Call me old fashioned, call me what you will, but I love the smell, the feel and the excitement of opening up a new diary. It’s time to begin afresh, smell the unmarked pages and dream. This year is going to be better than last, it is going to be my year!
Admitting to still using the app on my phone, just to keep up you know, but I love having my life in my handbag, in a book that once over, goes into the drawer with the past years and I can take it out, read about how and where and what turns happened on the way.
For me, becoming a citizen of a new country, the diaries have proved invaluable. When was I out of the country, what year, which dates … all in there. And when I begin to read back, whoosh comes all the moments of growing up. I have diaries back to the days of school, of determination to marry Robert Redford and leave my small home town for a LIFE out there. Goes that far back. If I died, my diaries will show how I lived.
The dairy for last year was painful and packed away. So to start the new one. Where to go? With summer so short in Europe where do I want to find a tan, or eat sun ripened tomatoes? Where to walk the cobbled streets of love once saturated in passion? When to fly, when to stay, how to fill the days of mine with learning? Who to meet, when to say no and when to stop and just cross out the days and keep quiet? Pencil in the new ‘must do’s’ and return to Paris, to Cape Town, to family and find the time to take leave. I have a map of 365 days to circumnavigate a year of getting older, feeling younger and learn more about Delacroix, Caravaggio, of books unread.
Am I to find love?
But I am not alone. My diary is filled with new entries. Mum is sick and mum is old. That kind of old. Of possibly not being here this year old. Children have their own diaries but am I still allowed the hiding of the Easter eggs, the opening of Christmas presents this year? Am I going to move, or find peace? Shall I endeavour? For recipes, for history, for walks with books on bird calls?
In these pages I will record crazy events of friends who do not care if I get liver spots, or extra fat rolls but plan themed events and stories of crazy trips to exotic places. Entries of loss. Of spectacular moments of hideous joy. I know I will fly somewhere, sleep elsewhere and dream, right there.
Don’t believe for one moment that a little book, a diary for the year will not be your analyst, your wisdom and your escape. Write it down, it is you and every time you turn the page, it is a possibility.
I could even bump into George on the lakes.