I have been re-reading a notebook I used as a journal 10 years ago. A lot was happening in our life at the time. Five years after the death of my father, my mother had decided to move closer to us. I was apprehensive about her leaving the small city where she and my father had been very happy, where they had so many friends. Would my mother be able to adjust to a new city, clear across the continent? Would she come to regret her decision? I was anxious for myself as well: we hadn`t lived in the same city since I was 18, and in high school. Both of us had changed in the interim. Did we really know each other - as adults? What were her expectations of me and my family? Could I fulfill them? How would her move change my life?
At the same time, we were also planning to add onto our house. We had felt crowded for some time - five adult-sized people sharing one living room, three bedrooms and one bathroom. Occasionally friends would drop in, making the house seem even smaller. We could use some extra space - but for how long? Our children, all in their teens, might be gone in a year or two. Was it wise to build on at this juncture of life? Were we incurring needless debt and expense? Would we regret it?
Re-reading the journal has taken me back to the spring and summer of that year - 2000 - in a kind of flashback.
While I can`t really echo the words of one of the young ladies in the play, The Importance of Being Ernest, who says:
"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."
... It has been interesting to see how the burning issues of the day - in my life - resolved themselves over time.
Did I really stress over that? I ask myself...
If I don't write it down, how quickly I forget!
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