I was talking with a friend and we were both expressing our concerns over some problems or issues that we had. One thing led to another and we were chatting away. My friend stated that writing these blogs probably helped some with things. I replied yes and my friend said that they were helped by writing about things as well.
I started reflecting after that conversation. Although, I am not a writer at all, I realized that I have actually been writing my whole life. My grandmother kept a planner at one end of her kitchen table and when I would spend the night with her, I would notice that she wrote in it every morning while having breakfast. I now have those diaries and they are such a treat to read. My grandfather did the same thing. It is really neat, because on my birth date, there is an entry that states that my father has a little girl! I so love having that diary and better yet being mentioned in it!
When I was in 7th grade, my mother bought me a diary for Christmas. I still have it. It was navy blue and locked and had a tiny, little key. I was so happy with that! I rarely missed a day of an entry. I have not stopped writing since then. I have tablets, spiral bound notebooks and various types of journals that I have written in. I would record the date and jot down my thoughts of the day or write about an event. I go through spurts, sometimes I will do this for only a month, sometimes for several months, but I have lots of these around.
However, what prompted me to talk about this was a memory of my father. I do not remember what happened but I remember I was upset and probably even sad about something that had happened. I believe that I was unhappy for a couple of days. I cannot believe that I do not remember, but I have heard that you sometimes block painful memories. My father gave me a pad of paper, I even remember the pad. He worked for the New York Central Railroad and they had these pads of a very distinct pale yellow that was bound at the top by glue. It was unlined and about half the size of a sheet of typing paper. He brought me that pad and a pencil. He told me that he wanted me to write about the incident and why it was bothering me. I really did not want to do this and did not see the point. He insisted I did it, though.
I finished writing it and gave it to him. He told me that he was not going to read it, it was only for my eyes. He then had me go outside with him and we walked to the edge of the woods and told me to read it again. When I was finished reading it, he set it on the ground and told me to watch it closely. He then set it on fire and told me to watch my problems burn up and go away in the smoke and to not think about them any longer. What a special memory this is for me. What a smart, loving father! Not only did he know that writing must help with a problem, he taught me to know how to let go of it and he showed me how much he loved me! Perhaps he was the reason I started writing in that diary and have continued to do so.
Incidentally, I mentioned above that I cannot remember what I was upset about. I guess his plan worked! Thank you, Dad! I love you very much!
This is a photo of my dad when he was in Japan in the Army.
This is a photo of my father’s family. My father is in the middle! Left to right, my grandmother, my grandfather, my father and then his two brothers are next.