Journaling

My first journal entry was written a few days after my eight-year-old birthday. My second was a year later when I rewrote that first entry in my much more impressive nine-year-old handwriting.

From the beginning, even at eight years old, writing was how I got to know myself better. 

When my oldest children were teens, I thought it would be fun to share with them parts of my journal so they could see what was on my mind at their age. They were lazing in our family room when I brought out the letter-sized white binder with a worn leather cover that I'd written sporadic entries from ages eight to eighteen. I read to them my eight year old birthday entry and then a rushed but enthusiastic paragraph I'd written just after doing a a double-flip on the trampoline at age ten. (We were trampoline pros!)

Then we turned page after page of entries that were either angry, angsty or a long list of childhood crushes. My children were as embarrassed for me as I was. Clearly, not everything is meant to be shared. 

But now I look back on myself with compassion. And cherish the journal that was a beloved companion. It let me expunge my big feelings and kept them safe. Getting them down on paper allowed me to be sociable and happy the rest of the time. 

So it's no surprise, when at age forty-three I decided to start writing again using the prompts of Barbara DeMarco-Barrett's Pen on Fire, those writings could better be described as journaling. Once again I was clearing my heart and soul of pent-up fears and frustrations. 

I wrote and I wrote every day for an hour or more. And then after many months, I was done purging and emerged into a world of clarity for my future. I would sign up for writing classes. I would write something real. I could say no to the things I didn't love and say yes to tiptoeing into my dream.