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.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Treehouse
Blustery, bland, monochromatic outside
Warm candlelight, Aveda rainforest, quiet inside

This is the place where I write, the place where I dream into the future and reflect on the present.  This is the place I recharge, revise, renew.  This is the place where we gather and spill the wine or blow the steam off the top of our tea.  This is the place where I work it all out in my head.  This is the place where I get perspective, where I go when I need to walk away.  This is the place where I meet myself, on the page and in all of the little things I place around to remind me to stay close to the heart and soul of my life.  This is a place for which I never dared to dream, but that reminds me we are not meant to know, that we must leave space in order to discover.

This is the Zen Adventure Treehouse in Minneapolis:

My greatest enemy is a total asshole.  She is always trying to hold me down, hold me back, make me question who I am and what I can do.  And she likes to come around when I am least able to resist her mean words, when I am tired, hungry, or hormonal.  She is so crafty, so clever, relentlessly pushing the most painful buttons.  She thrives on stealing my power, making it her own, leaving me weak and unsure, filling me with self-doubt.

You can’t believe the things she tells me.  When I am writing, she whispers, “Blah, blah, blah.  This sounds so stupid.  You’re not a real writer! You’re almost 40 and you’ve never published a book.  You’ve barely had anything published at all!”  When I am racing my bike, she follows me around and says, “You’re not a real racer or you’d take this more seriously.  Real racers train–you just fart around on your cruiser bike.”  And right before I teach a workshop, she stands before me and taunts, “You are a fraud!  How’d you get here?  You don’t know what the hell you are doing!”

See what I mean?  She gets her energy by stealing mine.

Sometimes, when I am out with my husband and we walk into a room filled with beautiful women, she sneaks up behind me and sneers, “Look at you with your trousers and Chuck Taylors!  When are you going to grow up and start looking like a lady?  Paul must be embarrassed with you on his arm!” And she stands behind me when I’m looking in the mirror and taunts, “Nice canyon down the middle of your forehead!  You should get Botox or something, for god’s sake.  Look at you!  Stop thinking so much!  Everyone can see you have the weight of the world on your forehead.”

She even sneaks in when I am hanging out with friends.  She likes to tell me that I should stop talking so much, that my friends don’t want to hear another philosophical rant.  They don’t want to talk about feelings and all of that crap.  “Can’t you just lighten up and make some damn small talk?”

I’m used to her by now.  She’s been around as long as I can remember.  In college she used to tell me I was fat.  In high school she said my clothes were old and ugly.  When I was in grade school, she told me my Dorothy Hamil haircut was hideous.

I used to believe everything she said.  I used to let her hold me down.  But then I began to realize she’s just a big, fat liar.  Deep down, she’s just a little girl who is unsure of the world around her, unsure of her place in it.  The reality is, she needs me.  She needs me to listen to her, because if I don’t, no one will, and she is afraid of her own annihilation.

She’s been hanging around lately, telling me all sorts of lies.  I’ve been sort of half listening, half ignoring.  But today?  Today I took her for a walk in the woods.  I showed her what I know of the beauty in life, told her about my home, my family, my friends, my work.  And then I put my arm around her and said,

“Now that you’ve gotten all of that stuff off your chest, let’s let it go for now.  Let’s walk together into the Unknown, into our wildest dreams.”

And so we did.  And so we do.

in·spi·ra·tion:
a : the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions; b : the act of drawing in; specifically : the drawing of air into the lungs; c : the quality or state of being inspired.

My alarm went off this morning at 6:00, as is usual for Friday.  Most Fridays, I have a bag packed with my yoga stuff ready, the coffee maker set for 5:45, and journal, pens, and computer in my bag, ready at the door.  But last night I was too tired to pack my stuff, too tired to set the coffee maker, feeling the slowing down and coming in that happens in the dark and cold of late-November.

So I hit the snooze, and laid there in the dark, calculating how long it would take me to gather my stuff, make the coffee, and get across town by 7:00.  I didn’t make any decision before the alarm went off and I had to hit the snooze again.  I continued to try and coax myself out of bed, “I need to stretch, need to move my body, need the zen of a candlelit yoga studio as the sun rises  But I just. don’t. feel. like. it.”

(snooze).

But then I had a revelation.  I realized, laying there in the midst of my apathy, “I need to get on my bike!  I need to speed up my heart, get my blood pumping.  I need to inspire and perspire.“  I’ve been enjoying long hikes in the woods with Dharma this fall, letting go of all things cardiovascular for a while, letting myself slow and watch the season fall toward winter.  But there comes a point when I need turn it up, get the lymphatic system flowing, and just breathe heavy.

So I put on my leg warmers, my wool socks, cords, tank top, long-sleeved shirt, hoody, puffy jacket, and winter riding mittens, and threw a dry tank top, stocking hat, and scarf along with my computer and journal in my pannier bag.  As I was getting ready, Paul checked the weather and called happily across the house, “It’s not even cold out!  It’s 36 degrees!”  Oh the relativity of living in Minnesota!

Anyway, as I pedaled my bike along the parkways en route to Uptown, my lungs pushing against my ribs, my ipod blaring, the golden sun taking its sweet time to rise, my shadow biking long across the fallen leaves and tall grasses next to me, I pushed out the stagnation, and woke myself up.

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”  ? Howard Thurman

This morning, I gave myself exactly what I needed.  Because no one else can do this for me, no one else can make my heart quicken and push the stagnant air from my lungs.  And really, if we do not take care of ourselves, no one will step forward and do it for us.  Only we have the power to breathe life into our days, our bodies, our minds, and our spirits.  Through pushing against our boundaries, waking ourselves up, and asking ourselves what we need, we inspire ourselves first so we may be alive in this world, alive for everyone around us.

Writing does this for me.  It breathes life and reflection into my days, it relieves and awakens me.  But writing is not enough, as is no one thing.  We are responsible for all aspects of ourselves.  We are responsible to take this life and keep it vital.  We each have this power, this possibility.

What we do for ourselves, we do for another–when we are inspired, we become pure inspiration.

How will you breathe life into yours and those around you today?

I don’t mean to brag, but I come from a champion lineage–rampant alcoholism on one side, suicidal depression running a deep, underground river on the other.  There are many gifts to recover from this kind of lineage, if we are lucky enough to meet friends who keep us sane, whose parents invite us over for Christmas Eve celebrations, or have a creek near our house along which we can play “explorer” and escape the thick shame inside our houses. Gifts like resilience, that overused word that means we did not end up drowning in a bottle or offing ourselves; and humor, seeing Life through a slightly tilted lens; and empathy, being able to deeply understand the pain of growing up in near-constant emotional strife.

For all of these gifts I am grateful.

But I am most grateful for the gift that was silently given to me, like it was placed under my pillow one night while I was sleeping.  The gift that was given to me from Up Above, from Deep Inside, which is the simple desire to write.  Not to write for a specific purpose, just to write as a place to lay it all down, to see Life and my place in it, a means through which I can navigate the incessant waves of living.

“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn how to surf.”  -Jon Kabat Zinn

The implication of this lineage, that I cannot escape or even write away, is that a fight with my husband is not just a fight–it is a state of emergency.  It is here-we-go-again-I-will-be-alone-forever-and-my-kids-will-hate-me-and-I-will-end-up-dying-alone-in-a-hospital-in-Florida-just-like-my-mom.  A simple argument taps into that place of unworthiness, that fear of being abandoned yet again.

But I am learning, through writing, that I can be in this place–be in a place of pain and fear, be sad, be scared, be white-hot mad–and sooner than later, like thunder clouds passing to yet again reveal the sun, these emotions will come to pass.  In the safety of retrospect, I can see how just sitting with myself, sitting with my emotions and naming them, can save me.

Sunday, October 23, I was in this state.  And instead of running, which was the coping technique of my past, I sat with myself and decided to write right through the storm, to feel everything, to be brave, and weather the storm.  In this charged state, I wrote the following poem:

Fear feels like a weakness in my hands
sour feeling in my gut
heavy
lugging a pit
squeezes my stomach
horrible feeling.  I’m lucky I don’t
live with this feeling
all the time.
I live with it time to time.
It comes.  Takes up residence in the pit
of my belly.
It is the opposite of free.
But sitting here in the Treehouse
I see
the things I fear are
imaginings.
I trust myself–no I don’t.  I need to.
I need to know that I will take care of me
In a gentle, reflective, inspiring way.
I always have.
when I am inspired, I am also filled with
hope and love.  The antidotes to fear.

I won’t become the poet laureate anytime soon, but these words got me to the other side of that storm.  And for the simple act of writing, I am grateful.  As I am grateful for my champion lineage.

The mission of John Fox’s “Institute for Poetic Medicine” is to “awaken the soulfulness in the human voice.”  How wonderful! What a life well lived on this earth, for him to have set out on this mission.

Thinking about his mission this morning had me thinking about being me, about being a human.  Writing about my life for the past 20 years has stripped me of my skin, made me raw and vulnerable.  I think this is because writing about our lives brings us again and again to the bedrock of our souls, to the place where we feel so acutely, where there is no way to escape the intensity and vulnerability of Life on this earth.

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”
Teilhard de Chardin

This morning I meant to write my next “Art of Life” class.  But instead, John Fox’s mission struck something in me, and this is what bubbled up:

We must live
within the soul of who we are
we must allow ourselves to cry when we are hurt
or angry
or frustrated
so we can release the valve, release the pressure
of trying to hold back our humanness.
Be human.  For God’s sake!
Because when we are, we allow others to
be human, be themselves.
Each and every one of us shares the Path of the Unknown.
None of us are immune to hurt, disaster, or tragedy.
For each of us, today may be our last.
So hold yourself with gentle hands, and
hold others with gentle hands.
We are all so vulnerable.
We are all so human.

Be bold and free in your humanness today.  We all need you to be just who you are, so that we can be just who we are.

]]> http://www.ourlivesourstories.com/2011/11/to-be-human/feed/ 0 http://www.ourlivesourstories.com/2011/11/real-life-is/ http://www.ourlivesourstories.com/2011/11/real-life-is/#comments Wed, 02 Nov 2011 15:18:08 +0000 Janna http://www.ourlivesourstories.com/?p=915 November 2, 2011
Treehouse
Minneapolis
quiet
candle flickering on my desk as I write

“Real life isn’t out there in the future somewhere.  Real life is not going to begin when we move into our own house at long last, or when I figure out what to do with myself, or when we are out of debt…Real life is now…Real life is just where we are in this moment, and the only mistake we’ve made so far has been not to pause long enough or often enough to realize that even this odd in-between time is precious, fleeting, and worthy of our attention.” -Katrina Kenison from “the gift of an ordinary day“

Here is what “real life” has been for me this past week:

Real life is having an argument with Paul, crying as I drive Oliver and Lucy to school to find out that it is “Parent Day” at Lucy’s preschool and I look like I crawled out, puffy-eyed, from under a bus.  Real life is sitting in a rocking chair in front of Oliver’s first grade class, reading “Stellaluna.”  Real life is laying on our bed facing each other after putting our children down in their beds for the night, figuring out how we can maintain balance in our days that rapidly fly by.  Real life is Halloween crap all over the house–feathers from boas, masks, orange pumpkin art, candy wrappers.  Real life is Dharma laying at my feet, inky darkness outside, early in the morning, as I write into the Unknown.  Real life is not knowing what is to come and trying to be at peace with that.  Real life is my hands looking older after 39 years of long-hand writing and living, the sprout of gray in the middle of my head.  Real life is planning to clean the house and sitting in a foyer at school with a friend, talking instead.  Real life is sitting on a stool in my neighbors kitchen, having a glass of wine while our children play in the basement.

What has “real life” been for you?

Have a blessed day living and honoring life as it is, your real life.