Keeping a Journal: "Why Should You Journal?"

By Deborah Bouziden

Did your grandparents keep a journal? How much do you know about your ancestors? Ever wish they had written about themselves? What are you doing to make sure your grandchildren know about you?

I watched as they wheeled my grandmother down the corridor to her hospital room. She was very ill and could now only speak in whispers. Even then, she couldn't talk very long. I remembered stories she and my grandfather shared and tried to recall details. They were lost in the passing of time.

As I climbed in my car, I pulled out a cassette tape, one I recorded on a visit years ago, and shoved it into the dashboard. As I listened, tears came to my eyes. Only sixty minutes of their lives could be told as vividly as they shared it. How I wished they had written down daily, or even weekly, snippets of their lives. I now only had things I could remember about them to pass down to my grandchildren.

I've wished many times that my grandparents had written about themselves. I understand they lived in a different time and didn't feel the need for it. Yet, I find myself wondering what I would know if they had.

I am jealous of friends who tell me they have journals of their great great grandparents. I find I can stand for hours and study the way an “r” curls or ”t” crosses when I come across handwritten journals in museums. Even the writings, which have been reproduced and translated, like Hildegard of Bingen's or Christine de Pisan's fascinate me. They are a link to a time that I can only read about, yet a link none the same. I long to have that same link.

“Why should you journal?” If you journal for no other reason, journal to leave something behind for future generations. Oh sure, your work may never wind up in a museum, but you can't be positive about that. When Margaret Paston wrote to her husband in 1448 that he should buy her “a yard of broadcloth of black for an hood for me”, she never thought over 600 years later, I would be reading her words, learning about the age she lived.

As I recall the things I've learned from journalists of the past, I continue to add daily entries to my notebooks. Most of the time I feel I have nothing of substance to say. Yet, I continue writing.

It's not that my words are beautiful. They don't ring with rhyme or rhythm, but they tell of my struggles, rewards, highs, and lows. They tell about my surroundings and me. I owe it to my grandchildren, whether they choose to read about my life or not. At least they will not have to feel the emptiness of not ever knowing.