Read Me First

The first page of every journal I have ever started had the best intentions on writing something special.  I much prefer napkins or a Moleskin to jot down my observations, with museum tickets as bookmarks.  But alas, a new phase in life or a turn of the leaf, and a different journal was started.

There will be no deep thoughts, no grandstanding, but likely a few rants.  I am proud to be married to one smart and supportive wife, two daughters that are my inspirations, and pets that never grow bored of me.  I call myself a curator, not only because my wife thinks that I am a recovering hoarder (j/k), but as a collector of memories and ideas.  Like the BFG (R.Dahl), I collect them in virtual jars and rearrange them as suits the mood.  A majority of these from the last few years fill my shelves with fond memories of my young family.

In my late twenties, I recognized a gap in my awareness and appreciation for my family, heritage, and where they came from.  Inspired by examples from books, This American Life, and Story Corps, I took on a new mission.  Two missions, in fact, following both maternal and paternal origin stories.  I encourage you all to get a digital recorder, but I started on cassettes--many of them.  Interviewed relatives and researched online, when that was very new to me, and pieced together two small family oral histories.  Besides photos and memorabilia of the times and place, I gained the skill from curating all of those bits.

Beyond that, I collect experiences from travels, books read (or in the stack to be read), from friends, from hardships, because we are survivors.  

With the rise in social media, Russian bots, and #FakeNews to be mindful of, I am attempting to take control of my online presence (sans advertisements or "we recommend you see this"), by posting here first.  If you are curious to follow this breadcrumb trail of postings, feel free to do this without fear.  And you are always welcome to leave a comment or thought.

#ChooseKindness