I love to write. Obviously. I always have. It’s something that comes naturally and easily.
I write stories. I write poems. I write lyrics.
I even think story form most of the time.
So, what does this have to do with the letter J?
I hate to journal.
Journaling is, um, real. It is directly attached to feelings. And has a purpose. It is writing for the sole purpose of an outcome containing growth and getting through. And it there is all kinds of room for error, for improper spelling, grammar, and punctuation.
Getting through what? Getting through the roadblocks in my head and the speedbumps in my soul.
I journal about two or three times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends what is going on. I have kept journals on and off for years. Initially, I always balk at the idea. It is frustrating to me. It forces me to look at myself, to be honest, to work towards a solution. And sometimes, that is just not fun.
I write what's real in my journal. I write and write and write. The same things over and over and over. The point of journaling is to find a solution. And that takes days. Sometimes weeks. On the same issue. The words change from day to day, and eventually, the problem words turn into solution words, the solution words take over, and all of a sudden, days later, I know what to do.
As I move through each day of journaling, I re-read the entries and ponder my course of action. As I re-read the entries, I try to ignore the writing mistakes I made in my haste to get all the thoughts and feelings out. Sometimes I get stuck on the mistakes. Sometimes I wish I had typed instead of hand-written my journals so I could go back and correct the mistakes - as if they were never made. This is deflection, not wanting to face the issue on paper, and instead, focus on what I can fix.
But I must hand-write.
As much as I detest the act of journaling, I see it for what it is, and it is finding soltutions. It is unabashedly looking at myself and knowing there is room to grow and change and become. And that makes it worth every minute, every word, every imperfection those pages contain.