In middle school, our gifted teacher told us about a contest called Power of the Pen. He met with us once a week, on Wednesdays during lunch and we wrote and rewrote short stories. I remember listening to other students’ words, the phrases, the emotions they could make the middle school angst disappear in a sea of adjectives. That was the beginning of my love affair with words.
I started journaling about that time and I have journaled off and on from then. About 3 years ago, after my journals were almost destroyed in a basement flood I pulled some out and read them. I went back to middle school I wrote about boys, losing weight, not fitting in/being good enough, high school I wrote about a boy, losing weight, not fitting in/being good enough, college I wrote about a boy, losing weight, not fitting in/being good enough, my first year of marriage I wrote about a boy, losing weight, not fitting in/being good enough. I sat there in the midst of my journals in complete disgust. Journaling was a complete waste of time. Here I was 33 years old still writing about the same three topics as when I was 13. So I stopped journaling. It was too depressing to bear witness to the fact that I still could not figure out the opposite sex, I still hated my body, and I was still not sure of my place in the world.
Then unimaginable things happened. Things I often could not find the words to describe. As I wrestled with one struggle after another, one trauma to the next drama, I could not even articulate how I felt. Then I crash landed into a group where I was forced to journal. I’m a sucker for a “healing group”. Then I joined another group, a writing group. The words were coming back to me, the way they did on Wednesdays in middle school. I bought a journal and begin to write without judgment any words that came to me.
As I stumbled from struggle to struggle I would often call my friends or family. I would tell them the facts, we would exchange groans, expletives, and eye rolls. I would leave the conversation knowing that they agreed it was a struggle but with little insight into how I felt, what I truly believed, what I was learning and what to do next. As I started to journal, I learned a phrase that the ladies in my writing circle would often say “A piece of paper always listens.”
My journal became the place where I could pour it all out. After writing it, I gained greater insight and a clearer understanding. I found that when I was ready to share my story with others, I wasn’t looking for them to answer or to reinforce my beliefs, I had already established what I believed about the situation. It helped me to be more aware of the wisdom that was around me. I could write myself in the midst of my struggle in a way that allowed me to breathe even when the situation did not change.
Now my journal documents my journey. It documents the days when the words don’t make sense, the days when the pieces all start to come together. It allows me to have a practice where I can slow down my thoughts and capture them, I can decide which ones are real, which ones are not true to the current experience and I can look for the ways the awkward middle school girl shows up in my present life. I document what I am thankful for, what I faith about, where I’m really faking it until I make it. It’s my safe space.
I often wonder as the world gets crazier, people feel lonelier and suicides increase if people have safe spaces. We have created safe spaces for marginalized groups but not spaces to explore ourselves. Spaces where we can be wholly unsure, wholly afraid, and wholly understood. Journaling has created that space for me, and after I am been wholly me there I find that I am better able to witness to others the need to be wholly them.
Do you need a safe space? What if all you need is a piece of paper. I would encourage you, to grab a notebook, any piece of paper, a computer a google doc on your phone. In a world where you unsure if anyone is really listening, a piece of paper always listens.
Views From the Woods 