writing for self-discovery

I’ve been journaling almost daily for 25 years.

My bookcase is littered with binders full of lined notebook paper, covered with scribblings. There are beautifully bound journals, gifted to me, that contain periods of my life, cover to cover. A disintegrating, plastic pouch overflows with more pages…

Gwen and I were setting out on our usual walk this morning, Shall we go to the corn or the mailbox? The large corn fields are to the west, not planted this year. Too wet. But we still refer to that direction as the corn. To the east, the mailbox sits on the other side of the Great River Road at the end of what I consider the driveway, but it’s an actual numbered lane maintained by the township.

We agreed on the mailbox and headed into the sun which was already midheaven and ferocious. Did you hear from anybody? That’s the question that brings us to a recounting of anything that’s happened since our five o’clock social hour the night before. No detail is too boring or mundane to be shared. It’s all of interest.

This morning my sister mentioned an article she’d read in the New York Times, about a woman who had a dream and then wrote it as a children’s story. As it goes, a little girl is fascinated by everyone’s face but can’t find her own. She experiences triumphs and tragedies in her search which, to my recollection, ends successfully. But I was deep into processing by then – relating it to my life, my writing for self-discovery, a search for my face.

The timing had particular significance. Yesterday, going through old photos triggered questions about what else I’d been doing at those times. I found journal entries that corresponded with the pictures and…I shouldn’t have gone there.

Good grief! Was that me? Was my life that dismal? I mean, I didn’t write it as dismal. I wrote it as fact, this is what’s going on. But, OMG! The pain it brings me now, remembering. I didn’t know how to be a wife. I didn’t know what I needed in a partner. Ever. That didn’t stop me from marrying, though. Five times.

I’ve realized that childhood trauma, my mother’s long illness, and near death, left me damaged. Unwilling, perhaps unable, to trust anyone but myself.

That revelation was just one of many that became clear as I journaled over the years. Self-discovery isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s easy to accept the gallant side, the brilliant decisions, the selfless gestures. Chuckle. But when dredging up the subconscious, when shadows loom large revealing jealousy, pettiness, ego, and various and sundry fears growl from the gloom, do I really want to see that reflected in my face?

The better we know ourselves, inside-out, the better equipped we are to manifest our genius and manage the darkness. Awareness is key, and willingness is essential. We’re programmed to default to our faults. They’re the comfortable familiar. Effortless. The high road requires intention and energy.

Perhaps faults is the wrong word. Proclivities, maybe? An inherent inclination toward something objectionable…it looks good on the surface. Your intentions are honorable. But it’s a habitual reaction that, at its core isn’t healthy for you. Unless you look for those goblins and annihilate them, they will run your life.

For example, from my own hidden closet, leaving was my default. I had no capacity for persevering in a relationship to work things out. My intention was never to hurt people, but the by-product of unawareness often harms more than just ourselves. Once I recognized the pattern and was determined to fix it, I’d divorced my fifth husband. There’s no going back, of course, and I sensed the damages from my past that informed the urge to leave were irreparable. My solution, then, was the only humane choice: remain alone.

Etched into my aging face are the successes and failures of a fully lived life. Smile lines far outnumber the frown furrows.

It isn’t finished though. The longer I live, the more grizzled and real (like The Velveteen Rabbit) I become. I find I don’t dread the image in the mirror. The changes fascinate me. There’s a story for every wrinkle, a rich history that’s every bit as epic as War and Peace.