journals for my use, but at some point I will need to get rid of them, since I won’t always be around to say, “I was having a bad day when I wrote that. I don’t still think that.”

    My recent journals are much smaller-- 5x7, in this case
    My recent journals are much smaller– 5×7, in this case

    But the writer and philosopher in me resists. I’ve been writing about my life for 20 years. There might be some good material in there. I hate to dump it now!

    If you keep a journal, how do you use it? Will you get rid of them at some point?

  • Capturing the Moment

    Since getting my iPhone, I’ve begun taking tons of photos, especially when I’m vacationing. During the nine days I was in Kauai I took 361 photos—mostly of scenery and quirky objects, occasionally of my companions.

    Near Kilauea lighthouse
    near Kilauea lighthouse
    Tiny shrine under banyan tree at Hindu monastery
    Tiny shrine under banyan tree at Hindu monastery

    That’s about 40 per day. Why not? It’s fun. Taking pictures has become a way of heightening the experience. Documenting and remembering it. But sometimes I wonder: when I’m focusing and framing shots, am I more in the moment or less?

    There’s something acquisitive about taking pictures.

    Click. There. Now I’ve got it. This moment and this place are mine. I can revisit them whenever I want. I’m hoarding a treasure of memories. At some future point, seeing this vista, cool object, or time with friends may be just the tonic I need.

    Of course I've got a beachy sunset photo -- it's Hawaii!
    Of course I’ve got a beachy sunset photo — it’s Hawaii!

    Initially, I might share a handful of photos on Facebook. Snap a funny scene and text it to a friend. After I return from a trip, I fuss with the photos in Photoshop, cropping them or adjusting the lighting. It’s a second way of enjoying the sights. Sometimes I create screensavers. Once in a while I make a printed calendar.

    Surfboard fence in Hanalei
    Surfboard fence in Hanalei

    Having photos allows me to relive the good times. Except that after my first wave of enthusiasm, I rarely do.

    Bird of paradise at Allerton McBryde Gardens
    Bird of paradise at Allerton McBryde Gardens

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    At least my photos are easy to store.

    I’m grateful that I don’t have to deal with storing my collection. I think of the albums and boxes of pictures my parents had. Some of them are precious—that’s our history. My three siblings and I lined up in front of the tulip garden at Easter. There we are sprawled in swimsuits on the dock at Lake James.

    But the photos from when my parents were in Hawaii? I’m glad they had the experience, but the images mean very little to me. I wasn’t there. I don’t know the stories. Is there any reason to save those prints now that my parents are gone? Similarly, my Hawaii photos won’t mean anything to my kids either. They weren’t there.

    Fortunately, my fascination with photography doesn’t require much effort or upkeep. As long as I have loads of gigabytes, digital photos are easy to keep.

    There’s one picture I didn’t take in Kauai.

    In Hanapepe, they have a Friday night art gallery crawl. At 6:30, it was dark except for a few streetlights and the lights from shops. The air was cooling but the breeze was still gentle. A dozen shops opened their doors and a handful of food trucks gathered. Several musicians performed here and there—folk music and traditional Hawaiian music.

    An old black pickup truck was parked under a streetlight. The front of it was painted with orange and yellow flames. Hot pink bougainvillea bushes were planted in the truck bed and they bloomed lavishly. Alongside the truck, a woman in a lawn chair was making leis.

    I really wanted to take that photo, but it seemed wrong. Did I have the right to the photo if I didn’t want to buy the lei? Probably didn’t matter. People must do it all the time. That truck is meant to attract attention. Specifically, tourists’ attention.

    After a while, she got up and shook some flowers from the tree behind the truck. Had a cigarette. A friend of hers stopped by with a brown bag of food.

    I let the moment pass. It was too dark for my phone’s camera. It wouldn’t have seen all the color and details my eyes registered during the 20 minutes that I sat on the curb across the street from her eating spicy chicken curry.

    I appreciate both kinds of images—the photos because they can trigger a story and the remembered images that have become vivid because I found the words to turn them into stories.

    Both bring wonderful experiences to mind.

  • Why I Don’t Hate Minnesota Winters

    Why I Don’t Hate Minnesota Winters

    There are lots of reasons to hate Minnesota winters: endless discussions of windchill (Really, people?!? I’m already wearing all the clothes I’ve got. There isn’t more I can do. Stop talking about it. Please!) Crusty black snow clumps on my tires. Slippery-road roulette. Trudging with shoulders hunched and body braced to withstand the wind, to name a few. But I don’t hate our winters. To me, they’re refreshing. Seriously.

    Very few aspects of modern life make us aware of our animal nature. The change of seasons pulls us back, reminds us that we’re participating in a cycle that’s bigger and more enduring than the words and images scrolling across our screens or appearing under our clicking fingers.

    I’m not some cheery winter sports enthusiast who can’t wait to ski, skate, ice fish, or snowmobile. I don’t do any of those things. I might snowshoe if the sun’s out, the wind’s down, and it isn’t too cold, but otherwise, forget it. I’ll spend as little time outside as possible.

    What’s winter’s big attraction?

    To me, it’s a time to slow down, renew, and turn back toward health. After the excess of the holidays—too much good food and drink, too many incomplete To Do lists, and general year-end bizzyness, it feels good to do very little. To pull on thick wool socks and silk long johns. Make chili. Binge on Netflix.chili

    I feel virtuous exercising. Eating crisp salads and savory vegetable soups have their ascetic charms. I’m restoring my body’s balance.

    Winter is also a time to turn inward and refocus. I’m an optimist and like the idea of starting fresh every year. What do I want to do and be? How can I shuck off the stupid stuff I do and spend more time doing what I care about?

    Recentering leads to other improvements—reading the books I never get around to (burrowing under an afghan with hot tea . . . or a hot toddy to make a dent in The Brothers Karamazov). Making sense of my sweater shelves.

    Winter is also home improvement season. Better to paint the living room in the dead of winter than to waste a sunny June weekend on that. This year, I’m researching landscaping options since our shabby deck may get turned into a patio come spring. Winter is also a good time to tackle big projects like making a quilt. Weeks go by as I complete the many steps.

    I do like winter, but by mid-March, my strategies are wearing thin.

    Although the sun rises at 6:30 a.m. (at least it does before Daylight Savings Time toys with the clocks), the alley’s nothing but rutted ice. Crusty gray snow piles line the sidewalks and roads. I’m sick of keeping track of gloves and clumping around in boots. Tired of brushing salt dust off my coat. Hot cocoa and crackling fires hold no allure. If I never see a shovel again, it will be too soon.

    I’m. Just. Done. But winter isn’t.

    Then it’s time to escape. I consider spending ridiculous sums I can’t afford to just see the sun and walk outside without my down coat. Escape to Puerto Vallarta for just $759? SURE!

    When reason reasserts itself, I go to the Como Park Conservatory instead. Inside, the air is humid and HOT. Birds are chirping. It smells like dirt and growing. Like life. Tulips, hyacinths, Asiatic lilies, and azaleas are blooming in glorious profusion. The whole world isn’t dead.Como Park

    There’s hope. By late March melting icicles begin their steady drip. Water rushes under skim ice on sidewalks, begging to be crunched. Winter will actually end. Maybe by April 1st. April 15th for sure.