Curiously, recently, casually in conversation - a dear friend of mine requested that I read her “journal" of sorts for a very specific and personal reason before she dies. She isn't imminently dying. But of course, she will one day. It's a request that flouts the standard practice of keeping whatever personal musings and secrets one has to oneself, hidden in a drawer somewhere.
Thinking about the request made me ponder; these diaries and journals that some of us deliberate over, filled with our most private stories and sentiments – for whom are these scribblings written? I would imagine most of them are abandoned and forgotten on into our twilight years only to be found behind the socks, for posterity and those left to read and reflect. Or perhaps they are written for us alone. Therapy. A way of working through. These posts I drop here are like that. As much for you, perhaps, as they are for me.
But the request humbled me while at the same time, made me proudly grateful that someone, no matter how close the relationship, would ask me to deliberately read their private thoughts. Why?
My friend, while jovial, led a solitary life despite her often very populated interactions through her professional work, in boardrooms, at Livingroom tables and her being “on display" in her successful profession to promote her brand. As a child, she grew up ostensibly alone and I would presume, somewhat lonely, feeling herself largely to be an outsider looking in. That might sound somewhat sad, but she would tell you that despite that sense of being solitary as a child, as she grew, she was in control of her life, she was good at what she did, and she moved forward through her days like most of us, traversing mountains of joy and valleys of despair.
That “solitary life" was a life shared with friends, on and off, but never a lifelong companion – and I think it was that companionship that she missed now in her later years; a sharing of sorts, a sense of belonging that might be most deeply felt through the bond of days spent together with someone one cares for; whether husband or wife or simply close confidant. Sharing. The good, the bad, the triumphs and the let-downs. But over the years she became very aware of herself in a different way from many of us. Not through the interactions in her lifetime, but through her sense of lack. She became hyper-aware of her end-of-life reflections. And through that, she focused on the fact of her secluded nature.
So, back to the “why?" Why would she ask me to read what she has spent years of her life writing? It's in this space right here; in the reflection of a lifetime where meaning must be found. And her journal has become, for her, the most intimate and immediate method of sharing her life and its meaning with someone she trusts. Tangible proof that she existed between a specific start and end point. The cry of a soul yearning to be known. If this practice isn't recognized daily, then it could conceivably come to a head in the end. Jean-Paul Sartre in his most spoken about play “No Exit" has been famously quoted as saying “Hell is, other people." And while we all must find our ground to live with one another in harmony, I believe more exactly that hell is perhaps living a life that we personally feel to be without meaning when we reflect back upon it. And this is the great soul journey – to make, to find, to bestow meaning upon our lives. As we move closer to that end point, we become more amazed(?), anxious(?), astonished(?) that it is ourselves that have or have not given ourselves the grace of our own acceptance.
That desire that we have and that we have all too often hidden from ourselves through our constant outwardly search can and will, only be found inwardly. Whether a solitary life or one of great social interaction, whether a life of humble means or excess, secularism or faith – the meaning of us comes from the inside out. We are called to find first, our own acceptance, and then our “ok-ness" within the world we walk through. That sense can be fed from many sources, but the sources are not who we are. They don't define us. They do what anything external from us is meant to do – help us to see ourselves, alter ourselves, move ourselves from starting point to end point graciously, help us to know the I who is presently living and the I who will one day be dying.
OK
