Home > Faith, Life the Universe and a Good Cup of Coffee > The Pukies Have Found Me

The Pukies Have Found Me

Last week all three kids did their rounds of puking – two of them at night, one mercifully in the afternoon. Then we were done, except for one lone puking incident Monday morning. And yesterday they found me. Woke me up at 6am with that feeling in my belly that says ho boy I hope this only gets better and not worse. It got worse. I went to work for a couple hours hoping that it would pass, especially since I was the only editor in the office. After a short while though I realized this was not going to end well. And before I could round up all my stuff it hit me. It was like my belly was a slot machine and someone hit the jackpot. And won my breakfast and what was left in there of my dinner – little pieces of rice and corn no longer on the cob suspended in the goo. Is this too much information? I spent the day in bed, though fortunately without a return trip to the ass-pool. I think I’ll change the subject now.

I used to journal quite a bit. A lot, really, several times a week for multiple pages at a time. I had a lot to say apparently, or had many things to process. My first journal was in the third grade; it was for school and I had to write five sentences in it a day. More than once the last two sentences were something like, “I had a good time. It was fun,” or some other space-filling repetitive drivel that I could still get away with when I read it to the class (it wasn’t a diary, after all). I picked up the same journal again in eighth grade, when I needed somewhere to process the otherwise uninterpreted experiences of junior high, the raw trauma of a thirteen-year-old painted across the pages in the most colorful language I could think of. That was half the point really, was to have somewhere I could safely call people all the names I wanted to, a place to vent the pubescent angst that my heart hadn’t had time yet to learn to deal with.

I put the journal down through high school, until somewhere around college when I began to take my faith more seriously and again had quite a bit of prose to dump, and even poetry (and no I will not reprint any of that here. Ever.) My relationship with God was new, and I had questions, and thoughts, and new experiences and a whole lot of processing to do. That more or less carried me through about a year or two ago, coincidentally about the time I started this blog, when my questions started feeling…heavier, like there stopped being answers.

Anyway, I’m thinking of all this tonight because I picked my journal up again yesterday afternoon, only the second time in over a year I’ve written in it. I had seven hours to kill in bed, and our laptop recently bit it, so I got out my journal. It’s a different space there than the blogosphere, more personal perhaps, and more slowly paced (when was the last time you filled a page with writing by hand?). The artistry of forming the letters with the pen alternately competes against the speed of my thoughts spilling out of my brain and paces them. I splurged on this journal; usually I pick up a notebook or cheap blank book, but after perusing the selection on this site, I couldn’t resist getting a nice leather-bound one. Of course that was about two years ago and I’ve filled perhaps a seventh of it.

Being by nature an external processor, I need places to go to process stuff. Journaling has often been a helpful one; conversation with trusted friends is another. Sometimes this blog helps too. Without these things I’m not so good at sitting down and contemplating.

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  1. April 24, 2009 at 8:15 am

    hope you’re feeling better now. I’d rather endure 10 head colds than one session of stomach flu. Take care of yourself. We need editors!

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