Last Sunday I had all three of my girls home - to myself - for a few hours. The perfect gift of time. They came bearing gifts of almond croissants, berry tarts and scones -- and a spectacular orchid. The day was chilly and dismal - perfect for a cosy visit. As we lounged lazily about the family room I reached for my drugstore cheater reading glasses and pulled out my stack of journals. I had bookmarked some special entries that I wanted to share with the girls. They obliged me and over the next hour and half I read accounts of their births, my thoughts about mothering and the joyful moments they brought to my life. For some reason I felt compelled to share these intimate writings with them. Maybe I wanted them to know how much they meant to me and how their very being brought colour, hope and the deepest kind of love into my life. I can't speak for them however that hour and half will be filed in my cherished memory file, forever.
My father also started writing this year --writing with a vengeance. He began writing last summer and made it a daily ritual. He started at the beginning of his life - his first memory - and worked through every year and meaningful experience and wrote it out on his computer. Then he printed every single page. The result is a tidy stack of paper representing his life's experiences, impressions and perceptions; his dreams, regrets, triumphs and tribulations. And he entrusted it to me to read. I can't wait to dive in and immerse myself ... and get acquainted with my father the child, the teenager and the young man.
Isn’t it curious how we feel the need to document; to sort through our life as if to make sense of it; find meaning in it? I think of my journals and my dad’s writing as a kind of footprint that we are making/leaving. Someday, if anyone so chooses, they can find their way to our truth, as we lived it.
Maybe this blog is a footprint too. Just a thought…