I want to tell you about where my archive of journals and other artifacts live.
You may know that I’m fascinated by journaling. But an under-discussed element of the journaling experience, I think, concerns what to do with the journals of our past.
When does a journal’s lifespan end? The answer is a personal decision. Whether to burn our old journals, to save our old journals for those who come after us, to reference our old journals every day, or to do another thing — it’s all a matter of preference. And I think this goes for keepsakes of all kinds, not only journals. So, this reflection captures one approach, my approach, to saving, storing, and treasuring legacy objects at large.
I believe that the details of our lives are special and worth archiving, and that we’re all deserving of a system that feels like a personal museum. I also find organization healing and inspiring by nature, and I adore how Sam Cummins put it in a recent passerby feature: “Archiving your memories is a therapeutic form of identity discernment.”
On with my way into personal archiving as an ongoing practice for reflection and inner world exploration:
A 27gal Heavy Duty Storage Tote holds all keepsakes that I don’t feel a need to reference frequently. Things like yearbooks, diplomas, school newspapers, garments I won’t wear but can’t get rid of, miscellaneous Judaica, gifts from old romances, and beyond. It lives at my parents’ house, but whenever I have a bigger place of my own, it will move in with me.
A 20gal Latching Storage Tote holds:
All of my journals. They’re labeled with masking tape detailing the dates of use. I reference them regularly, so the labels are really helpful — even though I rarely purchase the same journal twice, so each journal’s physical form is also telling. I do love using different journals because each journal’s physical properties become loaded with the aura of its era. My small red journal marks a particularly transformational season of life. My brown spiral journal accompanied me through important travel experiences. My pink hardcover journal feels innocent.
A giant three-ring binder that acts as a photo album and a scrapbook for mementos like concert tickets or badges. I just tuck everything into clear sleeves and label each sleeve with masking tape. My most put-together self will print some favorite photos at the end of the year to tuck into a fresh sleeve.
Various clear sleeves (outside of the binder) for all of the letters I’ve ever received. Major characters in my life have their own designated sleeve. Then, there are years or themes, like “Letters from camp” or “Misc. letters from middle school.”
A portfolio folder for drawings and photo prints I’ve made or been gifted.
A Sandisk USB flash drive holds:
Work samples and creations from all of my past jobs, both for portfolio purposes and fun memory logging.
All prompts from past journaling sessions I’ve guided.
All syllabi and essays from my favorite courses.
An emergency collection of photos (in case they somehow vanish from the cloud).
A folder with photos, videos, voicemails, and other files that capture my late grandparents. Creating and interacting with this is an amazing grief practice. I have so much more to say about archiving for being with with grief and mortality, and I will soon.
An audio file from a professional astrology reading five years ago. I still listen back occasionally and garner new insights each time.
A Word document where I record summaries, favorite excerpts, and notes from the books I read — a new endeavor that began last fall. I read nonfiction almost exclusively these days, and this has really helped me absorb the content.
The reason that this all works for me — during this season of life, at least — is because it’s aligned with the way I want my personal archive to serve me. This is something I identified once I really sat with my keepsakes and the wave of gratitude and reflection they spark every single time:
I want to more regularly turn to and build upon my archive when I’m seeking gratitude or reflection. →
I’ll feel enabled to turn to it if my system is organized and accessible — not locked away or daunting. I’ll feel enabled to build upon it if my system is simple and intuitive.
There’s something romantic about a mess of sentimental objects piled together, and how engaging with a personal archive like can feel like a glorious dumpster dive. But I’ve found so much value in this system. When I miss someone, I know where to go for a sense of connection to them. When I want to revisit a specific memory, it takes little time to locate the right journal or sleeve. When I want to save a memento from an outing, my binder is waiting with open arms!
We all build a personal archive whether we intend to or not. We all accumulate things and memories to track and keep or dispose of. We may as well lean in and become active curators.
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explore my 1:1 offerings | guided journaling & legacy projects
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@evaberezovsky
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