My Life in Notebooks
I like to keep notes of places I’ve gone to. I also like to keep tabs of little things during the day that I’ve done or I think is worth taking note of or has jogged a memory or provoked a new thought. I keep all of these in my trusty little notebooks, which I noticed the other day, is enough to fill an entire level in my bookcase. And that’s not counting the many notebooks I have since thrown away over the years.
No matter how hard my friends persuade me to switch to an electronic based journal, I just don’t do it. Save for this blog, I suppose. There’s something to being able to grab a memory from the shelves and to pore over it with a cup of coffee or tea in hand, with no artificially strong white glare shining back at you. Through the penmanship alone you can tell how I was feeling- hurried, jolting about in a vehicle, calm, serene, or with lots of time in my hand (doodles will abound).
Even the feel of the journals cover, the smell, or the amount of dust you need to brush off, adds to the sense of weight, sense of history, dare I say, sense of humanity, of a real person having gone through these events, caused shadows which lengthened over the years.
I wonder how our children will feel when they pick up such archaic objects of reflection when they now learn to type before they can even write.