indulgent

I've been migrating most of my old entries from LiveJournal over for the sake of centralization. Well, also because they are interesting to read. I have been writing about myself on the internet since February 2003 when a coworker sent me an LJ code. The whole experiment has been encouragement to write and keep in touch with my college friends. But I see now that I am fascinated by myself. (I suppose if I'm not fascinated by myself, then who will be.) Because I remember writing what I wrote in 2003, but not until I read it now. Old entries pull bits of clarity from the murky waters of my past. I had forgotten the specific things I was afraid of then because I have moved on to new different fears now. Back then we had only one dog, Erin had just moved to Montana, I just started culinary school. Notably absent is knitting and photography. It was the crafty dark years and pre-digital camera.

Reading these old entries makes me think about time and how weird my perception of it is. In 2003, we'd only been here two years. Minneapolis was still new and we'd barely explored St. Paul. Staying here six more years seemed so long. Now it's 2007 and there are only two years left. This place has wormed its way into my heart. Here is where I decided not to put so much pressure on myself about a career. Here is where I moved five times in eight years. Here is where we found our dogs and A. and Brandon and Dallas. Here is where we decided to have kids. Here will be where Shannon becomes a vet. Here is where we will celebrate our tenth anniversary next year.

I'm not as nostalgic about my childhood journals. They are at home in a bin. Every time we move I remember that I want to get rid of them, but don't want to throw them in the trash where someone might read them. I think I want to burn them in sort of purging of the past in a fire or bbq pit in a park maybe. My teenage years are just a lot of angst and worry about college and boys. I'm still hard on myself about all the dumb choices I made then. Or maybe I just have a hard time reading what I wrote when I was struggling to figure myself out.