Journaling was an almost daily occurrence this time last year. Now I go back and read what I thought was important to remember. I’m glad I wrote so much, it was good to express my thoughts at the time, and it’s interesting to remember again what I once knew and now forgot. I’d forgotten why I laughed and couldn’t stop smiling because I’d forgotten how special was the friendship I had before I lost it.
It’s difficult to read some of what I wrote–I actually skip over parts because I know what it says already and I don’t need to be more reminded of it. A year later, life is pretty different. After more years go by it won’t be so sad, but now, when only a year has gone by there’s still a lot of pain to be felt from what I lived through this past year. I read and keep smiling though, because these year-old words tell of some of my best memories and I will not part with them in bitterness.
August 28th, 2011
I just read an essay in a book I borrowed from the library yesterday entitled The Best American Essays of the Century. There are 55 essays . . . and I hope to read 15 of them. I began with “The Figure a Poem Makes” by Robert Frost, written in 1939. I thought it was beautiful. My favorite section is:
“It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life . . .
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn’t know I knew.”
And how apt this poem is for how I feel now, “No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life . . .” I guess that’s right, ecstasy doesn’t last forever as if in a frozen moment. Love is a process. Friendship is a form with a beginning, middle, and usually an end too. Wisdom is learned not at the beginning, but at the end. At the end I understand where I was at the beginning, where I was going, and what happened along the way.
I was surprised to remember this poem again. I’d forgotten I knew it once.