I’ve always joked that a core girlhood experience was having a pile of half-started diaries and journals from your adolescence. Hidden in the desk drawers of my childhood bedroom are stacks of lined notebooks, many of which didn’t last beyond a couple of weeks of middle school dramatics — the longest I had ever committed to was writing through my entire month of ranch camp, and detailing the ways in which we, as seventh graders, had been strictly hazed into the upper echelons of the camp (that, however, is a story for another time). With the rise of bullet-journal influencers and intuitive new ways to better one’s mental health, the pressure to start writing again felt imminent. With the amount of writing I was already doing for college, and my precious free time being taken up by devouring my yarn stash in crafts, I had not yet found an opportunity to dive into handwritten reflections for some time. That is, until I arrived in Western North Carolina on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
The summer camp I applied to work at was nestled in a river valley in the Appalachian rainforest, with only about 130 kids at the height of the season. There were few opportunities to go online, many of which mostly consisted of fighting the spotty WiFi long enough to send a text to my parents that I was, in fact, still alive. As someone who struggles to remember dates, times, and plans without the magic of Google Calendar by my side, I knew I had to find an alternative solution. While packing for the summer, I had collected a few of the smaller unused journals and added them to my collection of camp “entertainment” items: also known as approximately fourteen books and enough bracelet string to weave a tapestry. I covered one of the journals in stickers and scribbled my name in Sharpie across the front, and it quickly became one of my most coveted belongings in the forest.
The notebook lived many lives, with each page being a new iteration of what it means to “keep a journal”. The very first page consists of scribbled notes of the names of edible leaves and terrible sketches of how to point them out to campers. The next is a poem written by headlight about struggling to adapt to the trails on the staff backpacking trip. Growing up in California, I was so used to hiking on rocks and dust that the layer of wet leaves covering every path proved to be a challenge. Camper notes of dietary restrictions and unique needs filled up the next few pages, and quickly after were drafts of parent letters. I began to love opening to the next blank page and jotting something down, whether it be a reminder for later or a message to pass along to someone else. Referencing it later on and reading out notes made me feel like a detective, and the tactile nature of writing and having a physical reminder system felt much more productive than referencing my notes app or receiving a notification.
When I lost my voice after getting sick, the notebook became a new way to communicate. Later pages contain half conversations; questions and responses only from me, leaving out the other side and showing the ways in which we were thinking and talking as an isolated community. There were notes on character names and riddles for a special choose your own adventure activity, drawings of the pine trees below a full moon, and little poems about beetles and bark. That little blue notebook became a gallery of my highest and lowest moments, a reflection of how I regained my confidence during the summer. It was revelatory in nature, and in-between reminders of time-off and warnings of camper allergies there were little written memories. When I made the decision to leave the camp early due to a worsening cough and overstaffing, one of my closest friends offered appreciation and smiled before we parted ways to return to the cabins at night. One of the last things written in the notebook is “This evening Thomas squeezed my shoulder and we shared a meaningful look before going opposite ways. I think I understand friendship more now.”
Inspired by time capsules and my own love for reminiscing and nostalgia, I left the notebook in its battered plastic bag inside my camp duffle bag at home in California. I know that, if I were to open it again and read every pen mark, I would be able to map an entire summer spent in a beautiful place with wonderful people and excited kids. However, that gift is reserved for my future self, to open before returning again and remembering every moment.