Next Thursday I will be presenting “The Art and Therapeutic Benefit of Journaling” to approximately 100 people at the Minnesota Social Services Association conference in Minneapolis.  During my presentation, I will present the research–my own and the research of others over the past two decades–on the mental, emotional, and physical benefits of writing about our thoughts and emotions.  Because I believe research can only tell us so much about a process such as journaling (or meditation, or yoga, or whatever wellness practice being studied) I take participants of my presentations through the actual experience of journaling so that they may understand for themselves the power of their words and the power of this practice.

It’s always a little intimidating to present to a room full of faces, weary from a day spent within conference rooms, pens poised, wanting information, wanting to learn and understand something they can use in their work with others.  What they may not expect is that during their experience, they will be moved and inspired within their own lives, which will in turn, move and inspire the lives of those around them.

I work with them the same way I work with teen moms, kids at risk, housewives, or administrators.  Because, as Joseph Campbell said, we are not humans having a spiritual experience.  We are spirits having a human experience.  We all share space in this same boat.  Therefore, it is through this philosophy–that what we are experiencing is a spiritual journey on Earth–that I teach what I know about the practice of journaling.

The past week, I have been enjoying a book called, “Living Buddha, Living Christ” by Thich Nhat Hanh, in which he highlights the parallels between Buddhist philosophy and the teachings of Jesus.  In the introduction, he presents a quote by Jesus in the Gospel of Thomas that, in light of this upcoming conference, highlights exactly why a journaling practice is so powerful:

“If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you.  If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”  -Jesus

This is true for all human beings–we are on a journey, a journey of our spirits.  Yet, we live in a world screaming with to-do lists, technology, and busyness.  When do we take the time to listen to the voices of our souls?  When do we sit down and listen to our deepest selves, to our deepest desires, so that we may bring them into the light, into existence in our lives?

There is no research available or even possible that can quantify the lasting and enriching effects of practicing the art of reflection and intention.  But I am without doubt that if we all take the time to listen to ourselves and our lives, we will cultivate peace within our lives and our paths.

If you want to touch a glimpse of this experience, try this: Sit down for ten minutes with a piece of paper and a pen.  Beginning with the words, “I am,” write everything that you are.  For example: “I am a writer, I am a mother, I am a teacher, I am sitting here at Barbette writing this blog, I am 39 years old, I am preparing for the conference next week….”  Keep returning to the words, “I am…” like a mantra.  If you are taken off on a tangent, go with it.  Because what you are doing is excavating, digging, getting to the bedrock of yourself and your soul.  Your writing will take you were you need to go.  All you have to do is begin–two simple words will get you onto the page and into your life.

I began writing twenty or so years ago during a time of intense internal struggle and emotional strife.  Writing grounded me to this earth at a time when my ground was crumbling beneath me.  Freefalling and flailing,  it was my pen I held onto for dear life.  It was a while after I started writing, however, after I started naming dreams, coding them into language, and putting them on the page that I realized words are living, breathing things, capable of jumping off the page and into my life.

The journal above began on May 23, 1996, five months into a solo journey through Australia.  My journey through Australia began from seeds of thoughts, of uncovering a desire that I didn’t know I had to travel the world.  Before I began writing, I did not dare to dream a dream so big as to travel to another country, albeit alone.  Before I left for college, I had been to exactly five states total, three of them adjacent to Minnesota.  Possibilities of travel were not discussed in our house, and frankly, were not believed possible.  For the sake of brevity, suffice it to say, a series of serendipitous meetings, overheard conversations, and simply being brave enough to write, “I want to travel across the world,” led me to the day, December 30, 1995, when I boarded a Qantas Airlines flight to Melbourne, Australia with $500 in the back pocket of my Levis, and no plans for where I would stay my first night across the world.

At the time of this entry, I was 24 years old, $70.00 left, hitchhiking up the east coast of Australia.  Here, from the archives of my journals, are my words then:

June 13, 1996- Lookout to Koo-to-Loo, on the top of Dunk Island.  I’m here with Robert who’s a 25 year-old Dutch guy I met in Bowen.  He came to Mission Beach last night and we were supposed to go to Tully today, but my heart was resisting.  I don’t want to go to “Tully,” the wettest place in Australia, to pick bananas.  It’d be fun to live in a caravan with Jason and Robert…but not that fun.  So instead of wasting my time and money waffling, I decided to make the most of the $70.00 or so dollars I have left.  So we took a water taxi to the island, evaded the camping fee, and climbed to Mt. Koo-to-Loo.  We’re going to sleep right here, at the lookout, on the ground.
Yesterday I spent the day ducking under barbed wire and electric fences to pick goldies out of cow pies while a big red bull with horns chewed and stared at us pick through his shit.
Me, Canadian Mikey, Canadian Rob, and English Teresa roamed the pasteur.  Last night we sat on beds, cutting the shrooms into fours, so if one of us got poisoned, we’d all get poisoned.  Then, with the gooey ones, we seeped them in hot water, and passed the ‘shroom tea around in an initiatory way.  I felt like I was a member of some secretive club. 
We walked out onto Mission Beach, and since there was a new moon, the stars were in full blaze.  The Milky Way looked like a big shadow of Santa and his sleigh.  We laughed hard for a while, but then it died and I died out, and the air was chilly, so I laid on the couch and talked with Simon.
Now I’m going to hitch from Mission Beach to the Atherton Tablelands to Cairns, and fly to Sydney where I’ll work and shed my backpacker lifestyle for a while.  I am a little bummed that I won’t be able to dive off the reef, but I have a lifetime.  And I continue to have new experiences every day–my writing is the thread that ties them together. 
Tony’s sending some clothes to Sydney for the winter, and it dawned on me how unadventurous it seems to have the luxury of air mail and fiber optic long-distance phones.  I don’t feel far from home at all.

The last line of that makes me laugh considering all that has changed with technology.  All of it makes me laugh, and makes me so happy that I have a record of something that would otherwise slip into the recess of my brain, tucked in the gray matter, away from memory.

For this and many other reasons, I am so grateful for this simple art of journaling…

Each of our lives is a story–a story with its own cast of characters, its own comedy and its tragedy, its own excitement and monotony, twists and turns, foibles and triumphs–and within each story are thousands of stories that make up a life.  Sometimes when I publish a story on this site and my husband reads it, he turns to me and says, “This story is so personal.  Janna, you make yourself so vulnerable.”

I am vulnerable.  We all are.  So should I keep my stories, my emotions, my fears, my mistakes, my hang-ups and insecurities to myself?  Should I wake up every morning and don a mask of everything-is-always-sunny-in-my-world so that people won’t think I’m vulnerable.

Oh, hell no.

Wanna know why?  Because as much as we need to share our stories, we need to hear the stories from other people.  We get so removed from our own humanity in this world, from each others’ humanity.  Yet, we are human beings standing on a planet, like tiny pins all over a pin cushion, in the middle of a universe no one on this pin cushion really understands.

So yes, I will tell you my stories, and please, tell me yours.  Because your stories will give me strength to live mine.

Where to begin?  Begin with this moment.  Begin with the words, Right now.  Begin with any word, and if you stay with it, whatever story needs to be told will unfold from your pen and stand in front of you.

The story of our lives is the one true thing that belongs only to us.  Share it.  Tell it. Write it.  Love it.

The journal pictured above is for Lucy and begins on April 8, 2009.  This is her second journal.  The first one, which began when she was in-utero, is filled and sitting in a safe in the basement.

I write in Oliver and Lucy’s journals about once a month, sometimes more, sometimes less.  I often write in snapshots, framing a moment in time.  Today I had five minutes to sit down on my red couch, feet up, and write to Lucy while she played with her Lalaloopsy dolls on the floor next to me.

“Tuesday, January 24, 2012
home after going to
Ridgedale Library
after dropping Oliver off at school…

Yesterday, while swinging on the tire swing out back, before we made snow angels along the path out back, one after the other; before we found animal tracks that led to trees and then disappeared; before we walked to Wirth Chalet for some water and a snack of popcorn, you said:
“We are like toys to God.”
*
Saturday night, when Oliver and Dad had “guys night out,” you and I had girls night out.  We went to the Children’s Theater to see a play.  That day, we went to Target, the Gap, Macy’s, and Marshalls in search for the perfect dress to wear on our big date.  For you, we found a gray and black dress with an animal print, a long black sweater, and black boots–so adorable.  I dressed in a black dress that I got from Ragstock and my Frye boots.  Together we ran down the sidewalk along the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, late for Harold and the Purple Crayon.  Magical.
Afterward, we went out for dessert to Gigi’s Cafe, at a candlelit table.  You said, over and over, “Mom, this is the life.”
Yes, yes it is.” 

When I show the kids’ journals to friends or family, they say, “Oh, I wish I would have done that.”  I always tell them, “You still can.”

You can begin now, with a scrap of paper, with a thought, with a moment. 

This morning I woke up having no idea. No idea how to revise the book I wrote, no idea where I’m headed with my work, no idea where I am going or how to get there, no idea how to run a business. Sometimes the Unknown is too big, and I want to hide. Or get a real job. Or embrace what I have and not worry about not knowing.

I know I’m not supposed to know. None of us can know. Every day we step into the Unknown of our lives. But that doesn’t make it any easier when I compare (compare and despair!) myself to other people who seem to know what they are doing.

So I hang on to my ritual like a lifeline–Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, from 6-9 is when I work. In theory. I usually untangle myself from between Oliver and Lucy, who still join us in the middle of the night in our bed, at about 6:20, go downstairs in the dark and pour myself a cup of coffee, (Paul grinds the beans and sets the coffee maker for me every night. To me this equals love.) and read a book on the red couch in the brown room while I wake up, a candle on the windowsill. From the couch, I see my neighbor Dave take his dog for a morning walk. He leaves for work by 7:00. When he pulls out of his driveway, I pack my bag and computer and head back to the Treehouse to write. Or plan a class. Or sketch. Or spin my wheels. Or check Facebook.

I tell myself that if I just show up, if I just hold on to this ritual, place one word after the other onto the page, I will arrive somewhere. I usually arrive at the doorstep of myself. Which is nice. Even if I leave the Treehouse every morning, still not knowing.

A glimpse into this morning in the Treehouse, not knowing:

Dharma, my moral support

When I don't know, I remind myself what matters.

I do know I will be working with youth at the amazing non-profit Youthlink.