I was talking with a friend on the phone yesterday. He asked me what I was doing. I am writing in my journal, i told him. He doesn’t know me too well so it was the first time he found out that I like to write. Do you write in a book or online? Both, i told him. My journals are more intimate though. I write everything. At least I try to. I also try to be completely honest..no bullshit..details are acceptable and fits of anger, lust, longing and frustration very frequent.
He then told me about a former girlfriend of his. How she also wrote in journals. That she had over 10 books. I asked him if he ever thought of writing himself. “you know, my ex girlfriend told me that the reason I don’t need to write is because I am always happy.” Even she rarely wrote while she was with him. because she too was happy.
I liked that comment. It got me thinking.
My sister in law told me something similar once. Before she met my brother, she used to write in journals all the time. She used to fill pages and pages. She used to be miserable. Then she met my brother and the pages of her journals remained empty and untouched. She was happy. She told me she had no more reason to write.
So what about me? If I write, does it mean that I am not happy? I consider myself a generally happy person. I am in love with life, I love people and I’m pretty content to be me. So what does it mean to be happy? To have no problems? impossible. No uncomfortable situations? Improbable. Life is filled with challenges and questions. And writing is my way of answering these questions. Life is also about challenging my own mind. it’s about growing and changing. And all these challenges and questioning moments are what make me (and every human, for that matter) alive and real.
My journal is the portal to my psyche which in turn attempts to answer these questions. It is my way of communicating with that part of me that needs to be heard, that sometimes falls asleep, that hides in a dark corner, that is dying to break free. That part of me that needs to understand why people do what they do. Why I do what I do. It is a way for me to come closer to my own happiness. Which is understanding. Openness. Love. Joy. Forgiveness. Wild pleasure. Experience. And much much more.
But I agree with my friend that I don’t write as much when i am really happy…or perhaps the word is not happy…perhaps it is: satisfied? not in the mood to challenge myself or life? in love? lazy?
I LOVE the tumultuousness of life (minus the drama)…it is like taking a deep breath that engulfs beauty in every form. This is what inspires me to ask questions and to write pages and pages…and then…then…I experience a different kind of happiness. One that tells me: oh yeah! ok! I get it. I have gotten just one tiny little step closer to a sense of deeper connection and understanding of the mystery that is me…the mystery that is you…the mystery that is life.
I grow. I learn. I listen. I watch. I feel. I write.
i think questioning why you write is as important as the process of writing…and i think when people are happy they are distracted…I don’t think people only write when they are sad— but perhaps they write more when they are focused, when they are really trying to work something out, zooming in on something, so to speak.
I agree with you and A.
I have diaries and journals dating back to grade one, and my entries are not always of sadness or anger. Some tell a tale of absolute excitement (i.e. the feeling of hitting home runs) or contentment (i.e. lounging on a theatre stage) or love (i.e. a friend giving me my first and only rose for Valentines). I like to write down observations or just ponder what, why, and how of my thoughts.
I can say, however, that some of the gaps in my journal, the times when I don’t write, are the result of an attempt at escaping whatever I don’t want to examine or think about at that time…
“I have gotten just one tiny little step closer to a sense of deeper connection and understanding of the mystery that is me…the mystery that is you…the mystery that is life.”
I really like what you wrote!
Although I don’t usually write, I do spend a lot of time pondering over those questions… Being almost 47, I still consider myself a mystery TO ME. It’s as if my soul were my own house and -however- I still haven’t been able to go into it. I feel like I’m standing in the doorway. Even though it’s me who has to open up the door, God is the only one who can help me do it but for some reason most of the times I strongly resist. Even though I know it would be much better to live inside I just content myself with taking a peep into the house from the outside. Sometimes I feel I’ll eventually turn the key and “the mystery that is me” will be solved… and I’ll be at home spending a great time with the people I love.
Congratulations on your blog, Michelle!