Getting the surface of the desk ready this evening for the computer move associated with Chester's coming isolation, I came across, and then opened & read, a journal from 1993---a rare one in that I filled it completely. '93 was a turbulent and difficult year for me; along with '97 & '04, it's one of the three off-the-top-of-my-head most pivotal years of my adult life. (Not to slight the '88 and '89 Baltimore Orioles.) (Okay, discovering women was pretty danged revelatory, too, but I don't think I was exactly an adult yet then.)
Odd to stop back into the mire of that year tonight. It's given me a sense that I'm a much more confident person in the world now, believe it or not. Yeah, I was quite the spinner then. Not that I don't get to spinning like crazy still. Still: there's some greater gravity to my center now. Some whiff of strength of character that is undeniable, comparatively, like---oh, I dunno, ... the lingering scent of the skunk-sprayed dog who just ran through a room. And, though I remain less than adept at self-nurturing, I am reasonably confident that I can get by in the world on my own, barring disasterous circumstances, in pretty much every arena save that of my own psyche.
I think of my audience while journaling as the me of the future, reading back over it after some interval thenceforth, so it's fun to find I've lived long enough to be that audience and have that old me have something to tell the now me. Dear LA, telling of learning self-hypnosis, talked of going back to tell her childhood self what-she-knows-now stuff. That idea of our adult wisdom being valuable to those earlier frightened selves (who live on) makes sense to me, and it's in a similarly strangely spiritual way that an earlier self seems to have something to offer me now.
Think I'll get up early and finish the Chet-room-readying then. Zzzzzzzz .z zzz. ... zzz. . . .