Do you write? And if yes, then when did you start writing? And what hooked you on it?
Writing and journaling are part of my journey of healing.
I started writing for myself. Short sentences I managed to get down onto the page. I was so weak that all I could do was write one sentence. Often, I only managed to reach my desk, where I hid that first journal. Even if nothing came down onto the page, the intention to write was meaningful.
Since that first journal, I have filled many more. From that one sentence here and there, I managed to get a few lines down on the page—unorganized thoughts of healing. Insights that I had no idea where they came from. It was not my wisdom. The complaints on the page, on the other hand, were always mine.
What is it about the blank page or the lined one and the ink that flows through the pen to the paper, leaving a permanent mark?
Letting what simmered within me onto the page was both exciting and frightening. What if someone saw? I continued because I needed a witness—and if possible, a silent one.
My journal witnessed my journey of healing. The ebbs and the flows, and the confusion of their transitions. It witnessed the many questions I walked with. My search for the spiritual nature of parenting. The same questions that later guided me to re-become. The frustrations, insights, pain, and realizations all found their rhythm and dance in a mess of letters and words.
My green pen of perspective
Colors took my journaling a step further. If I felt an insight of wisdom tickling at the edge of my fingers, I took up my green pen. If I wished for such an insight to help me make sense of the many confusing elements of that time, I intentionally took that same green pen in my hand, hoping for some loving words. Wisdom. Insights. That I knew were not mine.
The green pen was the messenger of perspective. It brought a viewpoint to the letters that created words and sentences in my then still secret journal. It took the meaning from the literal and the whirlpool of emotions and thoughts to the possible meanings of each event or frustrating moment. Until I found myself writing down fewer complaints, and the pages flourished in green.
Writing is healing in so many forms. I never thought myself to be a writer. Structuring words, which captivates me now, was not my thing. Storms, however, come to bring change, invite us to embark on new journeys, and try new things. Writing was part of my transformation.
Writing and Journaling are basic healing tools.
Today, when I meet other moms like me, who face or faced a crisis, asking for guidance, I always check whether writing could be an optional tool—an organizing mechanism for thoughts, processes, and healing. I tell them about my green pen. While arts and sketching, and many other forms, bring the same healing quality, I am grateful for the witness the words provide. Clear. Straight in front of my eyes. Less bound to the interpretations of the witnessing eye.
Pen on paper, blank or lined. At times green, and at other times pink, blue, purple, or brown. I like brown.
Clear words, messages to oneself. Words offering perspective. Always healing, even if they are a reminder of a painful memory. A perspective that allows the observation and gratitude not just for what happened, painful as it may be, but for the growth and gifts that that same memory, word, in pen on paper, brings.
Writing is a journey of freedom and growth. A journey full of beautiful moments, and also of frustrating ones in which the words don’t feel like coming. A delicate dance of attentiveness to that inner urge to write. To create. To participate using the beauty of words. To love. To share. To connect. And to heal.
I needed to heal from multiple injuries after a car crash. Injuries that did not allow me to take care of my daughters for a long time. And into this confusion, I needed to integrate a divine experience of light and love that I experienced in those exact moments of the crash – a near death experience.
The writing was my witness and an outlet for whatever simmered in each healing moment. I thank it for the healing that it brought. For embracing me in its dance and form. For becoming a way to express. To breathe. And to appreciate life.
It can be just one word once a month, and it can be many words that seem to make no sense. Who cares? It’s yours, and it’s mine. And how wonderful it is to now be able to share.
Writing is a journey of freedom and growth. A journey full of beautiful moments, and also of frustrating ones in which the words don’t feel like coming. A delicate dance of attentiveness to that inner urge to write. To create. To participate using the beauty of words. To love. To share. To connect. And to heal.
