I still want to write “1999,” I guess because I don’t actually write enough in here. The twentieth already and all I’ve got are seven pages to show for the month. Rather pathetic, but I just don’t have anything to write about. I’m not reading anything that makes me want to write; I’m not doing anything that makes me want to write. I’m just existing — going to work, coming home, cooking dinner, realizing I’m in a rut only to repeat it the next day.

As I go back and read over entries from my time in Lipnica, I realize that I wrote almost exclusively about two or three things: the changes in the WCG, my new LW friends and the adventures I was having (i.e., drinking in bars, hanging out with Charles, listening to blues with Janusz), and — most frequently — about students. Now I’m burned out on the stupidity within the WCG and its sister churches; I never see my friends from Poland; and I never have any interaction with anyone other than those at work. So what does that leave me as journal fodder? Not much.

I suppose I could write about what’s been happening at work, but what good would that be? It’s just a bunch of office nonsense — nothing remotely meaningful. Nothing, at any rate, worth writing about, I guess. I could write about what happened today — the nonsense with the American History 2 book. Yet to what avail? Will I ever go back and read that entry and think, “Oh, those were the days!” Will I ever remember this at some point and wonder when exactly it happened? Will I ever really remember writing this? I doubt it. On the other hand, I have memories of writing in my journal in Lipncia — I could journalize about my Lipnica journal. And I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing now. The point is, I won’t ever do that about this period of my life, I think. In fact, I believe journal keeping will never again be like it was when I was living in Lipnica.

I went back to read old journal entries about my student teaching to see how much I was writing about teaching — tons, is the predictable answer. I didn’t know how to motivate; I didn’t know how to take charge and give them personal, intellectual freedom; I didn’t know anything. I was an utter failure! Of course it was my first time. As I read about my woes, I realized in the back of my head I was forming mini-lesson plans to deal with the same topics, thinking at the same moment, “I could teach that much better now.”

I also came across this gem:

Sunday 15 October 1995

9:34 p.m.

I am finally back home after a somewhat torturous departure. I cried again, upset with the fact that my last feast for several years (three or four, at least) was such a pathetic failure. I guess the main thing that was so very upsetting was the fact that I was still alone. I spent the whole day alone (except for sitting with Mom during church) and it was just depressing.

Fairly amazing — it wasn’t “my last feast for several year.” It was, indeed, my last Feast of Tabernacles ever. I will never again go to such a thing, and I feel my life is much better for it.

With all the things I’ve done in my life since quitting the WCG, it feels as if — in some weird way — I never attended. I’ve grown so accustomed to Saturdays being just like any other day; to eating whatever the hell I please; to spending all my money and not having to hold back twenty percent; to going out on Friday nights (though I haven’t really done that since coming back from Poland) — it’s unreal. Friday night rituals in Poland became Dudek with Charles or Adam’s with Janusz and Kamil.

Another fun quote:

Winter will always bring memories of Kathe. I will constantly recall the countless times we would lie in front of the heater as it blew its welcomed warm air over our toes. Even when I have been married (Will I get married?) for fifty years, I will recall the cold, dark drives to her house, or the sound of her pulling into our driveway as dinner was being prepared.

The truth is, I never think about Kathe anymore. I talked to Lori about her for a while on 1 January, but that was the first time in ages that I’d even thought of her.