The Untangling - Journaling and Remembering

I spend a great deal of time in my head. Journaling, I’ve recently discovered, is a way to get some of it down without trying to make more or more of it than it is. This alone is an accomplishment. Ruminating, getting lost in thought and judging my observations is a pastime. Though I can’t say it’s my favorite. In fact, it’s gotten in the way of my joy, so much so that I upended everything and found a new way to live. This is  another story. But processing by hand the day to day stuff that makes up the bulk of my life has always been something I’ve avoided, which is peculiar because I write. 

And I love to write. Admitting that I’m a writer is a recent declaration even though it's been part of my schema since I was a kid. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. There was something safe and special about the people who conjured something from nothing and created worlds for me to explore as a child. Authors took me places. I wanted to be a part of that club. I don’t know how old I was when I knew that I wanted to write words down. And I have no memory of when or if I communicated that idea to someone. But my aunt Courtney gave me a journal when I was either 8 or 9. 

It was blue corduroy and had flecks of purple. I can’t remember if it had a lock on it but I think it did and for some reason it made me uncomfortable. I was already keeping secrets by then. My aunt was an intimidating figure and through the years we didn’t have the closest relationship but I like this memory. My first entry was a song about the holiday season. I really just plagiarized the ice skating song from Charlie Brown’s Christmas. I recall a sense of longing. By then I had  been struggling with some trauma. I was walking home from a friend's house on a cold winter’s day singing the ice skating song. I was sad. Nostalgic for simpler times, a lot like Charlie Brown. It’s a little funny. A kid wistfully wondering where their youth went. But there was some more sinister shit I wasn’t able to tell my parents. I wanted to tell them. That journal. 

I was full of shame— perhaps that's why writing thoughts down didn’t seem like a good idea, but I’m not entirely sure about that either. My fingers liked the feeling of the corduroy. I remember not knowing what to do with the journal. In a lot of ways I was outgoing and because of the secrets I didn’t speak up,  when it mattered most.  And with this thought there’s a twinge of regret mixed with that shame again. I guess I should have asked some questions, but I was also a kid. I can give myself grace. I recall the feeling that I should have known more than I did. I remember feeling lonely. Not all of the time. But sometimes. I wanted to ask for some help. I’m pretending I’m talking about journaling, but who are we fooling. 

I wanted to ask questions. I wanted to use my voice. I wanted to use that journal. In hindsight, it’s probably why I have collected journals over the years and never used them. I have dozens. Moleskins from when I worked in bookstores. Some acquired as gifts. And they sit, calling me. It wasn’t until recently that I made the connection to this memory. 

I’ve probably assigned more impact to the giving of the gift than was actually there. Or maybe not. I think it draws back to that whisper of when I wanted to write down words. Because I think the idea of wanting to do it is older than me, it has to be because I don’t have why. And the ‘it’ is writing, healing, telling stories and asking questions—anything to do with finding that voice. 

Fortunately, years later, I found it (the help and healing), but there was still a part of me—that little girl who longed to be heard—who stepped forward with newfound confidence. I had just finished the colossal undertaking of completing my book, but I felt lost. What now? My book coach suggested, "Maybe you should try journaling." Ugh. Inside I tightened. This entire once memory shelved, falling to the floor.  My grown-up self resisted the idea, but deep down, I knew it was time for us—the girl within and myself—to have a heart-to-heart conversation. We had things to discuss. So I started to journal. I thought it would help me discover more about me and who I am as a person and a writer. 

There’s not a root cause or an origin story that I can claim to my writer identity because in some ways there are many. I am the sum of all the stories and lives before me. When I think about journaling I feel overwhelmed. The untangling—peeling back the layers and having no destination feels terrifying even for someone like me who teaches (and sometimes preaches, though I try not to) about liberation and love. 

But this is the future me thinking about what I would write before I’ve even put it down (does that count?). The spaciousness of it freaks me out if I’m being honest which is why I began a spiritual practice. Maybe it’s not the spaciousness. It’s the lack of direction. It’s my fear of not documenting anything meaningful. It’s interesting too, because I didn’t approach my spiritual practice with this heavy handed behavior. But I did have to overcome a lot of judgement. However, I’ve got no beef with boredom. There is magic in the mundane. I’ve given dharma talks about this very idea. So why was I afraid to apply this very vital concept to my writing.  I couldn’t see that I was compartmentalizating the process. It’s okay I guess. Everything I do is on the path.

With my writing there was a specific topic that I was exploring and a goal, I never pushed the edges of examining who I was outside of the work I poured myself into.I turned in my manuscript for my for book to my editor and was elated. I’m already working on the next two projects. The third one has started niggling at me at night. 

 A moment of clarity also rose up from the exhaustion. 

I don’t want to be productive for productivity’s sake. We are in the dawn of a new time and this is not business as usual. I want to be fully engaged in the moment and ask myself questions about who I am and what I’ve been avoiding about myself, about everything. And I suppose I could get away not doing any of this, but my spiritual practice has changed my life. I want my identity as a writer to intersect with my humanity, because isn’t that what art is all about?

Journaling isn’t about art though, it’s about me. And that’s where I get skittish. That feels hella loaded on the best of days. I tried to journal on my phone. Creating a folder in my google drive and then taking far too much time choosing a color for the folder, because the right color would encourage me to open said folder to access my journal document. God, physician, heal thyself. But for the record–I settled on red. 

I was committed, journaling pretty regularly and loathed every second. I started to write a substack piece about how much I hated the idea of journaling and realized that this was simply another workaround to avoid the obvious. I was avoiding myself. Even the journaling on my computer had begun to get too crafty–I was editing sentences and wordsmithing. At least I wrote about what I was doing. I chucked that process and pulled out one of the 20 journals I had laying around the house and earmarked one for my journal . As soon as I did this a hot flash came out of nowhere, clearly I was on to something. 

I can’t dodge my bullshit with the pen and paper. It’s a straight line from my head to my hand—there’s no fancy footwork like a basketball player with the ball or a boxer cleverly dancing around and even managing to land a few blows. I don’t know why it works this way for me. Questioning the magic might cause problems, it’s best that I keep the genie in the bottle and stick with what’s working. I sit down and write what happened for the day. It’s descriptive and personal but it’s not art. It’s a record. For me. 

The truth is, I wish I had more records of where I came from. My lineage only goes back so far because of the enslavement of some ancestors. A vision came to me during a recent meditation. I saw my ancestors huddled at the port of no return—that diabolical opening which forced humans onto a slave ship. Sunlight poured down showering them. And there was dancing. And if you didn’t know better, if you were someone who wanted to misinterpret the historical significance of the moment you would say it was giving up but it was a dance of protection and it was a dance for the future. They were wearing yellow and brown. And every single time they turned in a circle, arms intertwined, feet stomping, I know a spell was being cast. “Eya, eya eya yee. Eya, eya eya yee.” Over and over they sang. Chanted. Stomped their feet. Shouted. Protested. They did not go quietly. The circle became bigger and smaller and then they were shoved through that small space. They did not go quietly. The sun is still shining down. And I watched, my hand outstretched…”I  made it I said, I made it. I made it!” I kept repeating through tears hoping they could hear me, feel me. Because I did. We did. They persevered. So I could be here now and struggle to write down about walking my dog? Or what I had for dinner? 

I think maybe I was afraid my record keeping wasn’t enough, wasn’t substantial for what they went through. But I remembered a dharma talk from Lama Rod Owens  right after George Floyd’s murder. A Sister was struggling with something similar, not about journaling but the guilt around not being enough, considering the enormous fucking sacrifice our ancestors made so that that white supremacy could take hold. Comical really, that We feel bad. Are yet, here we are. Anyway, Lama Rod gave this advice that he thinks that our ancestors didn’t want us to keep struggling. That we should rest, chill. Do nothing. Or something. 

I like this. This is the freedom. Maybe in another life I was a descendant of the folks who weren’t at the Point of No Return at all. My descendants were off somewhere else and I am still there on the other side of the world- and I guess in some ways that’s true because we are all one. Or my story is to be right here right now. And my journal entry can be messy and boring because there is joy in the fact that nothing is happening. Maybe I’m like Alice Walker, In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens which loosely in response to Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own.There is joy in my boredom. Magic in the mundane. I can write in peace. Hey journal, today nothing happened. Isn’t that something? I watched the sunrise. I messed up the coffee again. No one was killed. I went to sleep. 

And perhaps journaling daily seems like a low lift for some but for me I feel like a baby giraffe. I will keep going slowly until I run. I don’t know how to do things halfway, I’m in it now. 

I’m not sure what it all look like, what it will feel like, but I’m up for it wobbly fingers and all listening to what's inside, writing it down one sentence at a time. Why do I write?  That’s another question. I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’ll ever know. My journal process won’t be a place to figure that out either. Journaling though is about life. My life and  life around me. The lives before me too. I hear their heartbeats and feel feet stomp inside my soul. Maybe I was collecting journals for all of us. Maybe not. But I’m not afraid of writing it down anymore. I know how to do it now. I’m grateful that I gave my younger self her voice. She’s cozy back in time, feet tucked underneath her pen in hand scribbling down whatever she wants. 

me