My son, at 20, has recently fallen in love with jujitsu. Three to four nights per week he goes to the dojo, returns home smiling and sore from his workout, stimulated by challenge. I hug him, now, his chest is a board.
I love the way the diaries, re-visited years later, surprise me with clues long forgotten, hints of future passions: It's January 28, 1993, he's in pre-school, and we're living in Florida. The last line of this brief entry notes: "Your second Karate class tonight." Two days earlier, an entry recorded on January 26, 1993, is all about starting karate:
Your very first karate class! Daddy took you w/Perri tonight, and you were so thrilled when I got home to see you late tonight. You just thought it was the most fun thing you have ever done. You were so nervous you said your legs were rubbery, but you had a blast.
He didn't practice Karate for long. We kept him involved for a few sessions, and when we moved out of the area a year later he joined a new class where he struggled with an intimidating teacher. Soon, another move, this time to the Boston area, and his passion for the martial arts took a long hiatus.
The diary entries are full of clues, predictions, reminders of passions put aside, forgotten, even abandoned, that may be reclaimed.