In one of my classes we have been learning about different ways to get students interested in writing. The main thing is to let students write about what they know and what they are passionate about. One exercise that we practiced is to write a paragraph starting with "I remember.." If you like the topic you wrote about in that paragraph, then write another "I remember..." paragraph to continue the story. If you decide to ditch that topic, then do another "I remember..." paragraph on something else.
The idea is to keep writing and edit later, so that your mind stays in the process of reflecting and writing.
I found this exercise very helpful for journaling and I think when I am stuck in my journal, I will write "I remember..." and see where it takes me.
Our homework was to write for an hour, and I found it very theraputic for me:
I remember when we got that phone call. The call that led to so much anger, tears, and loneliness. Adam and I were on our way to the mall to blow off some steam and let our minds relax in the middle of a busy winter term.
I remember sitting in the car next to Adam and interpreting the conversation from what I could make out on our end of the phone. I knew it wasn't good news. Actually, I knew it was horrible news.
I remember sitting in the car with him, crying. Adam was going to Iraq in two months. It was uncomprehendable. Adam was supposed to be getting discharged in less than two weeks.
I remember hopelessly, helplessly wondering how
my husband could be stop-lossed. What is stop-lossed and why
my husband? He was a student, five months from graduating and a soon-to-be father.
I remember for months not believing this was happening. Am I really that story? That girl whose husband left for Iraq while I was left picking up the pieces and still preparing for my child to come?
I remember my first night in my dad's studio--the small room connected to his house. I pushed the twin bed up against the wall, so I would feel a little less alone.
I remember the first time we talked since I waved him goodbye in Salem and drove home. I shouldn't have been on the road-- I couldn't see past my tears and I didn't want to getr bac to my broken life in Eugene.
I remember sharing in the feeling that our reality was just some mix-up or bad dream. It wasn't real and it was bound to be sorted out soon. The shock was slowly wearing off and the realization that he was really gone hit Adam before it hit me.
I remember hearing my husband cry uncontrollably for the first time. I tried imagining the scene on the other side of the phone. My husband's life was now a cot in a room full of strangers in a strange town. They were there for a month preparing before going to Iraq.
I remember crying for him. At least I had my family and my possessions and my environment and so much of me still. Adam had nothing but some pictures and, luckily, some memories.
I remember consuming my life with school, friends, t.v, -- anything, really. I adapted fast, as much as I could with half a heart.
I remember growing up that year. I paid bills for the first time and got the oil changed on my own. I even went to Les Schwab and got new tires all on my own.
I remember when I found out that Adam was coming home for Griffey's birth. I remember when I found out he wasn't, a week before Griffey was to be born.
I remember the anger when Adam called me saying he had his bags packed and was ready to get on the plane when they told him he wasn't leaving.
I remember that I shut down that day for the first time. I fled. I drove to the river and sat by the water. I shut my phone off because Adam told our parents the bad news and everyone was calling me.
I remember that I didn't want to be checked on. I didn't want anything. I just wasnted to sit by the river and sob uncontrollably. The kind of sob that come from deep inside and doesn't sound like any sound I've ever made.
I remember looking down at my pregnant belly wondering how I was supposed to feel so much joy in less than a week. I remember never wanting to move. I didn't want to surface. I didn't want to be consoled.
