Who ever told us that working hard makes us succeed? “Son, just work hard, be disciplined, and you’ll get what you want.” Our parents or teacher’s mantra seems reasonable; it must be true if they made a point of telling us over and over and over. Obviously, they may have overlooked what their minds imagined or visualized before they ever started all that hard work.

My Dad’s parents left family, friends, and the familiar hills and valleys of northern Italy for the unfamiliar farmland outside of New Haven, Connecticut. Their labor provided food and clothing for 12 children who picked beans, plucked apples and pears, piled hay, and learned to tug and pull milk into a pan from a docile cow. Mommer, my grandmother, chased chickens until she made them run without heads, plucked their feathers and threw them into a pot. Popper chased chicks and slept in the barn, so I am told. He also grafted a twig on the skin of a tree creating new fruit for his labor.

Neither Mommer or Popper ever told me about what they imagined for themselves. In fact, I sense life calloused their imagination and heart (I could be wrong since I did not know them too well).

Just the same, They must have imagined what they could not see, desired what they did not know, but heard stories about when embarking on a ship to America. Something kept them going for more than 80 years of harsh work, and that something kept 12 children productive and determined as post World War II entrepreneurs.

I don’t know if Mommer or Popper ever thought about their dreams, desires, call in life, or purpose. Mommer was not too complimentary of her children or her husband when an old woman. I am told she said, “I married a rat and had 12 little rats.”

Our words are our reality. Our expectations are our results. Our designs and passions make our schedule.

Unlikely that Mommer and Popper wrote about themselves or to each other.  Perhaps a card here or there, but improbable that they kept a journal.  My father wrote a self-published book about his family and parents (I’ve never read it).  Committing the stories of Evergreeen Avenue to print preserves the perception of memories (since all memory is perception) for other generations.

Learning to write about ourselves, tell our stories, and reveal ourselves to others takes energy, confidence, an aversion to shyness, and a passion to inform.  Sometimes the most mundane stories have no monetary value, yet they confirm a common human experience.

Write often; write well.

Stories entertain, instruct, and provide historical record. Television removes us from the story telling table where grandparents, aunts and uncles, Moms and Dads intrigue us with fable. Today, meals get gobbled, and everyone runs-off to meaningless activity. In most homes, everyone grabs what they find in the fridge to eat alone and lonely while television drones someone else’s made-up story.

Journal writing refines and defines our worldview. With a journal, we write a page to be added to the chapters we call years that compose the book we call “our” life. Most of us consider our stories jejune or vapid; we choose detachment from our nuance and unique circumstance.

A client wrote to me recently, “I write in my journal everyday, and I’ve done this for 25 years. No one will ever read this stuff except maybe my kids.” My impulsive response suggests there might be a lot of wisdom and story in those 25 chapters of his life. Such journal narratives become the fodder for stories. Stories that regal and rivet our attention while lessons and laughter. Some of them become movies!

When writing a journal, you may get a spiral notebook or enjoy a The Legendary Notebook used by Hemingway, Picasso, and Chatwin
The Moleskin Blank Journal Imported From Italy.

Journal writing involves some instruction. If you have an intense commitment, read Ira Progoff’s At A Journal Workshop.

“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.” - Cyril Connolly (1903 - 1974)