A Little Cross Pollination
Thoughts on Journaling
Y’all,
Every now and again I will cross post between my two substacks. I know some of you subscribe to both, but I know some of you do not. So here you go, a post I put up yesterday at my other substack. Please be sure to scroll to the bottom—I have a whole lot of really wonderful opportunities for us to meet up in real life. I’m excited about all these offerings, but I’m SUPER excited about the meditation and breath work meetup happening at the ranch on August 8. I sure hope you can join us. Invite your friends, too. Thanks! Spike
WHO THE HELL IS CRAIG?
I use writing as a means to come back to myself and as a process or method to reclaim my agency, my hope, and a healthier perspective. I write to inform myself. It is my own self, telling my own self how to keep my shit together.
—My very wise friend and spiritual advisor Carol Buchanan
A couple of months ago, I was wandering around my room, enjoying a mild mushroom trip, an activity I once partook in regularly to ease my PTSD, and one I only rarely remember to engage in anymore. Such is the beauty of mushrooms—unlike, say, the alcohol I used to pour down my gullet in great daily quantities, there is no addictive component to psilocybin. Also, the pleasant hallucinogenic effects I experienced during early trips—the colors, the vibrations—stopped occurring. Now, the rare times I remember to trip in the interest of re-routing rutted neuropathways, I just get very mellow and contemplative and peaceful.
That’s just the mindset I was in when, as if pulled by Spiritual Gravity, I found myself standing before one of the many open shelves that comprise an entire wall of my bedroom. And then, without seeking, my hand simply fell upon a small moleskine journal I had started twenty years ago. I thought I’d tossed most of my journals in the trash as part of the slow and informal Swedish Death Cleaning I intermittently conduct, in hopes that when I’m gone my son won’t have to rent five dumpsters to get rid of all the crap I have accumulated. But here was one that didn’t get away.
Curious, I flipped open the tiny book and read a passage that went something like this:
Luisa tells me that Craig is not into me, that that’s just a story I created. I am really pissed off at Luisa right now.
My very first thought was: Who the hell is Craig?
It truly took me a few minutes to call up, in my typically vivid memory, this man who clearly I had had a real thing for. Once I remembered who he was, and how I had bee rather obsessed over him, I had to cringe-laugh. Let’s break it down—the cringe and the laugh.
The cringe came from clearly seeing, at a distance of 20 years, how Craig was just one in a very long line of men I thought I wanted to love me. Men I strived to “make” love me. Men who, like Luisa said, weren’t into me at all.
The laugh came as I thought about how I should (but won’t) send Luisa an apology note. She was my therapist at the time. I see now her blunt truth came from a place of love (and maybe exasperation). The laugh also came from knowing now that she was right, and what a bonehead I was for directing my irritation at her, rather than where it should have gone: at myself.
Mostly though, I think the laugh came from the joy of having lived long enough to finally. FINALLY see my younger self for who I truly was. Successful in so many areas, a life full of abundance when it came to parenting, friendship, creativity, career, travel, passionate hobbies. And yet, a complete “failure” in matters of the heart. Being able to see my younger self from such a distance, the best part was I could extend myself some compassion. I understood why I had made so many poor choices. I understood I wasn’t a failure so much as I was someone who had to sort through a lot of trauma, trauma that had informed those poor choices as I repeated my patterns over and over, seeking a different outcome, which, yes, is a way of thinking commonly known as being crazy.
That journal held other entries, regarding other men. I’m a bit surprised at how much misery I could fit into such a small space. How happy I was that I had hung onto it, clear evidence that all the work I did over decades of therapy had, in fact, worked. This is one of the best parts of being a crone, reaching a place—more plateau than summit—where the view is majestic, where everything clicks, where all the lessons integrate. A place where I feel whole.
To be clear, I still hit many rocks as I paddle along this river we call life. For example, earlier today I allowed myself to grow angry. With a piece of furniture. So I still have plenty of work before me. But compared to who I was, who I have become is—if I do say so myself—very pleasant company.
I bring all this up for a few reasons. First, yesterday was—unbelievably—the eighth anniversary of the day Jason decided he could no longer take it, and chose to end his life. Literally not one single day has passed since then that I have not thought of him. Anniversaries are, of course, especially intense. I spent some time listening to Nick Cave, his favorite (one of mine, too). I thought about how there had been many times when my mind tried to trick my mind into checking out. And I thought about how grateful I am that I stuck around long enough to arrive at a place that is far more peaceful than not, the suicidal ideation that haunted my younger days now solidly a thing of the past.
Though I do not keep a daily journal—sometimes weeks, months, even years can lapse between entries—writing down the demons has certainly been one of the most important tools in my Mental Health Kit. Putting it down helps me sort it out. Reading it later helps me to see where I was, to recognize when I was unintentionally but nonetheless misguiding myself. As with Craig. (Oh I am so tickled I found that entry, and lately my new anthem, when I run into a troubling thought, is WHO THE HELL IS CRAIG?— my own version of This too shall pass.)
It’s probably been thirty years now since I led a writing workshop I really was not yet experienced enough to conduct. I remember telling the attendees that it didn’t matter if they ever got published, that the writing itself was what mattered. I also remember an attendee approaching me after that session and, not cruelly but definitely firmly, telling me basically to shut up about that, because I had seen my name in print, and he had not, and I had no business being dismissive about being published as a goal.
Point taken and I never forgot that admonishment. In the decades since it was issued, how vastly has the world of publishing changed. Everyone is publishing all the time on social media, blogs, substacks. I like how this has leveled the playing field, and I especially relish when a writer finds massive success outside of the world of traditional publishing.
On the other hand, some days it all feels like a glut. There’s just too much out there. It’s not my place to suggest we cease this perpetual public display of words. That would be, at the very least, hypocritical. But I do want to point out that the more the internet is overrun with words, the more inclined I am to seek out other avenues. For example, I love the writing workshops I have the honor of leading, where no more than two dozen folks gather and share their writing with each other. Yes, they might go on to publish their work for a greater audience. But in the room, up close and personal, the words being read aloud to a small attentive group—there is something magic that happens in these very intimate circumstances.
There is also something utterly glorious about an Audience of One Other, a topic I mentioned in my last post here.
And then, most intimate of all, are the words we reserve for our eyes only, the journals written not in hope of future publication. The words put down on the page solely for the noble purpose of sorting our shit out, not to sell copies or impress others. But to find our way to a more peaceful existence.
Though not a daily diarist, I am currently journaling more often than I have in a long time. Some days this feels very self-indulgent, very how dare I kill the trees to record my feelings? But I can’t deny the usefulness of the exercise, and how fun it is to treat myself to letters from me, to practice listening deeply to myself the same way I strive to listen to others.
I can’t resist ending on a silly note here, a story that often comes to me when I contemplate journaling. I once had a boyfriend in the aughts, we’ll call him Warren, who started keeping a daily journal in the mid-80s. We traveled many places together and he kept up the practice even when we were on the road.
One night in Paris, not wanting to miss an installment but feeling lazy, he begged me to type up his entry as he dictated it to me. It’s true, I am one of the fastest typists you will ever meet, and had I agreed, the exercise would have been finished swiftly. But I refused because the idea of it reminded me too much of being a child, when I was forced nightly to remove my father’s stinky socks from his hairy fish-belly white feet for him, and dial the phone, and clean his eyeglasses, as if I had been born solely to be his servant.
Warren persisted though, and finally, after a couple of days, I agreed to take dictation. In truth, I was not relenting, but rather had decided to punk him. As he detailed the weather, the museums, the food, I—with my lightning fingers, and entirely unbeknownst to him—took the liberty of adding in some additional thoughts, namely about what a wonderful, patient, delightful girlfriend I was, and how fucking lucky he was to have me in his life. I’m not even sure he ever went back and caught these embellishments. But I sure will never forget my joy at having entered them.
How about you? Do you journal? Tell me about it.
Great news—I’ll be leading some journal writing workshops really soon. I hope you can join me. Details below.
INVITATIONS TO MEET IN PERSON
Ottine Mineral Springs Classes Y’all I LOVE OTTINE MINERAL SPRINGS! Just an hour from Austin. So healing and relaxing. This coming week I’ll be leading a terrarium making class on Thursday July 23rd at 10 am and a Journal Writing class on Friday July 24th. Information on how to sign up is RIGHT HERE.
Ranch Writing Days, July 25th. I have bumped up to two Ranch Writing Days per month, 10 am til 1 pm. These three-hour session include 70 minutes of writing in the room, then we share. It’s donation based, suggested donation $20. Space is limited so I need folks to register—it’s free to do that and you can REGISTER HERE. I will be serving up fresh baked pastries and delicious Wild Gift Coffee.
Meditation and Breathwork with Varrun, August 8 10-11 am. I have a new friend, Varrun, and HE IS SO FREAKING WONDERFUL. And also hilarious. And also a certified breath work and meditation coach who has led thousands of sessions. He’ll be leading this donation-based session at the ranch, and I sure hope this is the first of many sessions. Space is limited to 20. If you want to reserve a slot, CLICK THIS LINK.
You can check out Varrun’s website here.
Dear Diary at The Loom Creative August 22. I will be hosting this class for women. We’ll dive deep into the healing powers of journal writing and do some writing. A beautiful journal and delicious lunch are included. Plus the setting will blow your mind. Space is (very) limited. Cost is $100. THERE ARE ONLY A FEW SLOTS LEFT. REGISTER HERE.
Hampton Branch Library Writing Workshop. We meet most months on the first and third Tuesday from 5:30-7:30 pm. This is free and you don’t need to sign up, just show up. A fantastic group of writers!
Beginning Weaving Class at the Ranch July 25th with my friend Oie. Flier down below. EMAIL OIE to sign up.
