Last September (can it really be that long ago!) I was in a blue funk and feeling a bit frantic as well because I had misplaced three journals. I know that keeping the journals served a very useful purpose: they allowed me a safe way to express anger and frustration about things my husband and our son were doing without harming them in the process.
But did I really want to keep them?
Should something happen to me, did I want to leave them behind for Richard to find and read (assuming he could read my handwriting)?
I didn't think so.
After several intensive searches of the various bookshelves throughout the house and under the clothes in the drawers of my dresser, I was not able to find them anywhere. I never totally stopped looking for them, but I decided not to invest any more time in the search.
Richard said not to worry about it. As soon as I stopped looking, they would turn up. Things have a way of doing that, he said.
It has been rather warm here, and last night I was looking for an extra large t-shirt to wear instead of my flannel pajama top, and so I started rooting around in the bottom drawer of my dresser where I keep the t-shirts that are too large for me to wear in public.
There they were.
I stared at them in disbelief. On the one hand I am relieved that I found them, but on the other hand, I am bewildered at how I could have searched the drawers of my dresser a bunch of times and not searched that drawer. I know I searched the top and middle drawers, but why didn’t I search the bottom drawers? It doesn’t make any sense at all. None.
Maybe it was act of God