Journal Post: 10 November

Journal: French 'jour'--a daybook, diary.

I read somewhere recently that to keep a journal is a narcissistic exercise--navel gazing.

I suppose it could be that--an introspective recital of one's thoughts, reactions, anxieties, or endless ponderings.

I prefer to think of it as record keeping; not only the quotidian round of small duties and errands and responsibilities that are accomplished, not a mere recording of the weather or the neighborhood news, but a thoughtful way of observing how these various things fit together in a particular life.

The best published journals draw us into a life, a place, a time, in such a way that one often begins to feel a kinship with the author. 

There are journals that have long been my companions, those by men or women who had a keen eye for their surroundings and the gift of fluent phrasing.

Several favorites:

Northern Farm by Henry Beston

Hill Song by Lee Pennock Huntington

Home: Chronicle of a North County Life

Edge Season--both by Beth Powning

Canadian author Lucy Maude Montgomery began journaling as a young girl in 1889 and continued until her death in 1942. At some point she began editing and typing the diaries she had written in longhand, as one of her biographers put it, 'Writing a Life'--crafting the memories she would leave to posterity.

As I girl I read her 'Anne' stories with their setting in Prince Edward Island.  Several trips to the Maritime Provinces as an adult increased my interest in 'Maude. ' When her journals were edited and published in the 1980's and 90's I requested them on library loan.  They were delivered, 3 volumes at once from the state university library with the stipulation that they must be returned in a week.

Plowing through them at night after work was a total--and not always comfortable--experience of being immersed in the joys and sorrows of a perceptive and articulate woman who had died several years before my birth.

In the 1990's I was given a copy of 'The Artist's Way'--a workbook of sorts by Julia Cameron.

While I didn't follow through on all the exercises, one to which I gave an effort was the habit of 'morning pages.'

The idea was that on waking, before doing anything as mundane as showering, dressing, preparing breakfast, one was to begin jotting down whatever thoughts came to mind, however random or disconnected.  This was meant to deal with mental 'clutter' and free one to creative pursuits.

I found that I don't do 'stream of consciousness' writing. I speak and write in tidy blocks of words, editing as I write.

Since childhood I've been aware of a continually running narrative in my head, a background to whatever I am doing or experiencing.  Usually the narrative takes the form of a third person observation as though I were on the outside taking notes. 

[Okay, enough of that!]

It is sufficient to report that in the past several years--as part of the process of culling and down-sizing--I've gone over those journals and destroyed all but a few pages.

I'm under no illusion that my jottings are of great literary quality, but they serve as a record of my seasons. As an introvert I've no wish to spill all my thoughts, worries, or personal family details for public consideration.

As I look back at saved letters, blog posts, notes, the pared down facts serve to unleash many incidents I may have thought forgotten.

Usually that is a good thing.

I enjoy those things which others of similar persuasions have shared, whether in blog posts or in the pages of books. 

Particularly in the strange and uncertain times in which we live, it seems worthwhile to attempt a daily or weekly record to define a span of time that threatens to stretch on without the usual markers.

Monday: another day of warm temperatures, blue skies.

I drove to South Fork to the discount store and produce market.

My favorite of several routes takes me by this church, built two years ago to replace a more rustic and slightly shabby structure.

Many leaves blown down from the trees along the edges of the ravines that run along the north and south boundaries of the property.

Not sure of this tree's ID but the autumn leaves have a gloss as though varnished.

The joy of one more--surely the final--blossom on Duchess of Edinburgh.

Afternoon temps have edged into the low 80's F during the past few days.

I open the door into the sunroom [where Shelby-the kitten goes to eat her special food] and also the one that leads onto the east porch.

Not wanting to turn on the A/C again we have opened windows in the great room area. The bedroom windows that face west have to remain closed to barricade the Asian lady beetles who love to swarm in by the dozens and creep about on the walls and ceiling.

With rain in the forecast I took myself back to the west garden today to grub out more of the small weeds that encumber the ground. Many of them --names forgotten at the moment--remain evergreen through the winter.  I had two bags of bark mulch left from summer purchases.  I dragged these onto the creek-stone walkway and spread the damp black stuff around the roses, between clumps of thyme and Lady's mantle. 

More tiny green worms on the pruned back roses!  I pinched them with a vengeance! 

I know at last what they are: sawfly larvae aka rose slugs.

Another summer will find me on the attack!

The sky was darkening with grey clouds, my knees aching before I used up the second bag of mulch.

Time to gather laundry from the lines, prepare supper.

Baked russet potatoes;  home grown butternut squash steamed and 'dressed with butter and maple syrup;

two of the smaller cabbages harvested, trimmed and sliced into the heavy skillet with a bit of water, olive oil and a pinch of cayenne pepper; beef hotdogs for the men.

Lemon pudding cake to use up several lemons that have languished in the fridge, topped with whipped cream.

10 PM and still 70F. outside and a not so comfortable 78 inside. 

The two young cats, Shelby and Clancy have been roistering for hours. 

Time to close the porch door and prepare for the night.