Daily Journal

I don't know why I feel compelled to post my Daily Journals online.  I usually just write them down as I attempt to unwind from living the dream.  I've been writing daily since I was in elementary school - at first, lame entries indicative of my age.  I wrote about how Sabitha did my hair before basketball practice or how AJ really liked me but I didn't like him that way.  Then my journals morphed into divorce and sadness, the need to be perfect (no wonder I'm so against it now) and how stressful it was to pretend to be happy when I wasn't.  High school entries were mostly about my mom and how she was diagnosed with cancer my junior year and how I hid that little factoid of information from, oh, everyone and still maintained my 4 point something GPA and all my "leadership" roles in clubs.  College journals were all about how I knew everything and how I was most definitely in love with THE ONE (who incidentally turned out not to be The One after all) and post college I was all about how I didn't need anyone until I met this person who ended up being my very best friend on earth (and incidentally did turn out to be The One).

And now here I am, writing to??? you? no one? me? about how my heart just keeps exploding and how ridiculous that must appear to my students who have very little insight into how deeply I love or how I see the world.

When I was five, my mom sent me to the backyard to feed our dog Ruff.  After I scooped the food into his metal bowl, I sat on the cement steps of our back porch and stared at the pecan tree that was in the backyard.  A pecan fell to the ground and I realized that the tree was older than me and would live longer than me too.

When I was in first grade, I climbed to the top of a play structure that was in the shape of a snail.  I watched all my peers milling about beneath me like little ants and all the while my mouth was open.  (I had this bad habit of living in my head and my mouth would just fall open).  As I sat there in the Texas sun, a bumble bee flew into my mouth.  It so shocked me that I stopped breathing.  It buzzed around in my mouth so swiftly and surely that I felt the fuzz on my inner cheek.  Because I didn't move, the little sucker just buzzed on out and away.

When I was in sixth grade, I got chicken pox.  As I recovered in my room, I heard a lawn mower outside and could smell the fresh cut grass.  I realized then that despite my ailments, itches and general despair, the world still moved on.  Life still happened and I didn't matter one bit.

That was then.  And this is now.

Andrea Gibson, the spoken word poet, once wrote:

In the end
I want my heart
to be covered
in stretch marks

Every time I read one of your journals, my heart breaks a little more.  I read about your fears, your stresses, words that hurt (some from friends, some from teachers like me) and my heart...

it just...

breaks,

But I keep reading and hoping and wishing that you could see what I see.

xoxo