Last week I cleaned out my work office, clearing out a three-shelf book case, a double-wide desk, and a three-drawer filing cabinet. In one drawer, I found poetry from the last 30 years. And in another I discovered journals that went back more than fifteen years. I hauled the poetry home, stowing it up in the top of a closet, but I couldn't help reading one journal volume recounting the months before my divorce. It was interesting to read my focus on the mundane--workout schedules, lawn care, and housework. Every once in awhile a few sentences would pop up showing the pain behind the every day.
This tendency to bury negative emotions runs deep with me. There are few friends who really see sorrow, anger, or fear from me. But I can't help wondering why I felt the need to hide it from myself. Was I worried my ex would find the journal and retaliate? Was I trying to follow William Glasser's reality therapy to an extreme? What I do know is that poetry offers me an emotional outlet missing in my search for normalcy. When I feel up to it, I'll go back to that (enormous) stack of poems and see how I was really feeling. For now, I'll just make lists and move on.
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