Journal of Change

I used to be an avid Journal writer...until one day I stopped. The story is a little long, and this is how it goes: I lived in New York for 6 years and in my process of packing up the life I lived there to move to East Timor, and then eventually home, I had to clean out a lot of stuff! My journals were a strong contender for the keep pile, but I decided it would be cathartic to have a bonfire instead. Burn the old me, make way for the new! And so on the afternoon of the proverbial bonfire – I lived in an apartment so, bonfire turned into a – tearing the pages of the journals into confetti sized pieces and throwing them away - event, I couldn’t help but read excerpts and snippets, and then whole chapters as I got drawn into the drama. Almost as cathartic as a bonfire I presume.


Page 1: 1996 - me


Page 2: 1997 - me


Page 3: 1998 - me


Page 4: 1999 - 2001 – me


I realised that I am inescapably me. Years change, the story of names and places change, but very little about myself or my reactions and 'the experienced' changed...the language changed, sometimes a little more poetic, sometimes more angry, but that is the understandable and expected vascillation of life. Or is it?


I re-read quotes that I had loved enough to re-write into a journal, and would wonder why I didn’t put into practice the message of the quote. I re-read moment by moment accounts of a situation that unfolded, with the doubts, the insecurities, the my-side-of-the-story familiarities, and a seed of realisation planted deeply.


If I was writing so much and yet, nothing in 6 years had changed – not really – then what was the point of the writing? I wondered if perhaps the writing of so many ‘realisations’ had been an excuse to not put the realisation into action. The writing of the realisation was the action. And then, revert straight back into old patterns.


It is part of a – the last 10 years of my life since leaving New York – question about whether change happens because you make it happen, or change happens because it is your destiny. Inner change I am talking about. Or do leopards never ever change their spots.


So, despite 6 years of immense trials and tribulations, winning over adversity and surviving myself in a lonely city, I seemed to be unchanged. How disturbing, or gratifying...depends on whether I like myself or not. And that depends on the day 


Today, I actually noticed that for 3 days past I have had to consistently close the cupboard door to the secret hiding place of my teenage journals which kept opening. I decided it was a clue to have a peek. Again, I am reminded, that changing some things is impossible, and it behoves me to put the language of the last 10 years of my life into action – the karma we come into this life, and the karma we are here to deal with cannot be escaped. The themes of my teenage pre-occupations were by and large the same themes of my adult preoccupations, inescapably my experience of me, mirrored back to me by the world, despite changing countries or people or wisdom with age, which I had assumed was my age-right!


A statement made by someone I met recently has taken me further into this question: “I was raised Muslim, but I am not a practicing Muslim”, he said. I was raised Catholic, and now am wondering if ingrained in my belief systems that inform my behaviours and my reactions, even as I change the language to say, the language of yoga, am I still inescapably the oldest daughter, Catholic, hormonal teenager with a family who by account of a journal entry in 1991 has not changed at all either?


So, a proud statement of “I have got it! That lesson I have learnt!” is merely a moments ego-gratification and an opportunity to feel good now for the lesson learnt, and again in 6 months for the lesson learnt, and to feel good again in 16 years for the lesson learnt! Because it seems, the lessons we are here to learn, we simply keep learning.


I am amazed at how thwarted memory is. How many times have I placed value on my memory - my ability to put facts into my head? Facts? Ask me now of my childhood and I will guaranteed convey a different story to the words in my journals. My memory NOW of who I was, what I was like at 15 is not entirely similar to the written perceived experience of 1989... somewhere in my current memories, I have added, subtracted, romanticized or deleted events, or personality traits of me or others to suit the idea that I have changed, or am not that same little girl any more. It is a matter of convenience. The axis of who I am does not change it seems, just how I rotate around that axis (nice imagery happening here) does, as the light reflects differently on a different horizon in a moment.


How we perceive things changes, and how we choose to remember. Perception is nothing to place a bet on, or to mark new strategies for life by. And without perception, what is left?