I lost my favorite journal. It was a leather-bound gift from a dear friend. It was a beautiful book. I was awed by the soft, stitched leather cover and hand-crafted paper pages within. It felt whole and perfect and clean, untainted by use or abuse. She gave me it to encourage me to write. It had the opposite effect, initially. I had been blabbing for years about wanting to write, and not writing. I found myself afraid to use the fancy journal. I was paralyzed, unable to touch pen to paper.
I functioned under generalized negative confusion at the time, which showed itself in response to this lovely gift. It was confusion I accepted without question or interest because I wasn’t aware of it. I didn’t know it, but I believed that an inexperienced (and lazy, untalented, ignorant etc.) writer/diarist like me did not have the legitimacy to use such a special journal. I felt that a volume like this would be sullied by my pen, my mistakes, my bad grammar, my lousy prose, my thoughts. It would be a sacrilege for this exquisite book to be filled with my rubbish.
To be totally honest, back in those days, the thought of writing anything anywhere petrified me. I’d always fancied myself a writer and had developed a lot of fear-based negativity and pressure around that dream. My few feeble attempts at writing would always result in turmoil. I would avoid any opportunity to write, for fear of failure and disappointment. When I would force myself to park my carcass and try, there would be constant self-editing of the words, deprecating of ideas, and ultimate defeat at my less than stellar efforts. I forgot the importance of playing and practicing.
But this journal stirred something in me. I loved it. I loved having it. It was a prized possession, even as it sat unused. It seemed to call to me, to beckon, “just sit down and write.” “I am here,” it would seem to say. It did end up encouraging me, but it took time to gain the courage.
I started writing in cheap mass-produced spiral-bound notebooks. I was tentative at first, writing little notes and thoughts with care, self-consciousness and self-editing. But I kept at it. Gradually, a process unfolded whereby I started playing in these notebooks. I started ranting and rambling, making a literal and figurative mess all over the pages. I lost all restraint and self-consciousness. There were doodles and grocery lists and phone numbers scribbled throughout, mixed in with my most openhearted, unrestrained musings. Any time of the day or night, if an idea of interest popped into my mind, I’d reach for the nearest piece of paper and write it down. It became a delightful habit, with little expectation. I realized that all the time I avoided writing, for fear of failure or any other reason, I was avoiding myself. I discovered that it was far more satisfying to write anything than to write nothing.
Eventually, I did dive into the beautiful, soft, sweet leather-bound book, with its textured and rich pages. In fact, it became the journal that documented an entire personal breakdown. I faced my fear and anxiety in its pages. I documented my misunderstandings and confusion into its pages, with a large measure of tears and messy eruptions of an energetic sort. I knew I had to examine the dark and scary negative programs under which I operated. I was in pain and knew I needed to “right (write) it out”. The book absorbed every tear and tortured moan. It received every word with willingness, presence, and acceptance. It never cringed or recoiled in disgust or fear of the violent and heartbreaking process. And so, I metaphorically tore that book up, and it was always there--silent, strong, and unwavering.
Within the pages, the lies eventually transformed into truths, the misunderstandings were corrected, and the confusion was clarified. Through the act of writing with an honest and willing heart, the heart was healed. There is no better sanitizer than the bright light of awareness, and there’s no better way to become aware than putting pen to paper (or fingers to keypad). The fingers can by-pass the personality's demands and connect directly with Wisdom. The sub-conscious mind maintains a complex system of unhealthy ideas, beliefs, and programs. The process of writing will bring them up to the conscious level, for better or worse. But better. I didn’t know I believed “I do not deserve,” until it flowed out onto the page. It made me laugh to see it, because I never would have believed that I believed it. Awareness healed it.
Negative and fearful programs restrict the entire life experience, in this one and only opportunity on planet earth. I would never in my right mind choose to believe such things, and yet I did. I spent much of my life trying to distract myself from these painful, ugly, and false ideas. By avoiding the darkness within, I was also avoiding my life’s dreams and aspirations. The only way to release these negative operating systems is to face them. And by seeing them and acknowledging them, they are neutralized--one confining idea at a time. As Carl Jung said, “Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.” The process of journaling offers an easy, direct method of looking within to untangle the knots of confusion.
This exquisite journal was a significant part of my journey. It was a glorious and gory testament to the process. Now I can’t find it. I mean, really and truly cannot find it. I’ve lost it before, and it always turns up eventually. I usually keep numerous journals going simultaneously, and sometimes misplace them. But this one is gone. Maybe it’s somewhere in the house, but I’ve looked everywhere. Twice. Maybe I accidentally threw it away in the pocket of an old backpack. Or maybe I left it in the woods somewhere, where it sits rotting into the earth, after one of my long meandering walks. I can’t help but wonder if some random person has come upon it and is now pondering what kind of crazy weirdo is responsible for this revolting volume. This scenario strikes me as a most entertaining option. It tickles me to imagine some innocent soul flipping through the pages.
So now I come to the end of the story of the lost journal. Goodbye, dear book. Thank you for being there during the most difficult and sacred time of my life. Thank you for holding me together while I was falling apart. Thank you for helping me to untangle the knots that blocked me from my love of writing and my own self-understanding. If we are ever reunited, I will consider myself blessed indeed. For now, I release you from my life in gratitude for you, for me and for the process.
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