Today closes the pages, 127 of them, written over the last 154 days since August 1 when I began this second pandemic journal, wondering if I'd survive.
The first book, begun April 1, which ended July 31 at 169 pages covering 122 days, missing only one day.I've never been disciplined enough to maintain a daily diary, though I'm pretty good on journals of trips and so forth.
But this was different. I missed only two or three days in the last five months, and obviously wrote more some days, than others. Some entries are longer, up to two pages, while others are mere fractions of pages.
I've gotten in the habit of getting up early, recording my weight and outdoor temperatures and weather. I keep track of paintings, and books read, and comment on every day life, including family happenings, a trip to Colorado, and the pandemic news.
There's not much on politics, but it's hard to ignore in this crazy election year with the unstable nut in the White House trying to become a dictator and overthrow the election.
I do see personal value in this. I go back and read the earlier pages, a few at a time, marking them up, thinking. It's like reading a personal history book, reminding me of things I'd already forgotten.
Will I continue this journaling? I'm aware I'm following the example of Pepys journal of the plague year in London, though mine is not as bleak, yet. Probably, but my handwriting is getting worse, and I'll have to find a new book to write in. This one, a journal given me earlier this year when I did a writing workshop for the Oklahoma Pork Council, has only a few pages left.
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