The death of my journals

Still working my way through my office…throwing away this, compressing that, packing something else.

Today I did something I never thought I would do—-I threw away nearly 30 years of my journals.

I've kept diaries of one form or another my whole life…well, so long as I could write. And I had a crate of them in my office. I mean that literally. You know those plastic storage crates that you can buy in office supplies stores? Roughly 10x15x13 inches? I had one full of notebooks. They dated back at least to my days as an undergraduate at the University of New Mexico. And rather than ship them across country, I took them to the dump and tossed them into the recycling bin. By this time next year, they'll be toilet paper and shopping bags.

A loss? Not really. Oh, yes, I struggled for a moment. Isn't this—-I asked—-a part of my history? Something to be preserved? And I weakened for a moment. But then I looked at them. Read a few pages.

I realized that I use my journals for therapy. They are where I put all the things that are dark and shadowy and disappointing and painful in my life. My movements of shame, embarrassment, failure, hatred, rage, fear…into my journals they go, forever to remain.

There was, in short, very little in that crate that I was eager to keep. And much that I'd rather no one ever knew. So, I will not miss them. Indeed, I will be glad that they are silent. I'd prefer that no heir of mine ever stumble across them.

And rest assured, once I am in New Mexico again, I will purchase another notebook and start another journal. It, too, will be therapy. The difference is that once I fill it, I will not keep it in a box for three decades. I will, instead, toss it quickly and quietly into the trash.

Such is the safest course. And fitting. Like Zen letters to the wind. They should flutter away. Indecipherable. Made harmless.