Small Moment

I have been clearing out my clutter (again). Stashed away in a desk drawer and long forgotten were old CDs, backup to my old desktop computer. The few I have glanced at contain materials that are preserved elsewhere: photos, some of my writings (joy of joys, though: two nascent novels I thought I had lost forever popped up on one)—those kinds of things.

They also hold journals I kept, ranging from mid-2001 to some point in 2010.

I have no desire to preserve those journals. They cover years of great pain, of hard times and harder decisions, of ugly moments that I either lived through or was caught up in. They are full of bitterness and harsh judgments. There are brutal times caught in great detail in them.

But I also know there are moments of great joy and happiness in these selfsame volumes (I said "volumes" deliberately: there are sixteen in all). Ben and Sam still living at home are in the early ones. Many of my notes about my sons are happy or proud or amused (more amused in looking back than at the time, thinking of the infamous "RUN!" incident). My reclaiming my life is in them. Warren is in them.

In very, very brief snatches of reading, I catch glimpses of moments shining here and there, like these lines about our Symphony conductor, Jaime, waiting to take the stage, written back before I was married to the Symphony, back before we all became best of friends:

Jaime was at the far end of the hall walking back and forth, stopped, and just started conducting—a few flourishes, a stick in the air—and then went back to walking. It was wonderful.

And it was.

I will not reread the journals. (Or every other item on those CDs, for that matter.) Those times are long gone. After I glean a few documents here and there, l will consign the entire batch of them to the shredder.

But I am grateful for that little glimpse, that little moment.