The Jambalaya called Life

I was ten years old then. It was summer break and my dad was pretty pissed-off at me for whiling away time when I could have been doing something productive such as reading, studying (yuck!), and many other things that obviously sounded boring to me.

Then, one day, he had enough, and he gave me an “assignment” as he called it — something I HAD to do. He asked me to write an “essay” (ugh! he had a knack for using the most boring words during a conversation). “Since we’re leaving in a couple of months, write about your experiences,” he said and walked away.

…And that’s how my first journal entry happened. It was a piece about my life until then — 10 years of memories. Self-reflective; as is everything I write today.

I kept on with that habit for the next 8–9 years until one day I decided I didn’t need to do this anymore. Why? Because I had found a friend for life (now my husband). At the time, I naively believed that my journals filled the gap of a non-existant partner.

So I took my stack of notebooks, pushed them into a corner of my storage shelf and said “adios” to journal writing.

It’s 11 years since. I have written a LOT in between. For work, for school, but never for myself. Now, I’m returning to that old habit my dad accidently forced upon me.

No no! Nothing’s wrong with my husband and me; everything’s great on that front (knock on wood!), but I feel too full, which is why I want to write again.

I’m too full with stuff I’m unable to sort — thoughts, ideas, emotions, reactions, philosophies, and life in itself. Everything I say/do today is a ‘jambalaya’ of this “stuff.” And I’m okay with that so long as I know what the ingredients are and how that’s changing my experience.

So, here’s to another beginning, to finding the meaning of my jambalaya called Life.

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