Why Journal?

 

“The whole self is part of the experience. The whole self is in the present moment with that one thing.” 


 

From as long as my memory serves me, I have always been an avid reader. Growing up in a small town, books were my way to imagine not only a bigger world, but a bigger life. 

After reading Pippy Longstocking I moved all my belongings into our kitchen cabinets that were laying in our backyard while new ones were being installed. We didn’t have a treehouse so that was the next best thing. 

We had a brown chair in our living room that was used as a “time-out” chair when my siblings and I got mouthy or didn’t follow marching orders. Whenever I was sent to the brown chair, I would take a book and end up there the remainder of the day. I enjoyed being sent to the brown chair and escaping into the life of the current character I was devouring. My mom caught on and soon my time-out became that no books allowed. If I was sent to the chair or my room, the punishment was being quiet and still by myself. 

However, with two sisters nosier than me, I never kept a diary. I never dreamed of writing my own book. I never felt I had a story worth telling. 

Throughout high school and college I always received high marks for my writing and even made some extra money writing term papers for others. But I never wrote for pleasure. I never felt I was creative enough to write without someone telling me what to write about.

When I was in my early-20s I moved to New York City. I bought a journal so that I could write and remember all the exciting things I was going to do. Now I was the small town girl moving to the big city and wonderful amazing things were going to happen. Interesting people were going to insert themselves into my life and I was going to witness situations that only happened in the city. All of this happened. But I never wrote in that journal. I couldn’t write it just right.

In my 30s, I moved. I never found myself in that big city (that’s a story for another post). I was starting all over in the hippie mountain town of Asheville, NC. At one point during my life there, I volunteered for an adult literacy program. Once a week I would meet James, a 45 year-old ex-con living in a work release program. James was an amazing artist - he could draw anything. He told me that he would turn in art all through school instead of written papers. His teachers continued to pass him and he simply never learned to read. 

One of the techniques the non-profit taught it’s volunteers was to have the student write the letters as they learned them. They were to write the letters while sounding out the sound. Why? This is where it gets interesting. Writing, sounding, and leaning - all at the same time - creates a kinetic experience. A union, if you will. And this union is between the body and the mind. The whole self is part of the experience. The whole self is in the present moment with that one thing. 

As an adult, sitting at a library table or in a coffee shop, THIS IS AWKWARD. But, when you get into it, forget what people think, it works. And it worked for James. I worked with him for over a year. I heard his whole life story. I got promoted and didn’t have time to keep my commitment to meet him once a month. I have no idea where James is now. I never wrote to him. 

In my 40s, I moved. Again. Actually I have lived here on my island twice (but that’s a story for another post). I teach yoga. Yoga is a system that when practiced consistently and with intention creates a union. A connection of the body, mind & breath. A being present in the present. 

Over the last year, I’ve bought a new journal. I write in it. Sometimes, so messy I can’t read my own writing. One exercise I’ve learned is to write the problem or the question that’s nagging with your dominant hand. But the answer is written with the non-dominant hand. It makes your brain simplify the thought into its most concise form because of the difficulty your body has actually writing. 

Often it is quotes that set me on fire or gratitude lists. There may be a hateful letter to someone I am angry with so I can get it out even though I have no plans of sending. Or, a sentence, like “I miss my Dad.” Rarely do I go back and look over past musings. I write.

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