Last night I had dinner with a girlfriend. When we get together there is always alot to say. She's the kind of friend who will do something spontaneous. For example, one rainy afternoon last winter, we had a crab salad at this great restaurant. Then I followed her back to her house to see what was going on in her remodel. It was coming along. The living room was very cozy and inviting. Soon we were sitting down in there. The rain was coming down like cats and dogs. Dusk crept in, time melted. We were talking in that way that you only do with someone who really cares to know you and you care to know her.

Well, last night she told me the journey of cleaning out her garage. The last time we got together, she was cleaning out closets. Now, that's all fine, but the important part is what is found under the dust.

She uncovered pictures of her children, and silver baby spoons that she can give her precious granddaughter. And it's not just about uncovering stuff. It's the memories. Memories of divorce, memories of separation, memories of her mom that touched her in a way that brought her a new understanding of her mother. She uncovered so many memories that she couldn't sleep well that night. 

Last year in February, I had a journey like that. I was cleaning out the bedroom that I use for an office. Actually it all started when I went to put some books away and found that I had no place to put them. So I had to clear a space. In doing that, I took down all my old journals. Since I"ve been journaling since high school, there are quite a few. 

Well, then of course I opened one. After I did that, it was all over. There were journals all over the living room floor.... for days that turned into weeks. I would light a fire in the fireplace, have something to eat and then pick one. I started labeling them with the years. Then there is the gift bag stuffed with bits of paper with thoughts or great dialogue, or something that happened that I am compelled to write down. Five years had passed since I emptied it out. I took that in the living room and dumped it on the floor. Year by year, because now I do always put the date at the top of everything that I write, I sorted it all out. 

Some nights I could only read a little bit. Some years, I looked back and wondered if there were any happy moments at all when we were trying to have children and I had three miscarriages. But then, too, there were insights, into people, events, and my own self-identity. And there were happy times, traveling, exploring new places, buying the house, starting the garden.

By the time that the irises were starting to show in April, the journals were sorted and put away. I have four cartons of them, all labeled with the years. The bits of paper are in binders. It's all organized, for now.

I could relate to my friend's experience. And I thought that the most important thing is to take your time.