Deeper than Ink

History is an interesting thing. It takes many forms. From a small diary, to a grandparent telling a story, to long-dead animals entombed in stone. For me, stories and journals keep the best histories. No matter how much you dig in a long-buried trash pile, you won’t get first-hand knowledge. For the past several years I have kept a daily or almost daily journal. It has been a source of relief when I am tense, an aid to my memory of detail, and a source of inspiration in times of struggle. Someday, I want to be the grandma telling stories, and my journal will help me remember what happened.

However, effective record keeping is contingent upon not losing the record. What would have happened if Nephi had misplaced two or three pages of the plates? What about the history of the early United States? Our knowledge of that time is vital to the identity of our nation. Why would I talk about this sort of a depressing topic? Well, I lost my journal. I wrote in only a few weeks back, and now I can’t find it. I even had to replace it. A year and a half of my record is gone. Memories and details that I thought I would have to treasure forever are now saved only in my mortal mind, a mind full of facts and figures for school that crowd out personal thoughts. Each book in special collections once had that much importance to a living soul. Now they are little more than specimens to be ogled over by interested and disinterested students alike. Once, those books were treasured, and loved. Each page gently turned, each cover carefully cleaned. A book to read and a book to write are keys to a unique form of happiness.

Losing my journal has given me a new perspective on the importance of history. Records of the past are not just records, they are bits of life. A book written by hand has the intrinsic, innate and intimate stamp of the soul of the person who wrote it. A printed book that someone owned was carefully read, softly treasured, and highly valued. The books most loved are the most battered, yet most carefully preserved. Letters are meant to share feelings, thoughts and emotions. This power lasts through the ages in the ink sunk into the paper. No matter the book, it has more than words can convey, and the meaning will last forever.

As I go on in my life, I will continue to treasure the written word, both in the books I read and the histories I write. I hope that I will continue to remember how valued these words on paper are, and how much they will mean to me and others in the future. It is my prayer that more people will come to look past the surface interest and curiosity of books, into the underlying value and personal meaning of each.