For the second year in a row, I lost my journal. In 2009, I thought I left it on an airplane. This year, I don’t know where I left it.
My friend Barbara thinks someone found it in the airplane seat pocket and is reading it. Her rationale? If she found someone’s journal, she would read it; it would be deliciously voyeuristic.
I don’t care if someone’s reading it (unless that someone was my mother), but I do care that they’re gone. 2009-2010 have been years of great insight, when things started to get clear. I remember several early-morning moments of grace and utter lucidity - at a Starbucks in Las Vegas and again in Killeen, TX. Unlikely places, I know, but these are the moments that meant something to me…
I soothe myself by remembering a story that Leo Buscaglia told. Someone broke into his house and stole a bunch of stuff - a nice stereo, electronics, etc.. He replaced it all, and a few weeks later, another break-in.
Leo didn’t get mad; he figured someone needed that stuff more than he did.
Buddhists say that stuff doesn’t cause suffering. Attachment to stuff causes suffering.
So in those moments when I catch myself missing my journals, I observe my feelings. What does it feel like to loose something that I thought was mine? Something I felt was valuable? Can I lean into that feeling, and turn a giant Buddha-smile to it, and then…let it go?
My collections of letters and words and paper scraps - my records of 2009/2010 - are gone. And in being gone, I’ve learned a larger lesson than if they were still here, with me.
Postscript: Part of this entry originally appeared in a blog that I’ve discontinued. One life; one blog. And by the way, I’ve started to journal in Evernote to decrease the chances of losing another journal.
