My two cents

Last night someone said to me "If you want your grandchildren to know you, write a book." My thought in response to that was, create a blog. That was the purpose of this blog. I've said it before, I wanted a way to reach out to my family long after I am gone. I want cousins and grandchildren and of course my son to know the quirks and poems, stories and musings I care to present.

After my grandmother passed away in 1997 I got her journal. It's one of my favorite possessions. It's not really a journal so much as notes she took on certain days. Nothing too emotionally revealing. On one day she wrote something about my mom bringing me over to her house and I kept crying. She jotted down meetings and things like that. So, not really the Dear Diary type stuff, but it's enough for me to be honored holding her thoughts. Holding her perfect cursive.

I also have my Uncle Bubba's writings. My Uncle Therman had the great insight to type his words and send copies to the family. I posted some of his pages on this blog. If you haven't already, please read. They are called "From my Uncle Bubba's journal" or something like that.

Why is it important? Well, to me leaving our words for future generations is a way that they can connect with us. A way even that they can learn more about themselves. I have a way that I operate under stress that I may have inherited from a great great grandmother or someone. Or medical issues we have that could date back farther than even our grandparents are aware of. We also carry fears that we have inherited. Fears and concerns that are not ours, but that have been passed down for generations. Fears that may not even be valid in our times but we hold onto them like we own them. Like we created them.

I'm laughing now to myself of course, because I couldn't even go into the next paragraph because I kept looking up and noticing the dirt on my rug. The lent that was driving me crazy! So I had to stop. Pick up each annoying piece before I could continue. It's funny (not in a good way funny, but weird funny) how my room in disorder affects me. I get itchy, incredibly sad, lose energy. Now, it doesn't stop me because I'm aware of this about me and I just get into action about getting it in order. It would be interesting to know if there were others in my family who had this same...thing. You know, what's also weird about this is that it's only my own space in disarray that drives me crazy. I can function comfortably in someone else's home, office, space in whatever way it is. Somehow, in my analyzing, their inner space isn't connected to my mental well being, but mine is. When my home is a mess, so are my thoughts.

Ok, this blog wasn't meant to turn into an episode on my self diagnosed ocd, but it makes me wonder about great aunts, great great grandmothers, grandfathers. Now, does this answer why keeping journal or blog or writing a book is important? No, but it answers it enough for me. These are my thoughts for the world but most importantly for my son. For his children. For future artists who will ride the roller coaster I have ridden and fallen off of and gotten back on and bruised myself and have succeeded and have had good and bad and good times. This is for me.