Perhaps the real purpose of keeping a journal is for the assurance, at some later date, that one is still oneself - voice, hand, and eye as distinct as fingerprints. The years spanned are a blur, but each minute is frozen in crystalline precision. Only in time do the entries divulge what they always were: … Continue reading The beauty of an ordinary life.
Inside one of the 104 boxes of stuff from my mother's house I found her Daily Reminder book, 1963. It has a red cover, now tattered around the edges, and pages full of her lovely, ladylike script. Along with mailing addresses for her parents and for the music director at the church there are notations … Continue reading Minding the day.