Most people remember what they were doing 6 years ago today.
The intensity of the day didn't leave much room to forget.
But who remembers what they were doing five years ago today? Four years ago today? Or even two years ago today?
It's a shame that sometimes it takes such a powerful event to help us remember where we were or what we were doing at a certain time in our lives.
Enter the journal.
I have a bookcase full of journals.
Journals that started as far back as the 2nd grade when my dad gave me my first locking diary. It's blue, has a bear on it, and the lock still works.
The first entry describes a Brownie Scout trip to the zoo.
The details, even the existence of that trip, would be all but lost if not for the seven year old me opening my diary and taking notes.
September 11, 2002 I spent in the common room of my "residencia" in Spain, explaining to Italians and Spaniards and Brazilians my understanding of what happened in my country a year earlier.
September 11, 2003 I argued with an Argentine that North American friendships are just as strong as South American friendships.
September 11, 2004 I spent 15 hours in my new second grade classroom. Mom and Dad "pitied the fool" and came up to help me. Mom hung fall leaves while Dad oiled my desk drawer with some Bath and Body Works products. It was that day that I started to "feel like I was emerging from the overwhelming heaps of crap" I'd been under.
September 11, 2005 I was struggling to decide whether to send a sweet message to a guy I was dating. The decision became a moot point when I accidentally hit "send" instead of "save as a draft."
September 11, 2006 Chris came over to my apartment and we played Scrabble. I had "that feeling in my heart. That feeling that tells you 'this is right.'"
September 11, 2007 Read over the last 6 years of my life. Watched it pass before me like one of those old reel-to-reel home movies. Felt good about where I've been and where I've yet to go.
Decided to keep on journaling.