Evolution of The Writer/Mayor of Crazie Town



I discovered that our movers put three boxes marked “Teresa’s Journals” in my office, instead of the storage room, which is where I’ve kept them for the past twenty years. I opened the first box.

This lovely image assaulted me.

I couldn’t imagine what it was doing in my journal box, and turned back the cover to unearth my first journal entry ever.

I remember taking a class on journaling. The teacher recommended that when you didn’t know what you should write, write the words, “and then…” and see what happened.

JOURNAL ENTRY:  March 5, 1994

I was born On November 24, in Wichita, Kansas and I was a third child
And then, I became an older sister to five brothers
And then, I became a wife
And then, I lost my brother
And then, I gave birth to twin girls
And then, they died
And then, I closed off a place in my heart
And then, I was a mom to a baby boy
And then, I was divorced
And then, I started my life
And then, I lost my way and became what needed to be done
And then, I had a hysterectomy and lost my femininity
And then, I learned I could not control my future, which scared me
And now, I am searching for me. What I want, what I need, balanced with what I should and what I could



JOURNAL ENTRY:  April 7, 2001

I always love starting a new journal, although it is also a bit intimidating.  As if this time I will get it right…whatever right is.

I vow to write neatly and to put important thoughts down on paper, but that is not what my journal is for.  I need to pour out my life, good, bad or boring and journaling has been the way for me to do that best.

Eww! Just picked off three ticks from being at the farm.  Yuck!



JOURNAL ENTRY:  June 19, 2013

I’m breaking so many Teresa rules.  Writing a journal entry in my Writing Notebook is one of them.  It’s sad to say how freaky I can be about this.  My writing should be orderly and confined to the proper paper.

Anyway, I am sitting in a beam of sunlight, on a bench in Central Park.

The Normal:  Tiny brown sparrows bathing in a dish held skyward by a bronze girl.

The Abnormal: A well-dressed elderly man walking by holding two leashes – at the end of which are a pair of dalmatian speckled rabbits.

An ancient couple sits on the next bench and he is desperately trying to explain Twitter to her.  She replies, “Yes, I see” at the end of each of his sentences, but clearly, she does not.

A purple flowering shrub, the spikes vibrating with black and yellow bees, frantically trying to grab the nectar before their brother does.

I want to be home – in a real home – sitting in my yard. It will be weeks before that happens and I hate to wish my life away.

Still resisting the urge to sit down and write my blog. It weighs on me, the guilt of not finishing what I started. But, evidently, not enough to move me to action. My brain is everywhere and nowhere all at once.  Is the house we bought the right one?  Is John looking ill? Are the kids okay? How will I ever meet up with Craig in Brooklyn for lunch? What should I do next?

I know, I’ll go back to my brother’s apartment and take a nap.

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