Why I Journal

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An Old Journal

“There comes a journey … And there also comes the urge to write it down, to bear witness to our experience, to share our questions and the insights that come from questioning.” ~ Christina Baldwin, Life’s Companion: Journal Writing As A Spiritual Practice

On a shelf, In one of my closets, instead of shoes, I have two stacks of books of all shapes, sizes and types — small, large, colored, plain, thick, tall, thin. Some are the ubiquitous composition books that many of us used in elementary school. Some are beautiful leather-bound books; where, some are simply plain paper-covered books. They are filled with pages that are lined, graph or unlined. (Currently, my preference is an unlined book.) Still others are the ever popular Moleskines and other books that, for one reason or another, I was drawn to for their beauty and more importantly, because they satisfied my ultimate purpose. An observer looking in would barely give them a glance because they look like an innocuous jumble of books with no special significance. However, looks are often deceiving. The one thing that these stacks of books hold in common is that they are my precious journals scanning decades. These unremarkable books, contain portions of my joys, pains, puzzling thoughts, aspirations and hopes. They contain my story.

It is in them that I can be the unsugar-coated version of myself.

“A journal is one of the only places where no one can judge you…. [T]he purpose of your journal is to serve as a mirror for your mind. You are your own universe. Your mind is vast, and even you can’t know of all the passions, insights, fears, and troubles that dwell within. A journal is an effective way to peel back the fleshy onion layers and get to the center of yourself….” ~ Samara O’Shea, “Note to Self: On Keeping a Journal And Other Dangerous Pursuits”

Almost every one of us is familiar with the “The Diary of Anne Frank.” As most of us know the background about Anne’s circumstances and the historical nature of her writings, I will dispense with those background details. (In the event that you are unfamiliar with the details or wish to brush up on the facts, please read here and here.) For purposes of this post, it is in the entries that Anne made in her very first diary that I find most compelling. She wrote, “I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.” She also wrote, “I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried in my heart.” She summarized in a clear and concise way, some of my reasons for journaling — having a confidante, writing without self-censorship and exploring and discovering my inner self.

In addition to the lack of judgment that a journal provides, it is a marvel at listening. My journal is there to record my thoughts, feelings, joys, inspirations, revelations, fears, dreams and all that presents when I am writing — all with no interruption. It is simply me and my thoughts. It is a silent vessel for me to pour out my greatest truths — as well as greatest lies, that I tell myself, many of which I am previously unaware of. For me, the act of journaling is the best way for me to unearth and meet my true self, free of distractions.

There are no barriers between me and the page. For example, when confiding with the dearest of friends, I am often plagued with thoughts of “How will they react to what I say?”, “What will they think of me when they learn my real thoughts?,” “Will it diminish their opinion of me?,” “If I say this, will it be misinterpreted?,” and more. When I communicate with others, even those close to me, there is an unmistakable hesitancy, a reticence, that does not exist when I journal.

When I journal, I no longer have to watch what I say, self-censure, or feel other than what I am thinking or feeling. There is freedom that comes with journaling that does not exist in regular communications. A journal gives me the permission to freely express myself just as I am. It offers me a platform to rant, rave, cuss, question, talk to my God, be brutally honest, express doubts and fears, as well as to face and try to resolve issues that are troubling me. I am able to dig as deeply as necessary to understand the nature of the problem and to, hopefully, expose its cause, and explore all possible solutions. I can question ‘why’ I am the way I am, in a safe and secure environment, so that I can know myself in a more profound way.

My journal allows me to delve into past trauma, hurts and mistakes, thoroughly and in a way that is more likely to bring me to forgiveness and closure. On the other hand, it can dredge up hidden issues that are nonetheless, affecting my life. On the pages of my journal, lay my hopes, dreams, ambitions, and missteps. For example, after becoming pregnant at a young age, and having three children by 21 years of age, journaling led me to understand why I’d acted in the way that I had, acceptance of my situation and it kept alive my determination to buck the odds and to succeed anyway. My writing gave me the temerity and determination to pursue an education that ultimately led me to graduate college with honors and continue on, to receive my law degree.

In the pages of my journal, I record my fears of failure, of taking on too much, my doubts, and the mind-numbing guilt that I felt when I left my family to attend the University of Texas law school in Austin. Although I was 29 years old at the time, it was the first time that I’d ever lived alone, since I left my mother’s home. Journaling helped me through the pangs of loneliness, living in a new city, competing at a top-ranked law school and being so different from the young people around me. It literally kept me from giving up and running home.

My journal was there during the hellacious period after my beloved baby brother’s death when I plunged into a deep dark depression. My journal was my only outlet for the incredible pain that I felt, because in my grief, I shut everyone else out. It was too painful to speak of my grief, but since writing has always brought me peace, I wrote tomes. It documented my thoughts and feelings as I sunk deeper and deeper into a place where there was no light, only darkness and pain, and where I could imagine no escape. Even though loved ones and my doctors repeatedly urged me to get help and go on medication, I couldn’t hear them through the overwhelming grief and sadness. It was my journal that finally convinced me that I had to act or I would lose myself completely. Finally, I relented to my loved one’s pleas and sought help. Although it took some time, I slowly woke from what seemed like a dream, with my journal to remind me that my experience was all too real. Along with medications, I wrote myself back to normalcy. (Actually, what is normal and who among us is normal?)

My journal is also a source of revelation. My father abandoned us (my mother and two sisters) when I was only five. I convinced myself that the abandonment had no affect on me. Through the marriages and the divorces, I clung to that belief, as I left them, before they could leave (i.e., abandon) me. If not for intense journaling, I believe that I would still believe that my belief insulated me from the loss of my father’s abandonment. By journaling, I realized the fallacy that lay in believing that a 5-year-old child had such defense mechanisms. In my case, I stored those feelings of abandonment in the depths of my psyche where they remained, until through writing, my unconsciousness released them and they bubbled to the surface. I hasten to say that my journal is not, and I’ve never viewed it as such, a panacea. Depending on your style of journaling, it can and will bring up issues that are too big for you to deal with on your own. In my case, when that happens, I work with a trained professional to help me deal with the issues and hopefully, overcome them.

Of course, my journals are not only filled with the challenges and difficulties. It also holds memories of the happy and joyful moments that populate my life, like spending time with family and friends, graduating college with honors, being accepted into a prestigious law school, and later being admitted to the Texas bar, watching my children grow into beautiful, amazing human beings, witnessing the birth of grandchildren, the serendipitous and magic, those moments when I’ve felt the arms of God around me protecting me and keeping me safe, and those moments of total stillness and presence when I understand the beauty of life and everything around me. In it holds all for which I am grateful. It was in those pages, after much procrastination and self-doubt, that I finally convinced myself that I had the potential to be creative and began the process of learning to draw and paint, something that I always longed to do. Now, both are burgeoning passions.

I can also thank my journal for convincing me to begin this very blog. I love to write and sought to become a better writer. The idea of a blog presented itself to me through journaling. I didn’t think that I had what it took to be a blogger, but through journaling, I began to see things differently. After months of debating the pros and cons, I created my first blog in 2010. I literally had no idea what I was doing but through trial and error, it became a place to write whatever I wanted, and I enjoy it immensely.

Journaling has been one of the many blessings in my life. Each one holds all the highs and lows in my life, and it shows, in black and white, the growth that I’ve made, and those issues in which growth has been elusive. The pages of my journal are the most accurate gauge that I have of how far I’ve come in this life. When I begin doubting myself, I pull out relevant journals and the entries remind me of my strength, determination, wisdom and perseverance. It holds within it, evidence of the love, kindness, compassion and sincerity that is my true self.

Yet, it knows the good, the bad and the ugly. That is not to say that I am a horrid person with a hidden pass. In fact, most would find my journal quite boring. Yet, In my journal I find a place of peace, forgiveness, atonement and reckoning. It is a classroom where I can try my hand at poetry, creative writing, or anything that I please. It is filled with the wisdom that I’ve gained over a life time of living, making mistakes, learning from those mistakes, falling, picking myself back up, loving, and learning from my experiences.

All and all, no two journalers are alike. If you asked 100 people how they used their journals, you would undoubtedly get 100 different answers. There is no right or wrong way to journal and you have to choose what works best for you and you alone. You might use your journal as a diary detailing your day, you might journal every day or once a week, you may keep a gratitude journal or one of the multitude of other ways to serve your needs. It is your choice, but, however you choose to use it, know that it is your sanctuary for non-judgment, openness and honesty. In its pages, you can find your authentic voice and your best self. I know that is true for me.

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The Long Lost Memory

Pen & JournalImage by Bob AuBuchon via Flickr
Early this morning, as I opened the Harry Potter book that I was re-reading, I discovered two pressed flowers–one a ranunculus and the other, a petite red rose. From their condition, it is obvious, that I’d placed them there some time ago. After appreciating their beauty, I began wracking my brain to recall the circumstances that led me to place these flowers in this book. When? Why?

I have purchased hundreds of flowers over the past years, and there was some reason that I pressed and saved these particular flowers. Perhaps they were especially beautiful; perhaps they held some special meaning to me. What is it? Where is it?  I can not remember. Is the memory buried so deep in my subconscious mind that I cannot easily extract it, or is it, as I fear, that the memory is gone, a long, lost memory, never to be remembered, that special meaning forever lost? Gone to rest where all lost memories go.

I was lost in thought thinking about my life and all of the things that I have done, and people that I have met, knowing that some of these memories are forever lost to me. It saddens me to know that there will come a time when my future self may forget the import and significance of any number of today’s meaningful moments. This is further punctuated by the fact that I have holding over my head, testing to determine whether my “memory issues” are due to the medications that I take for my chronic pain condition, or something much more sinister. Although the testing still scares me a bit, my faith allows me to feel somewhat positive about the outcome, whatever that may be.

The happenings of my life, big, small and seemingly insignificant, form my memories.  Those memories remind me of the trials, tribulations and circuitous routes that I have taken to become the person that I am now, as well as the person that I will become.  They comprise the sum of who I am and I don’t want to forget them. If I do, I lose bits and pieces of me. 

Over my lifetime, I have journaled intermittently, but consistently for more than ten years. Within a matter of hours, my journal has grown from one of those things that “I should do” to something that “I must do.”  It is now my historical record of the sweet, special and important memories in my life, so that in the  future, I won’t be mourning the loss of a long lost memory. It will have to do.

Blessings and peace,
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A Place Of My Own

Everyone of us should have their own space. It needn’t be a room. It can be a corner, a closet, or even outdoors. The purpose is to have your own quiet haven within the whirlwind of a busy household. A spot that soothes you physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally.


I had just such a room; I called it my “yoga room”. I took great care in decorating that room from top to bottom, with input from noone else but me. The criteria for every single item that went into the room was that I had to love it–alot. It took 3 years to finish that room and when it was done, I cried tears of happiness, gratitude and accomplishment.

Months later, my health finally forced me to resign from my job as a litigation attorney, from any job really. It was then that my space became more than a mere space, it became to me, a sanctuary. Although the word sanctuary is typically used in reference to holy places, it is synonymous with haven, retreat and refuge. My sanctuary became my “safe room”. In it, I could laugh, cry, pray, journal, dream, cry some  or none of the above. The choice was mine to make.

My sanctuary served me well for years, but then I had to let it go. My always healthy mother suffered a major health condition, after which, she had to live with me and my husband. My sanctuary became her haven for healing, her home within our home and it appears to serve her as well as it served me all those years. Sometimes, I miss my retreat, my haven, my sanctuary, but not for long, because I still have my mother. A place of my own can be replaced, my mother cannot.

The photo above is one taken by me of my favorite desk and computer that I use to write my posts to this blogs and to explore the internet.  Yet, it has neither the look or the feel of my “yoga room”, but that is alright by me. I am confident that I will find another place to call my very own, but in the meantime, I am carrying my sanctuary in my heart.

Blessings and love, lydia marie

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