My grandmother kept a daily journal. I always wanted to read it, but she said no. When I was eight she gave me a journal of my own. I've been journaling ever since - 57 years and I've rarely missed a daily entry. I spend at least one hour every morning writing in my journal.

Not long after my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer - incurable - she asked my grandfather to bring her her journals. One box at a time, grandma read her journal pages, tore them into small pieces and threw them all away. I was heartbroken and begged her not to destroy them. Why? Why? Why was she tearing up her journal? Grandma said she had sorted things out in her journal, explored new ideas, and poured out emotions that she did not want to share.

Journaling was her way of learning what she thought and felt. If someone else read her journal, they might be badly hurt by something she wrote that was gone the minute she'd sorted herself out.

Before I leave this earth, I too will read my journal, tear it up in tiny pieces and throw it away. Like my grandmother, I hope to find one piece worth saving.