Journal

Journal writing is distinct from diary keeping. A diary is a simple listing of events of a given day, set down without commentary on their greater meaning or the emotions encountered while participating in those events. A journal goes beyond the facts into the realm of dreams and feelings, observations and speculations. It records the mysteries of the heart.

Anne Frank - whose journal forevermore is mislabeled as a mere diary - sums things up so well when she says, "I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart."

Over the years, it has become customary in many schools for students to keep journals which are then read by the teacher, in some cases for academic credit, in some not. This strikes me as an invasion of privacy of the highest order: journals, by their very nature, are meant to be places where we are free from all outside examination and judgement, havens for our souls. Knowing our thoughts will be read by others activates our internal self editors; as a result, we are more cautious and circumspect in our writing than we would be otherwise.

This afternoon I stopped to pick up a new journal, the latest addition to a line going back many years. The cover design is not so important as the other features - generous size, quality paper, a spiral binding that allows me to turn it back on itself - though these bright stripes are quite a change from the Van Gogh almond blossoms on its predecessor.

In the end, it is what we put between those covers that matters most.