musings of a melancholic: journaling

Showing posts with label journaling. Show all posts

How do you know your own thoughts? Do they come to you freely or do they fight for your time? Do you hear them when you are occupied elsewhere with dishes or watering plants, are you in conversation with yourself when you look at the sky or when you drive home? When you hear them, are you sure they are your own?

I spend a lot of time reflecting, which is important to me. But I also don't usually talk about those thoughts or write them out. I am in my head, often stuck there unless I can either do yoga, go to therapy, or write. Especially write.

These activities keep me from spinning out - or at least help me spin out with intention.

I was doing luminary sessions with the this ball of light (seriously, five sessions have shifted me in ways I never knew possible), but even a "therapy" session isn't exactly spending time with myself - with my voice alone. Writing has always been this for me. Not nature, not long walks, not staring at the ocean - those all help, but my thoughts run too fast and too free for me to hear them well. And that's fine. Not all thoughts are meant to be pinned down - and many will flee for fear of capture.

But when the thoughts that want to be unpacked come along, the best treatment I can give them is writing. However, like any writer, I absolutely abhor doing it. And yet I ache for it at the same time, the simplicity of purging on page, of making my mind slow to match the pace of my hand.

On Sunday, I opened my journal to write and realized how long it had been since I had written anything for myself. There are many good and valid reasons for that, but I also realized that when I am disconnected with writing, I'm also disconnected from the conduit to myself.

Things change so fast. This time last week, I was happily plodding along in the day-to-day, thinking about my upcoming trips to Mexico and Hawaii (both happening in April!).

Then Friday afternoon, we put in an offer on a house - our 6th offer. Our search for a house has spanned the last 1.5 years, and frankly - I'm detached from the whole thing. Later that evening, during our family viewing of "The Lego Movie," I looked down at my phone and saw that the house status was moved to pending. This has happened before, so I told Joel, "Oh, this went pending. Too bad."

But then our realtor called Joel. While still on the phone, Joel threw me an animated thumbs up that looked sarcastic. But then he got off the phone and told me the news; we'd won the bid. Surprised and a bit in shock, we resumed our movie. We spent the weekend in a little bubble of bliss - peacefully looking at Pinterest boards for new furniture and casually plotting out the house to see what could fit where, what projects needed doing, etc. I wasn't stressed, though I was still in disbelief. I think I still am.

But Monday hit hard. Calls to escrow companies, transferring monies...just a lot of little details coming at me. In the meantime, I have to think about packing and saying goodbye to this beautiful house - which will be a significant source of grief. Plus, our April plans haven't changed. We very well may be signing papers in Maui. Who are we and what have we done to ourselves?

When will we move? How will we tell our landlord? Will I take my raspberry bush? Are the old bookshelves coming with us? Should we sell the old bar tables? Will the couch fit in the new place? Where will the paintings go? When the heck am I supposed to pack? Will we still buy a new mattress? How will the cat adjust? Should we retire the bedroom set neither of us really like? What will the utility bill be at the new place? What will it be like to drive Bowie to school from there? Are we in over our heads?

To keep myself from choking on the excitement, anxiety, and to-do lists - I've decided to journal every day in April. Nothing fancy, nothing profound. Even if it's just lists and lists. I don't want to lose myself in this process and be so caught up that I can't enjoy it.

As I sat on my yoga mat this morning, like every morning, trying to invite my monkey brain to rest, I wondered - if I can slow down for just even 5-10 minutes per day to observe - will there be uncovered richness in these details? What could I learn about myself? What if I didn't try to slog through it through but instead gave myself permission to thrive amidst the chaos?

A mantra has been ringing in my ears since my coworker shared it with me last week,"Don't do more. Resist less."

There is no right way to be Candace in April of 2017. There is no planning myself out of this mess. It's time to be. It's time to resist less.

I have no idea what it looks like to stop resisting. None.
I'll let you know.

Journal Entry

21 (or 20?) feb 2014

I sit at the new table Joel found for us. He and Tice went on a clandestine mission to retrieve it from a craigslist seller and then hid it in the garage until xmas morning. It's great, actually. Copper and wood. Circular and modest, though interesting. The last 4 nights, we've sat at it all together for dinner. Usually, we feed Bowie around 6pm in the kitchen. Then as one person bathes her and puts her to bed, the other makes grown-up dinner - having always horded that time alone together. She's beginning to enter the stage where it's better to eat with her in order to model table manners and family connection, and we've also noticed ourselves to be in a rut...making a late dinner and eating while watching Star Trek until 10:30pm or so. So this way, we are working to face each other again. It was awkward and unpracticed at first (surprising to us how quickly we'd lose the skill, since the majority of our marriage was spent at a dinner table), but now I feel deeply satisfied and fulfilled by the new routine. New routines always fill me, though not at first. Two weeks in, I'm inspired and impressed with the human desire and ability to change. Going on four weeks of keeping to a workout regimen has made me quite satisfied with myself.

I sit at the new table Joel found for us. I hear my music played in the living room. Ambient but full of movement and peace. The sound of black sky pushing stars to the front of the line. I hear my husband speaking praises to Bowie enthusiastically as he gives her a bath. I hear the shower gently pelting the bath water, a new routine of hers...to sit in the water but run the shower. Playing in warm rain. Closing the curtain and asking for privacy. Joel encouraging, laughing, instructing her, giving her little challenges. "Can you reach that soap bottle?" "Want to relax?" This is when she will lay back and he'll hold her afloat. She'll often loose herself in his eyes and quietly say, 'Papa.'

I sit at the new table Joel found for us. I'm purposefully neglecting the sound in my head that tells me I'm neglecting my duties. Usually, I would be cleaning the kitchen or straightening her toys or putting out pjs and turning on the space heater in her bedroom. We've made an agreement that if one person does bath/bed, the other cleans or cooks or gets ready for the evening in some way (pouring more wine, lighting candles, queuing up Star Trek), but Joel has told me he doesn't mind if I relax (what's new? I've NEVER heard him say otherwise) so I sit here at the new table. Dishes still uncleared, food consumed. These plates literally an empty symbol of the privilege I possess to fill the bellies of my family, aching as I imagine what it must feel like to not be able to. I made Ina Garten's meatloaf recipe and mashed potatoes with rosemary salt and sweet corn. I'm nursing a French Sav Blanc, Joel opened a Spanish blend (grenace/monastrell).

I sit at the new table Joel found for us and check in with myself. Yes, the familiar fatigue. The same nagging question. The eternal presence of discontent which asks too much of me; a lie that always wraps up the lives of others' into more beautiful packages. Motherhood keeps me so busy, though I couldn't tell you at what. I want something more, but I cannot conceive of a way to add or sustain anything else. Writing has been on the back burner in lieu of mirepoix and caramelizing onions and chopping garlic. Reading turned over a new leaf and now I exercise, making me too tired to read when I used to - at nap time and bed time. A new satisfaction, but an empty journal and neglected piles of library books.

I sit at the new table Joel found for us and marvel at our power and determination of connection, considering how different our lives are right now. The most divergent they've ever been. He, in a constant barrage of conversation, tasks, and stimulation as time bolts from his day. Me, in a constant barrage of shallow solitude, that is to say I am alone, but never quiet. Too much reflection, not enough purpose. Not enough of the tasks that make me feel important and too much of the tasks that actually are important. It's confusing.

Later, I'll clear the table and smirk at Joel's voice reading to Bowie. She has such an opinion quite suddenly regarding the books she wants to read. Smugly, I love that she prefers the BabyLit books (esp Wuthering Heights). I'm illogically proud, and then I remember that to be a good parent is to force your kids to like cool things.

After I leave this table, I'll sink into the hand-me-down couch next to Joel and watch Star Trek (Voyager. Our 2nd time through.) We'll finish off our bottles. We'll eat something sweet. We'll say goodnight.

[crm]

A least a few moments each morning are spent in this alcove of the house. I usually write a few pages in my journal and Bowie is usually content to play with her toys and practice her sitting up, her cooing, and her fine motor skills.

A lovely, lovely few moments,

most mornings.

Greetings. I have the Monday sickness, which is a fierce desire to organize my life, clean everything in sight, plan every meal for the week, and cross off all my 'to-dos.' When this becomes impossible, right around 2:00 pm, I begin to despair and cry out for my former life. By 4:00 pm, I am recovered and playing happily with Bowie. This crazed self will settle down until next Monday, and instead of planning all the things I will do, I just do what's in front of me. It works out, I suppose.

I believe it is called 'acknowledgement of limitations.'

Aside from that, I would like to announce the I have finally managed to pinpoint my life's dream. Dreaming is a bit hard for my detail-oriented brain. In fact, that is one of my marriage's great strengths. Joel dreams, but has a hard time breaking down that idea into manageable tasks toward completion. I, on the other hand, am firmly rooted in the practical. I struggle to see the big picture, because as soon as he begins to dream aloud, I see the action items necessary. I often care nothing for the grand idea; instead I find immense existential meaning in completion of tasks. This freaks some people out, whereas some of you resonate easily.

Though neither way of being is more virtuous than the other (indeed the human race needs both types of people in order to thrive), I do think each person should learn to posses both traits. Naturally, I prefer my way of being, but I've been speaking to myself a lot about dreams, and trying to really keep in check the overly practical side of my brain - you know, for balance sake. I am not terribly successful at it, because I have noticed that all my answers to what I want to do vocationally are still so dryly practical - I certainly do have difficulty reaching beyond what I perceive as possible.

Today, I found a small answer to this cosmic question. I want to remember that a vocation, the work of my hands and life, does not necessarily translate into a job. What I mean is to clarify that asking yourself what you want to do with your life is not the same question (and therefore should not necessarily have the same answer) as asking yourself what your dream job may be.

We all need to feel useful. The work of our lives is key to our identity and happiness. As Americans (read workaholics), I think we automatically equate life satisfaction with job satisfaction. "What's your dream job" is synonymous with discovering the point of your existence. I think it's dooodoo. For some of us, I think the path to personal fulfillment comes by separating these questions. For others, it makes more sense to marry those questions.

Either way, as I was journaling this morning, I realized my dream!
(I implore you to please forgive the horrendous spelling errors)

Easy.

Wherever it is that Joel finds this unending source of love, to which he bestows upon me in such attentiveness, I must find. I must locate this resource in myself.

You've no doubt noticed me writing a lot about marital stretching, musing on the pains and pleasures of a maturing wife. I've made some sense of it, with the help of mental pictures and a patient therapist. Allow me to share.

For the last four years, I've been in a deconstruction phase. First, I found courage to take apart family and not be afraid of separating myself from what I found toxic. Then my soul directed itself to question all things religion, church, god and the Christianity in which I was raised. After god, it was taking apart myself in the form of my external beauties and internal artist. As if that weren't confusing enough, I then had to start honestly examining my marriage.

I began this process standing on solid high-rise, a weapon of destruction handed to me by the very things I doubted. Despite my best efforts to ignore the need to deconstruct everything I loved, I still I distrusted the stability; I needed to destroy it in order to test its substance. The fear of hurting others in this process with my flying debris, or that I wouldn't be able to put any of this chaos back together, paralyzed me for much of the process. I pushed through, but as usual, my soul didn't give me a choice. Its message has always been very clear: Engage or die.

There I am, standing on this structure, swinging a sledge-hammer, reluctantly. Finally, it's all torn down, all in crumbles. My face is streaked with dirt and tears, and I'm petrified, "What the hell have I done?" Boulders of what used to be my beliefs, my identity, and my relationships lie cast about in wild and painful destruction. I'm sitting on a boulder, observing all of this. I am so tempted to gear up and hastily put it all back together. But what if I didn't have to? What if they weren't mine to put together in the first place? What if I don't have anything to do with it, oh goodness. That thought sends thrilling relief through the spine of my soul.

Instead of the impulse to reconstruct something recognizable as Candace, I finger through the pebbles and dirt. What I am finding is gold nuggets of self and gems of goodness upon which this new me will no doubt be built. Some are remnants from my previous self, some are forged as a result of destruction.

I was drawing this visual of me sitting on a boulder in my journal last night. Joel returned from the store, and asked me to explain (it was hardly recognizable as my drawing abilities are laughable at best). In an effort to glean from his abilities, I asked him to please draw me sitting atop a boulder in a field of rocks and pebbles. He did so, but then the most beautiful thing accidentally happened. He continued with the drawing, sketching a tree, himself in it, overlooking the deconstruction of my soul, communicating with the cosmos in his cerebral way. He's so patient with the stars, the vastness of the universe. Of course he could be patient with the vastness of me. It's nothing to him. The addition of himself to this picture made me shed a few unnoticeable tears.

I had no guarantee that I would find him here, and I am tremendously relieved that we've been given more time to be together.

I admire him so,

In the hustle of the soul's incessant clamor
   (feed me entertainment)
   (feed me inspiration)
   (feed me solitude)
   (feed me time with others)
One can forget that there was indeed a weekend.
But there WAS.
There was indeed herself taking care of herself amidst taking care of others.
I tell you, soul.
It happened.
You are walking the line of working artist.
Be at peace.

The reason you know?

A photograph.

Always, a photograph.

Be at peace.

This year didn't go quite how I expected it to. Of course one can never fully prepare for:

Death
Divorce
Friends moving
Cancer
Rejection
Transition
Disappointment
Failed dreams

but even with that understanding, I can't help but leave this year feeling disappointed somehow. In her wisdom, my sister says that's the way things go...everyone has their onslaught of bad thing after bad thing and then things begin to turn around and life becomes easy and the good sticks around for a while. I feel that things are starting to settle, but I am straining my neck to see the part where the good sticks. It still seems unattainable, precarious despite there having been so much good recently.

For the last few months, I've given myself a lot of leeway regarding maintaining my artist lifestyle amidst full-time work. But this last week, I've been increasingly disappointed in myself for ____. I don't know what. Maybe not having enough energy, not taking care of myself enough, not calling my friends enough, not giving enough...but mainly, for not writing enough, for not shooting photographs enough. Today, I am sick of this disappointment. I want to dig deep and remember my wise, capable self. Today's mantra is this..."Self, I trust you with myself."

I took myself to coffee yesterday morning and while I thought I was going to read some of my favorite poets (recently Hughes and Arnold), I actually found myself reading my own journal. I forgot that one of the most beneficial things about journaling in the first place is re-reading your own thoughts...remembering as only you can where you have been and what have you processed. Remembering that you have been amazing and will be again.

Just as I was bemoaning the loss of my art, I stumbled upon something I had written a few weeks ago. It soothed my soul. Imagine, myself taking care of myself...this may sound basic to you, but I firmly believe that the ability to comfort oneself is not easy to come by.

2 November 2010

11:01 p.m.

"Thinking about art/self-perception. This summer, I felt as though I came into something as a writer - in that, I WROTE. I saw that to BE a writer, one must ACTUALLY do it. It was good, so satisfying and good. Thinking about now. I've not written in days/months/years it seems. Does this negate all I came to this last summer? I mean to ponder the notion of self-titles, of the DOING to being an artist. Is it as important or more/less so than simply the BEING an artist? Can it be so tied to producing? My gut says an emphatic "no." The doing NEVER matters as much as the being, but how to wrap my soul around the principle? Or is it a matter of timing? Can I have been because I DID and now am a writer even if I am not currently doing it? Is Dillard only a writer when she is working on something? No. She has done it in the past...there are tangible evidences of her having written. Does this undo her self-definition going forward? Does it matter then if I do it often? How often...every day? Every second? No, of course, no. So what matter is time, then? Is it even important to still title myself as an artist? And if so, to whom? I KNOW no one else cares how I title myself (and if they do, it doesn't matter, MY self-definition is not their business). I feel my soul here jerk, because I did fight so hard to find that definition. That I am now willing to let it be whatever it becomes, does that negate the past work? Is writing so true to my essence that it doesn't matter HOW I label it?

The DOING. I think it must not matter as it used to.

It's just...only ever...

THE BEING.

for me.

for now."

And so the truth is that I am done being disappointed in myself. I cannot do what I used to do when I was home all day. Who even says I am supposed to?

"There is only the fight to recover what has been lost

And found and lost again and again"

T.S. Eliot

And. So. It. Goes.

This week has been a whirlwind. I've found that I am a bit less capable of handling stress than I thought. My heart still races, my breath eludes me, my mind obsesses. Fear at being stressed is so much worse than the actual tasks at hand.

It's very early. I am unable to sleep, so I open my journal and read last night's entry. I sat at my kitchen table and took in a rare moment of pure silence.

"How to describe this beautifully heavy silence. I sit and the only thing I hear is a steady, faint drip of rain...an occasional whoosh of trucks driving by. Stress and fear have returned this week in drastic measure and I am left to doubt myself, questioning if the peace of the last year was due only to the fact that I had leisure time. God I hope not. I am so afraid of losing myself again...but if I examine it without the fear, if I can imagine it all being sucked up by an existential, infinite vacuum (I just watched "I Heart Huckabees") then there is nothing left...no stress. Truly, I fear the fear more than the actuality. In the moment, I am quite capable, and all I need is strength for that particular moment, not for the rest of my foreseeable future. Back again to the ease of the moment."

In the next few weeks, I am transitioning back into fulltime work. I've been racked with personal questions...Am I capable of going back to work and still being a writer? I do think so, but God...I am scared. Can I figure out a work/life balance that still allows me to write, take pictures, meet friends? I do think so, but God...I am scared.

But that's today. Yesterday, I found a moment of ease. I close my eyes and cling to the mental picture of me sitting at the kitchen table, reading a letter from her, grabbing my journal, scribbling peace, and realizing that I am still quite capable of taking care of myself.

Self, there is really nothing to fear.

[ From my journal ]

[ 1 September 2010 ]

"I suppose it just occurred to me that despite the tribulations (significant as they were) of the past year, I am happy. Happy to me means finding stillness. Despite a constantly changing whirlwind around me, I stand content in the hurricane of instability. I was just preparing a cup of peppermint tea. It's only 8:30am and I've already made zucchini bread, showered and dressed, and have sat down to write. It was during the heating of my water and opening the yogi tea packet that happiness dawned on me. "May your inner self be secure and happy." I agreed with the wish and then realized I was already there. Shocked at the idea, I quickly scanned my life to grab all the reasons why this preposterous notion could not possibly be true. Many circumstances, significant sadness, transitions, finances, relational complications - but alas, I look out my kitchen window and felt remarkably good inside. It might be the calming fog of Fall, the cool weather making me crave classical music and challenging literature, but more so I believe it is because I've managed to take care of myself.

I've done a lot of work in the last four years. When I failed so miserably at self-care while teaching, I had to spend so much time sifting through a flea market of tools...picking up many to find they were not intended for me. Now, I have a carefully planned shelf (a self-care cabinet, if you will) all for me. I can now easily find and reach the things I need to do to love my time alone and get the most soul out of a sporadic and scare amount.

The hope.

Another significant symptom of my depression. When depressed, the only banal question plaguing my thoughts is to ask "What's the point?" Often with a bleak answer. Some answer MUST be found in order for me to find relief from the weighted sadness. Now, although I have no answer, the very question plagues me less. It seems really far away in a forbidden forest...or if I can access the question, I feel it is somehow not intended for me right now. I hope to god this does not make me naive. But the hope is back."

In an ethereal, existential, transcendent way,

I think I'm finally getting better.

Well, in the 12-month challenge, November was BY FAR my favorite month - perhaps because people joined me in it. And yet again, I am humbly reminded that I am not an island; community is an integral part to inspiration and self-care. It was cool not only to form new friendships, but to both give and receive written mail. All of the challenges represented in the 12-month challenge are selected because I want to increase these things in my daily life...so I do hope that I'll be able to continue writing mail two or three times per week.

It's fun to be in a house where my mail has been received...it's like MAGIC!

So far, the months have gone a little something like this:

August: Stick to a budget
September: Claim the space for my new country home
October: 25 photographs per day
November: The month of mail - write a piece of mail each day.

So now the question remains, what to do with December? We are already TWO WHOLE days into it, and I think perhaps this month will continue the writing theme. Last December, I hosted a photography collaboration on Flickr called A Shot in the Dark: December Evenings...it was so fun. I miss those collaborations, and in the name of that, might do one in January.

So December, you busy little month, you...how about this. Every day for December I shall commit to journaling. Journaling is something I do regularly, though not regularly enough for my taste, and since most of what I read are other artists' journals, I am inspired to do the same. Shall you join me?

I did not bring my journal on my trip, and I won't return to it until December 11, so I think I might just have to type it...bah humbug. I like pens and scratchy sounds on paper.

Maybe my saint will bring it with him when he joins me this weekend for our trek home.

Or maybe this month should be a commitment to finish my now WAY TOO LONG read of The Brothers Karamazov. I am losing quite a bit of continuity prolonging the read over so many months. Russians do not like to be put on hold like this, and I can feel myself loosing grip on Fyodor's message. Perhaps I shall drink vodka, eat caviar, and read every night? Hmmm.

As you can see, I am still a bit undecided. Perhaps then December should be the month of indecision. That should be fun.

Wishing you lots of hot coffee and chocolate cupcakes, trust me, it makes a grand breakfast,

Especially write.

The New Table

Most Mornings

the dream!

on the up and up

there was a weekend

on disappointment and self-definition

ease in the moment

a peek into happy

DECEMBER, I WELCOME THEE INTO MY BOSOM

Bonjour & welcome

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