A Preemptive “Sorry”

Occasionally, I get this picture in my head of my family going through my “stuff” after I pass away, and being confronted by a mountain of journals of all types, shapes and varieties; some with writing, but most as blank as snow.

My name is Lee Jackson and yes, I have an addiction: I love journals.

I love the feel of them, the look of them, and simply the idea of “having” them.  Of course, the vision in my head when I justify (justified) the purchase of yet “one more journal” was very likely “But I’m going to write in them and capture my thoughts, my poetry, my story ideas, and my life”, but… all too often, they simply stay in my bedroom for a few weeks (so I can touch them, look at them, and simply dream), then they are added to the ever-growing pile of journals in my basement den.  (That’s the pattern today.  Who knows what it’ll be when I eventually leave this mortal coil?)

When I was growing up, I had to use throw-away, already-used journals to write in.  Getting my hands on paper of any kind was nearly impossible (except for school assignments) because my family was extremely money-challenged.  Over the many years of being deprived of paper, I started feeling a yearning for it.  I’m not sure if it was the writer or the artist in me that seeded this yearning, but it was definitely there, along with occasional dreams of “When I grow up, I’m going to get all the journals I want!”  Yes, in some of my dreams, I actually visualized a mountain of pristine journals stacked behind me as I carefully wrote in one of them.

And, quite oddly (even to me), I’ve kinda made that dream come true.

I can afford them, I want them, so I get them!

In the last few years, I’ve done a really good job of (and felt a growing need to) severely reduce the number of possessions in my life, as well as the amount of stuff within my home.  I want to simply.  I want to de-clutter.  That said, I have little doubt that my family will have to deal with that mountain of journals when I finally die, no matter how much I want to reduce my worldly possessions.


Because they’re journals, they’re important, and – they represent a dream; a dream that has existed as far back as I can remember, and will likely only die when I do.

Sorry gang.