“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends.”  Joan Didion

I didn’t keep a notebook or a daily record of life until I was in my late thirties or even later.

I did. keep a notebook, briefly, during my first pregnancy.

I wrote my heart on the page and the last I remember seeing that notebook was after I read a passage at a support group meeting. I threw it across the room of the bedroom Emma is sleeping in right now. I wish I had picked it up and tucked it in a drawer so that I could honor that young woman who was so deeply sad and didn’t know if she would ever feel better.

I hadn’t thought of that in years.

I started writing daily in my notebook when I read “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron as many people did and still do after reading this life changing book. We get a firm directive from Cameron: three pages, daily, stream of consciousness, which serves as a comfort because we know exactly how to do “it” this journaling or free-flow writing “thing.”

I wish I had learned this secret sooner.

Why didn’t my freshman composition teacher require us to read Didion’s essay instead of what we read?

This morning I sat on my porch and wrote into my notebook in cursive, another dying practice, did my best to capture the essence of the day in as concrete yet flowing style as possible.

I don’t know that it worked. At least I tried. (My favorite four words for this chapter).

I re-read a poem I thought was brilliant yesterday and today seemed like little more than a shopping list of laundry supplies.

Who was I yesterday that I thought it was brilliant?

What is up that I am fussier today?

What made me happy on that night in 1981 in a dorm room in Stockton, California, with four other young women and only two whose names I remember?

One of the nameless I remember she was from Indonesia and as I wrote, her sister’s name, Esther, comes into my mind or maybe she is actually Esther. She had very unique eyes. The other girl, forever lost. She was in a special community program.

Mel hadn’t met Tom yet.

My guess is Jill took the photo.

I don’t need to fill in the missing meanings in the photo or surmise anything else. I only wish I had kept more notes.

I look at my notebook from fourteen months ago and in most of it, I have the barest of recollections. “I could easily find fault with myself and I may as well clear it away now.” What was I critiquing myself for in that sentence? I continue to read and I see I forgot to bring along writing materials on a particular outing which I also can’t remember. “tucked away, buried and today the aftertaste of regret lingers and I don’t mention it, figuring no one will understand so I delete junk from my email instead.”

Now we are getting somewhere.

My writing notebooks are as much about being heard by my best, most faithful audience, myself, and preparing for the best rest next thing from a clearer perpective.

My notebooks allow me to note, to question, to process, without having the need to weigh in with other people’s opinions which in the long run, hold a lot less credence than my own.

The photo here was less than ten years before I threw that notebook across the room in a moment of grief-laced fury.

It was ten years or more after that I picked up my pen and a cheap notebook from a big box store I started writing, daily, stream of consciousness, usually three pages, about nothing and everything and had companion notebooks for digging into the nooks and crannies and questions in between those early morning sessions giving the dumpster of my mind free reign.

I have no interest in making up the interim.

I have plentiful interest in refreshing what I have collected.

From that fourteen months ago notebook: “thoughts that flew through? Forgotten. Like the name Manzanar I can never seem to come up with on the first try. Forgotten, Lost. Fallen out my ear and floated overhead and tip-toed to the celing and through the cracks in the crown moulding. Insect thoughts. Beelzebub is what depression looks like.”

At the top of the next page, “I need to find my courage,” and with that I remember what I had forgotten.

Didion is right.

“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.”

Julie JordanScott is a writer, a mother, a creative life coaching and a notebook keeper who loves watching people smile in satisfaction after a transformative writing session. She currently lives in Bakersfield as she completes her final editing for her most recent book. She is especially thrilled to be re-starting her writing and personal growth workshops. Follow her on social media (links above) and check out the upcoming writing circle before space and time are no longer. (Information and link may be found below.)

Passionate, Purposeful Women’s Writing Circle: a group of women devoted to their writing and each other for accountability, on-line community and movement forward to satisfying completion.

New Session starts September 26: register now to secure your space.

This September I am revisiting journal writing from the past to see what it has to say to me – and you – today. Tomorrow’s entry will include a reflection on Joan Didion’s famous essay about keeping a writing notebook, a practice I keep as well.

Below is a snippet from my journal in May, 2012. The simplicity, brevity and honesty ring true. then and now. The other irony is not much has changed. Oh – one note of preface. Sometimes I write poems in the third person that are about me.

Sometimes I write poems in the third person that are not about me.

Sometimes I write poetry in the first person that have nothing to do with me (I am trying on a new voice.) Sometimes I write confessional poetry in the first person.

This particular prose poem includes the she as me.

She made it seem like what she wanted was a Denny’s grand slam.

It appeared she was seeking pancakes, eggs, sausage and one other…. more likely than not unhealthy breakfast item.

That wasn’t it at all, though, to the careful observer would realize what she wanted was time, attention, affection.

Perhaps even to be thought of first, before anyone or anything else.

Perhaps that was too much to ask.

Perhaps her oft-recited self talk was right: she clearly didn’t deserve time, attention, affection.

She retreated into the darkness of silence.

Reminded herself asking for what she wanted was dangerous.

She didn’t turn any lights on as she changed into her familiar cotton nightgown.

The sheets, at least, welcomed her.

And next, five minutes today to reflect on the journal from six years ago to see what it has to teach me. This writing is stream of consciousness style which means no editing, no forethought, no planning. Typos are embraced, grammatical faux pas are part of the process.

I post raw and return, later.

Being heard and receiving a response to what I have spoken is something I value highly, right up there with showing up.

Showing up and listening and reflecting to me what you heard me say will earn you a life long friend.

I will go out for something as simple as a Denny’s breakfast special or a Starbucks cup of coffee or a walk around the block if I will be gifted conversation that feels significant an honoring.

Last week I went to a doctor who listened to me.

The third specialist I tried after two who obviously didn’t listen to what I said from their responses. They went to medical school to type into forms on a computer and barely make eye contact or connect at all with their patients.

This doctor listened, reflected and even made a different assessment than any other doctor has, perhaps a life altering assessment.

She wasn’t warm and fuzzy and I didn’t wish we could go out for dinner or become facebook friends or swap Instagram images but she listened to me.

Why is this extraordinary?

It ought not to be and it wouldn’t be if together we chose to listen to one another. Earlier today I was in a shop buying groceries. I had my eyes down and passed the clerk the payment and was ready to take the change, turn and leave without even thinking of the person making the exchange with me.

I lifted my face. I looked into his eyes and said, “Thank you. I hope the rest of your day goes well.” I waited until he responded to what I said and made sure he felt heard by my face, my eyes, my posture and my head, nodding in the affirmative.

It is so simple. Show up, look up, love one another by simply listening.

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