Writing has been one of those things that has saved my life. I remember sitting to journal as a young girl in my bedroom with huge knots in my stomach, signs of anger shattered and strewed across the floor, heavy in my heart, and confusion in my head. Like so many of us, I come from a home of dis-ease; of domestic disputes, conditional love, illness, broken hearts, brick walls and lost connections. I found comfort in my journal. I felt that somehow, someone would share the load with us and ease the chaos, the pain. Letting it all out on paper helped me get through.
As I aged, my coping mechanisms changed. I still found my way back to journaling, but not as frequently as before. I learned to hide behind a veil and bottle it all up. I convinced myself that everything was fine, that I was doing great and it was time to move on. I was ‘happy’. Which meant, no need to write. After all, I was only inspired to write when shit was bad enough. I had moved away from home, to a new town, made new friends and pushed the past away; deep down- ‘I’m good’, I thought.
The fog got thick for a while and then I became conscious once again. I realized, what I was doing wasn’t quite working of me. VERY slowly, I began to pick up the pen and put it to paper once again. To find clarity through the chaos was not my mission, but has most definitely been the fruits I have enjoyed from this art.
I now sit, every day, as a commitment to honoring my depth, to let out whatever it is that is there and ready to be revealed. Somedays, my mind is too busy, my masculine, “get shit done”, is too strong to dig deep. But most others, I am tuned in to my depth, connected to mother earth and the feminine energy that keeps me present and soft- this is where the healing begins. This is where much of the clarity surfaces and not only do I feel alive again, but whole and complete as is.