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  • Writer's pictureMichelle Cordova

The Journal & Me...

I’ve written in a journal since I could hold a pen. As a young girl, I had the types of journals with locks on them. I wrote poetry, and random thoughts. I continued to write in journals on and off over the years, picked it up more in my 20’s.

First, I only wrote positive things in my journals. Thinking it would be what people read after I pass on, I wrote poetry, positive affirmations, and only the positive happenings in my life. I wrote about nature a lot, prose expressing my nature experiences in a poetic way.

Later in life, I used the journal to work through difficult times. I wrote in my journal to process challenging relationships with friends, family, and whatever else. I discovered painful revelations about life, and had a way to process them. Always, always I wrote poetry. The journal became my best friend. I could tell my journal anything, and it wouldn’t judge, or reject me.

Summer Love
Summer Love

Two winters ago, I spent a month alone in Maine. I filled a small journal with my travel experience, and inner thoughts during that month. Soon after that trip, things fell apart for me.

One day, I ripped up every journal I ever wrote in. I tore, pulled, and cut, turning my journals into a pile of mulch. We are talking a large box filled with journals, representing decades of my life, destroyed.

The reason for this act is still not totally clear to me, but it felt right. Simply put, I no longer wanted to preserve my past in handwritten pages.

Recently, I got a new journal, wrote in it, and tore the pages up immediately. The urge to discard the words I had just written, overwhelming, and the covers of the journal, like walls constricting my writing in claustrophobic embrace.

I’ve kept only the Maine journal, as that trip holds special meaning to me, and now I write my thoughts into various pads of paper. Sometimes poems go straight into the computer, but I generally like working things out on paper first.

Writing on pads of paper feels more freeing than journals feel to me now. A temporariness, with open sides, and big margins. I’m still a journal person at heart, a writer. The journal and me may be over, but I’ll always find a way to write down what’s inside me. Maybe my urge to fill a journal will come back some day. The journal and me… it’s been quite a lifelong journey. We'll see where this journey goes to next...

Happy Writing!


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