It was bound to happen.
I used to be able to withstand all sorts of threats—from the petty and mundane to the major upsets and heartbreaks. I could fend them off with some of the best defenses known to humanity–denial, tears, wishful thinking, and the most powerful of all….hope. If the preferred weapons of choice were somehow ineffective, I would occasionally resort to direct combat with my kick-ass stance and Wonder Woman arm-cross. “Take me on,” my body language would say. “I dare you.” At 5’2, I’m sure my physical threat was nothing short of laughable, (pun intended,) but in my mind, I was a force to be reckoned with.
Now, I’m pretty sure my physical and emotional state looks like more like a bowl of quivering jello. If I don’t get tenderness and proper care, I’m telling you now, in about five seconds, I’m going to be nothing but liquid pooling onto the floor.
I could tell you a million reasons why I’ve been liquidized, all the outside forces that are beyond my control, but the real issue is that they have managed to amass more power then me. They win. For now.
I’m not giving up. I can’t. I’m stubborn that way.
I just need to retreat. Refuel. Pour some R & R into that mass of jello. Fill ‘er up.
Then, watch out baby!
But for now….I’ve got to gather my retreat weapons. Soft blanket, noise-cancelling headphones, a stack of books, cool air. Now breathe. Just breathe.
LoL by: Winnie-Wonka (Picture by: merku)
You know why I laugh every time I look at this photo, (and I literally mean every time)? Because I’ve read my journal too. And I am messed up. But in my journal, I also come alive. I become more attuned to what is actually happening in my life. I make connections I didn’t realize were there. I witness my real, messed-up life, the life that is truly mine, and not the one that is filtered through someone else’s lens.
Therein lies the beauty and usefulness of journal writing. To pay attention to our lives. There is a story there worth telling. There is a soul there worth nourishing. Sure, your family or friends may know some things about you that you might consider intimate, but do they always know what you’re thinking or feeling? Do you? I confess that I don’t. But more often than not, when I write about something that is taking up way too much space in my brain, I discover exactly what it is that I am feeling and what I need to do about it. I am digging up the roots of those weeds.
I also write about the joys, the surprises, the celebrations. With time, everything blurs like looking through a car window in the pouring rain. Or it disappears entirely. With my journal, I’ve saved my memories. The photos may capture the physical moment, but my journal records the emotional moment, the way it felt to experience that little piece of heaven that fell right into the middle of the day-to-day mess, like glitter in a mud puddle.
Especially when my attention is constantly scattered and my thoughts scurry from one thing to another, right when I rarely have the time or inclination to notice what my heart and soul are trying to tell me, that’s when I need my journal most.
Because I’d rather be messed up in my journal than mess up my life. I’m okay with my journal being full of weeds if my life ends up with a little more glitter. And the best part of all? In my journal, I can hear my soul. Sometimes, I even see it. I love that.