How the Light Gets In
After the long, dark inward turning of Winter, the natural world welcomes back the Light. Hibernators crawl out of their burrows, blinking in the sunlight. Seeds swell and pop to find the Light. Green stems push up to meet it. Fields and forests blush with chlorophyll to take it in. Leaves unfold to receive it. Furry friends stretch out in sun-puddles to catch every ray.
But how do we humans welcome the Light into our inner landscapes?
For many of us, writing in a private journal is our way to bring Light into the unlit corners of our hearts. We don’t do this to make pretty poems or stories to show to others; we do it for ourselves, to live fuller, juicier lives by bringing the Light of conscious attention to the details of our daily experience, to the wounds and treasures of our past, and to our dreams and plans for the future.
Many wise and wonderful books have been written on the hows and whys of contemplative journal practice. Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones was earthshaking for me, but if you’d rather spend your time writing than reading about writing, here’s a simple recipe that owes a lot to her teachings:
1. Set your timer.
A writing practice is like meditation: Whether you sit for five minutes or twenty, you commit to a certain period of time and you don’t stop until that time is up. (My three novels have all been written in these little, bite-sized timed-writing sessions.) Even someone as lazy as I am can get my butt into a chair for twenty minutes. And I’ve learned from experience to soldier on to the end of my time-commitment because, when I start writing, what comes out first is what I already know. It’s when I push on, right up to the ding! of my timer, that I sometimes break through into bright unexpected insight. The Light gets in.
2. Write fast and keep your hand moving—moving forward!
Don’t allow yourself to go back to correct, re-read, cross out, revise. Forward. Always forward.
3. Don’t wory about speling, punctuashun, or grammer.
When you were taught to write, it was probably all about learning to play by the teacher’s rules, avoiding the dreaded Red Ink, doing everything Right. Journaling is just the opposite; it’s about breaking down every rule and obstacle that keeps any part of you from having its say. Fast and messy is the order of the day. Sometimes it helps to write in crayon. Sometimes, with the left hand. I prefer unlined journals so there’s nothing to keep me even writing in straight lines.
4. Write toward feeling, rather than away from it.
In the public world of our jobs, churches, and families, if tears begin to prickle in our eyes or our throats clog up with emotion, we often turn away from the feeling, change the subject, divert attention. But in the privacy of a journal page, we can run right at the feeling and dive in. No harm if we cry. No harm if we say something angry and hurtful. No harm if we whine and act petty and immature. In our journals—and I can’t stress this enough—nobody gets hurt! In fact, airing out feelings—letting the Light in—may actually make everyone safer from secret resentments popping out and surprising us at ill-considered moments.
5. Stop writing when your timer goes off.
Some people are surprised by this advice. But I learned it from Ernest Hemingway, a guy who has some street-cred when it comes to putting words on paper. And his reasoning was that it is actually easier to get back to writing if you break off mid-stream than if you wrap something up with a bow on top, nice and neat, finished and complete. And—this is me now, not Ernest—it may be easier to get yourself back into the chair again tomorrow if you keep the commitment short and manageable.
So, if you’d like to turn over a new leaf—see what I did there?—pull out your journal, set pen to paper, and start meandering through the deep woods and hidden valleys of your inner landscape. Get in touch. Let me know how it goes.
