Out of curiosity and a need for paper, I culled an old notebook from the bottom of my bookshelf. I don’t remember when I last held it. It probably hasn’t been touched since I moved nearly three years ago, but it felt immediately familiar in my hands: the texture of the navy linen cover; the snappiness of the rounded pages. I tinged with restrained nostalgia holding this long-lost friend.
It was my trusty journal—one of a few that I maintained on occasion as a young adult. It accompanied me for years across the world, from park benches in Copenhagen, to apartment balconies in Traverse City. Anywhere I traveled, my journal was tucked safely in my backpack, ready to receive my written reflections. I flipped through the pages and studied snippets of my tiny handwritten entries. Like a child confiding in a plush toy, I told my journal everything, and it captured it all on its lined pages: the quotidien moments and the big life changes.
The act of journaling changed for me over the years. As time sped by and as my life gradually (and gratefully) stabilized, I slowed the frequency of writing down the mundane experiences. I documented my thoughts less often until their accretion merited a cogent reflection. I began processing those reflections outward through polished prose; started syncing my thoughts to the cloud so that I can mince my words from any device, anywhere, and at any time.
I can’t say if one way is better than the other, but writing continues to be a helpful tool. Even with so much of my time spent in mundane experiences during this pandemic, infrequent reflections can be grounding—even if it’s just about grabbing my old journal.