On the vulnerability of writing...

I have always been a person who kept journals. It all started in sixth grade when I won a composition notebook (hot pink, I should add) at a raffle during a class exercise. Actually, now that I think of it, my writing started way before then. I was homeschooled and my mother used to make us write in our journals everyday. We got to choose our topics. My favorites are classics like "Cake Tooth" (about the day my tooth came out in a piece of cake...who would have guessed?) and "Foldings Socks Isn't Fun." Even then I was slightly obsessed with making sure that my writing was paired together with my name. I imagined that my composition book might come apart, scattering the pages everywhere, with no indication of the author of this fine writing. So I made it a habit of writing my name at the end of every single entry. But back to my original point. In sixth grade, I started writing for me. Secret journals that I hoped no one would ever read. Despite that, I STILL wrote my name at the end of every entry.

These entries were meant to chronicle every part of my life. I wanted all the details in case I needed them later. From who I had crushes on, to what I ate for breakfast, to what I was thinking about that day, to my nightly prayers. It all went in there. I probably have close to twenty journals, tucked neatly away in a box in my parents house. They hold the secrets of my past, amazing stories, true emotions, brave insights. And I imagine all the other journals stored in every person's house, all across this town, this state, this country, this world. These pages are precious, promising to keep silent as the author pours out the deepest of confessions. No judgement is given, no response offered. Just the safety of a blank page and a closed book.

We are all the same in so many ways.

I have always believed that writing can help me gain clarity that I couldn't gain any other way. Random thoughts react and create new elements, developing before my eyes on paper, a surprise epiphany. Things that seemed all jumbled in my head make peace with each other, untangling themselves, wiggling out in the hasty curves of my handwriting. This pouring out of myself gives me insight, a rich release allowing me enough freedom to exhale. Now, the wild thoughts racing through my head seem mangeable. I can turn the page, close the book, and let them go until I'm ready to deal with them again. That's how I normally think of writing.

But more recently, writing hasn't seemed like a freedom. It's seemed like a daunting exercise. When I started college, my obsession with chronicling my life stopped. I guess everything seemed too exciting and busy to stop and reflect. Plus, there were some painful times, too. Times when I couldn't even face myself to process what was going on. It was easier to push it away, to not allow myself those quiet moments to think and write. Without that space, something was lost. That ability to wait patiently for myself. We all have wise inner voices. But these voices aren't there to talk just any old time. Conversations have to be on their time, when they are ready. And if you aren't listening, if you don't have that space and time ready for them to speak, you might miss it. The wisdom may be lost, its faint whisper never being heard.

I imagine as if there are many little thoughts and insights living in my head. There are regulars that live there. We know each other well. They live comfortably there, familiar with my ways. Wise with experience. Everyday, new ones come into town though, some frantic and fast moving. Others creep in slowly like dark clouds and stay for days at a time. The regulars might make friends with some of the newbies. They have chats, come to conclusions, and want to talk to me about the way I'm doing things.

But, this all depends on me. Will I give myself the space to listen? To wait patiently while these thoughts tenatively venture out of their homes and reveal to me what they've known all along? Will I silence them once I realize that what they are saying will lead me to conclusions and decisions I am not ready to make? Will I let them leap out of my head and onto my page for my own eyes to process, unable to turn away?

Deciding to sit down and write is a vulnerable exercise. I might come across some messy discoveries, stumble upon some ugly truths about myself, realize there are things I need to change. Do I really want to do that? Maybe this is why I have stopped writing for so long. Forget the typical excuses of not having the time to do it. I think it's that I have been scared to hear my own voice. I have been scared of what I might discover when I really sit down with myself and invite everyone to come out and talk. Maybe it's time for a little town meeting. One where I'm ready to step up, lay my claim to my thoughts, and proudly declare "THE BEGINNING."