Last Christmas, my husband gave me a little green notebook. I love this notebook, and while it’s taking me a while to fill it up, I write a whole variety of things in it: band names, quotes, books I should read, notes on my day, memories. I date it, to keep track of what I’ve been thinking and when, but it’s nothing as truly important as, say, my handwritten, not-yet-typed story drafts.
Still, when I couldn’t figure out where I put that notebook on Saturday, I became, not panicked (that’s reserved for the aforementioned story drafts), but definitely anxious. Mostly I was bothered by my gap in memory (my short term memory is horrendous) and the fact that, while I misplace things often, I misplace them in a limited number of spots, but I was turning up nothing. I finally found it last night, when, after kicking my yoga bag out of the way, I realized it was the one bag whose pockets I hadn’t rifled through, and a bit of relief washed over me, like pieces of my life were correctly connected again.
My husband, to give him all the credit he deserves, helped me look, double checking all the places I had triple checked, and even offering to go outside and look through the cars again, though we both knew in our hearts that it wasn’t there (I didn’t let him go out). But in his concern for me, he asked me one question I had a hard time with: “Is it important?”
I didn’t know how to answer without sounding crazy. No, not really, there’s nothing I particularly need from it. And I have other notebooks to write in, even one that’s waiting to be my replacement journal once the green one finally fills up. But as inconsequential as most of the things I write in the notebook are, I hated the thought of losing it, of having my dates be out of whack because I wrote in another before finding this one, of having yet another journal in my life that I failed to fill because I misplaced it or found another one (most of my childhood journals were not filled). And I hated the idea of not having this notebook, a place to put all my ideas, note with me. It’s a sense of security to have the notebook there to write an idea in whenever it might strike, without having to worry that my horrible memory will sweep it away (which is why it was in my yoga bag, of all places). It’s like a security blanket, along with the novel I almost always tuck into my purse, even on dates (no kidding) and I just didn’t feel completely grounded with out it.
Man, maybe I am crazy.