I CAN’T FIND MY JOURNAL – a particular one – and I have something to write in it.
I can’t find it and I can’t remember what it looks like. How can that be? It wasn’t out of my hand for almost two years, then things slowed down and I didn’t need to write in it hourly. I thought it was the small leather-bound one on the shelf, but I opened the small leather-bound one on the shelf and it’s all about the CLL. That’s not the one I’m looking.
I remember now! When we moved to Louisville, I hid it because my office is no longer in a back bedroom, but in a room just off the living room where anyone in the house could wander in and go look at my desk. But where did I hide it? I must have left myself a note about that somewhere.
Remain calm, Marilyn. It will turn up.
The problem with me, my mother once said, is that I always find the bright side. I didn’t agree, but I was glad we could talk honestly about stuff like that. (See?) I think of her words from time to time.
While searching, I came across a journal from 1989 when I signed up to help teach English to a group of Polish immigrants who’d just arrived in NE Pennsylvania, where we lived. I’d completely forgotten. I was paired with a young mother who knew absolutely no English. Malgorzata was her name.
“Just do whatever you can with her,” they told me. The journal begins with the date, her name and what we did that first time. An interesting find!
Plus, my desk is all cleaned up.
Mom was right.
Now where in the world is my missing journal?