Diaries

Even those whose occupation is to write, even the greatest of writers, struggle to put pen to paper at times.

Do you remember having to read journals in grade school? Perhaps it wasn’t required for most. I attended a parochial school for a few of my elementary years, where our required reading was the Holy Writ itself. When I was homeschooled for one year, I mostly read Reader’s Digest or Chicken Soup for the Soul, copies kept next to last year’s Sears catalog on the disheveled bookcase in the green room. That was also the year I got a Brio subscription. Before that, I’d been borrowing old magazines from our local dentist’s office. Dr. H was always very kind to us.

I don’t recall being particularly interested in reading at that age. I’d rather have been on my bicycle, working on my ramp in what we affectionately referred to as “the dirt tracks”, a name that lacked imagination but was exceedingly accurate.

It was a small piece of land between a dentist office I couldn’t name, a church building that changed it’s name and congregation every five years or so, and the alley behind the row of duplexes, whose occupants were generally not the owners. The strip of land where these properties met was narrow but long, lined with paper birch, green ash, and silver maple. I don’t recall how it started, but I wasn’t the one who began making the trail. I followed an older boy from the bus stop one day, curious to see what they were up to, since I knew their house was a block in the opposite direction. It was wonderful. They had been building the trail each day, one hour at a time, and had managed two loops and a few small jumps. I convinced a couple of my siblings to join me on my first day contributing to this off-road terrain park. Once complete, it became a haven of sorts— a hideaway from the adults.

Well, I spent as much time there as I could. But when I had to return full-time to school in fifth grade, this time at a public school, suddenly I had less time for biking. We had weekly trips to the library in the center of the building. It was a large, circular, echoing space, almost like a city plaza or Shakespeare’s Globe. One could step out of any classroom into the hallway and peer down into the library below.

I recall one of the first times I’d been there. We were obligated to check something out. At a loss, and meandering aimlessly around the circular room, a librarian approached and asked me what kinds of books I liked. I didn’t really have an answer. I didn’t know, but I wanted to read them all. I had just finished A Wrinkle in Time over the summer, so I offered it as an example of something I’d liked. She said, “Wait one moment. I’ll be right back.”

She returned with a small book. She told me it was part of a new series and that all the girls were really into it. She thought I would like it.

It was a diary.

A fictional diary of Elizabeth I, part of the larger The Royal Diaries series. I checked it out, read it that night, and returned it the next day in exchange for The Phantom Tollbooth. Never had I read a book more dull. I never read a diary after that. Not even when The Diary of Anne Frank was assigned reading in high school (I relied heavily on context clues when it came time for the exam).

A couple of years ago, I ordered the diary of Thomas Merton. I’ve been, and continue to be, intrigued by the man. I was particularly interested in his thought process between the year he fell deeply in love with a young nurse and the year leading up to his sudden and untimely death in Bangkok. Despite how intriguing the material is, I’ve managed to force myself through only one page. Perhaps two. I just have very little patience for it.

So, I empathize with anyone attempting to follow along here. While I am conditioned to overthink, I do know I ought to surrender more fully to the process. There may seem to be no rhyme or reason, but in many ways this is deeply restorative, and it’s probably okay that some days all I have is a sentence or two.

It’s a discipline I’m still learning.

Thank you for being here.