His Journal

By Nicholas Waanders

A young man lives with regrets but tries to be better. He writes in his journal about the things he sees, the things he does, and the things he feels. He carries regrets with him and knows that he cannot undo his past mistakes. However, he tries, day after day, to make things better. He learns over time that confronting trouble often makes things worse, but when he fixes things or redirects things, that he can make things a little better. He finds that writing in his journal helps him to think about things, to put things in perspective, and to learn better ways to be someone who can make the world a bit better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667829623

Book preview

--- Prologue ---

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look My eyes once held, and of your love so deep.

- Modified version of W. B. Yeats Poem

You want what? He said and tilted his head. Once again, he rubbed his forehead up and down with his palm. His wife had always found this a strange habit, and he knew that he should be smarter about how it made him appear to others. However, it always helped him to relax, to wake him up, and it helped him to focus on the present. He stood up straighter and said again, You want what?

It is not what I want, the woman said again. It is what I need to do for you. I need to talk to you, to fix what I have done or… or maybe make amends. Maybe we can go somewhere and talk. I want to help you.

He interrupted her and said, I am not sure what you are talking about. Do I know you? Then, he reached his hand out to her and asked, What is your name?

Oh my… she said. I knew your wife. I am a publisher. You don't know me, but I know you. But more importantly. I am afraid that I have blown your cover.

He paused for a bit and then leaned in a bit and asked, What do you mean blown my cover?

Did you see all those people at the service? Do you know why they were there?

He answered, I assume that they knew my wife. She was the love of my life, and she touched many people’s lives. So why would they not come to her funeral?

I am afraid it was more than that. So many of them knew her through your writings. They knew her through you, through your reflections on life… on love… and on deeper truths. Your writings have captured something special, and people know that.

He shook his head slowly from side to side and said, I don't know what you’re talking about. I am not a writer.

If those people knew her, it was because they saw her through your eyes. She was a truly remarkable woman, but your ability to put her, and your feelings for her into words, and… and more than that… your perspectives on life and your wisdom… your words have connected with people across the world.

His sense of himself shifted, and he felt unsteady. He rubbed his forehead again, and he made a mental note yet again to stop this behavior. However, he had always liked how it made his wife laugh at him or at least crack a smile and shake her head. The memory of her smile made his breath catch yet again in his chest. She had this power over him, and he missed it terribly. I still don't know what you’re talking about, and now is not a good time. I need some time… some quiet… some time to think. Thank you for coming today. Perhaps we can speak again in the future.

He walked back into the cemetery and sat at the graveside. As he sat and thought about the past, his memories came back to him so vividly.

--- Chapter 1 ---

That Morning

Life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences, but rather it is a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite sublime plan.

- From the movie Serendipity

As he walked, a cold wind blew with occasional shifts and gusts. On this damp and chilly autumn day and this early in the morning, the wind might have been described as sharp or bitter or even biting. However, it seemed to him that the wind in his face made him feel alive. His wife had always worried that the wind might cause him to fall, but to him, the wind seemed to embrace him and to support him. He leaned into the wind, and it gave him a sense of stability and purpose. It always did.

The soft sand shifted under each step, which slowed him down a bit, but as the sand settled, it also moved to a new steady state. Each step left a footprint in the sand that marked his path, and for some reason, this seemed important too.

The sound of the wind joined with the sound of the waves that lapped at the shoreline. The sound joined with the embrace of the wind and with the light that reflected from the waves. Taken all together, the wind and waves created a dynamic and engaging landscape. To him, this combination held a deep meaning and purpose that he could feel deep within himself, but not something he could quite grasp or put into words. It was common for him that half-remembered lyrics would come to mind, and this morning, it was something about winter winds and going home. The tune and the rest of the song eluded him, but that didn’t matter to him, and he held onto the thought of home. He turned and started up the old wooden steps, heading for home.

As he made his way up the street, he stopped at one of his neighbor's houses, picked up her newspaper at the end of her driveway, and moved it to her porch, putting it on the railing where she could reach it more easily. He presumed that the credit for this small act went to the paperboy, but that was okay. As he went by his neighbor’s house, he picked up some of the sticks that had fallen near the mailbox, which made his neighbor’s daily trip to his mailbox a bit safer. This was important to him because he had a deep respect for the determination it took for his neighbor to make that walk.

As he reached his own driveway, he took note of the familiar aspects of his own home, including the wide stone front porch with the comfortable reading chair and a well-used porch swing. The view from the porch swing was perfect, right out to the lake for watching sunsets and for watching the occasional storms that moved across the lake. He walked up to the porch and decided to sit on the porch swing for a few minutes. He pulled out his notepad to jot a quick reminder to do some maintenance on his own mailbox that seemed a bit tilted with a touch-up on the paint as well.

He sat quietly for a while and thought about his life. The house was empty again, but it still seemed so much a part of him and his life. It was so much more than a house to him. It was their home, and his wife had filled it with a family and so many memories. He remembered the day they first met, the day she first came to the house, the day she agreed to marry him, the days each of their children became part of the family, and so many other memories that warmed him deep inside. He breathed slowly and deeply, and he knew that she had brought so much into his life. He reached his hand out and grasped some of her love and then tapped his fist on his chest to lock a bit more of that love deep inside himself.

--- Chapter 2 ---

When They First Met

How much good inside a day?

Depends how good you live ’em.

How much love inside a friend?

Depends how much you give ’em.

- Shel Silverstein

As he walked down the street, he felt the pull toward the people waiting at the bus stop. He tried to resist, but the sense was too strong. He paused and looked around, but he could not read the situation. He looked at his watch because this generally worked as a good justification to stop and assess who or what might be the source of trouble. Even with this justification, nothing became apparent to him. He tapped his watch and raised it to his ear. The watch was old and no longer functioned, but when necessary, it was a justification to talk to the nearest person. He turned and walked toward the bus stop. He called out to a young woman sitting on the bench, Excuse me. I am sorry to bother you, but do you have the time? My watch is not working.

The woman looked up, and he instantly felt a connection. A connection like nothing he had ever felt before. She looked into his eyes, and he felt like he had just melted inside. His breath caught in his chest and he felt stuck in the moment. The moment seemed to last for an eternity. His vision narrowed and then expanded beyond that moment and beyond his view toward the woman. Then she smiled. She looked at her watch and then she told him the time. It’s 5:15, she said. Are you late for something important?

He closed his eyes, and after a few seconds, his sense of himself stabilized, and he was able to take a breath. He put his hand to his forehead and rubbed up and down and then back and forth through his hair. He knew this looked funny, but it helped him to relax and to focus. Finally, he relaxed enough to look at her and to see her clearly, but he was still unable to speak. She smiled at him and then gave a little shake to her head, and he heard her let out a little laugh. He nodded his head and turned to go. As he turned and started to walk away, he was finally able to say, Thanks. Usually, a simple question and a friendly answer, followed by an expression of gratitude from him, could nudge some aspect of the situation toward something better. But unfortunately, he still felt the pull of something worrisome. Nothing had changed.

As he started to walk away, he still felt that he needed to do something. As he thought about whose need was pulling at him, he wasn’t paying attention to his walking, and his foot caught the edge of a crack, and his ankle rolled, causing him to fall. He let out a painful gasp as he went down but managed to catch himself and avoid injury elsewhere. He had done this in the past, but he usually faked the injury, and he had found that when someone, anyone, made even the smallest gesture of sympathy or helped him up, that it often moved things in the right direction. He sat up and reached toward his ankle. As he touched his ankle, the pain was intense, and it was already starting to swell.

The woman who had offered him the time moved to his side and crouched down. The woman reached for his arm and tried to help him stand, but his height and weight relative to hers made this impractical. The man standing at the bus stop made no effort to help. However, a teenage boy moved closer and then came to his other side, and the two of them provided the support that he needed to get to his feet. He hobbled over to the bench and sat down.

He thanked them both profusely and told them that he felt so blessed by their kindness. The tension he felt in this situation felt a little less, not gone but less. When the bus came, the man and the teenager got on the bus and went on their way. He took some small satisfaction that whatever it was that had drawn him in, now had been nudged in a better direction.

To his surprise, the woman who helped him up was still there. Again, he looked into her eyes, and again he felt himself melt into the moment. He wanted to talk to her but felt that there was nothing he could say. So he thanked her again and looked down at his hands.

She sat near him, just looking at him, seeming to study him. Then, after a short time, she said, You did that on purpose. I haven’t figured out why yet, but you did. She turned and looked into the distance, but he was mesmerized.

He tried to speak and said, I… ahh…

She stopped him and said, Shhh… I’m thinking.

He sat there first looking at her and then looking into the distance just as she was doing. Then, after a short time, he cleared his throat and once again started to speak, but she stopped him again and said, Don’t. I am still trying to figure you out. I can tell that you did that intentionally, but I still haven’t figured out why.

They sat there quietly, and he relaxed into their time together. His ankle was still hurting, but that seemed so distant in comparison to being there sitting with her. Finally, after a long time, she sighed and said, I can tell that you meant well doing what you did, but I just can’t see why you did it or what you think you accomplished. Don’t say anything, because I probably won’t believe you. I don’t even think that you know why you did what you did.

As she said this, the next scheduled bus turned the corner and pulled up to the bus stop. She smiled and shook her head, but then she helped him up again. Together, they made their way onto the bus, and she helped him sit on the sideways facing bench at the front of the bus. She sat near him on the first forward-facing seat. He smiled and could not help but look at her. She tipped her head down and looked at him sternly. She pointed her index finger at him and said, Don’t you look at me like that, and then she pointed at the window. He kept smiling, and he turned his head a little and looked out the window, just enough to look away but not too much so that he could still see her in the periphery of his vision. He kept smiling, and occasionally, he glanced down at his hands but did his best to look out the window as he felt deep emotion and warmth just being this close to her.

A few minutes later, he glanced in her direction again. She was still looking at him but with a kind look. Once again, she pointed at him and to the window. He did not need to ride the bus and was, in fact, now farther from home. He stayed on the bus for two more stops, and he figured that it was far enough. When they got to the next stop, he stood, and she helped him again. He limped off the bus and then stood looking at her as the bus closed the door and started to pull away. Reflexively, he reached his fingers out as though to grasp and hold on to the feeling he got from her. He moved his clenched fist to his chest and tapped three times. She watched him as the bus started to pull away, and to his surprise, he saw that she brought her clenched fist to her chest.

The next day, his ankle was still sore, but he could walk. When he finished work,