As I sat, propped up by cushions, against my faux iron headboard last night, I realised that hadn’t journalled with much depth in a surprisingly long time. There were a few guilty entries, you know the kind of prayers you pray when you’re feeling desperate and out of your depth, but no musings or the self-examination that hallmarked previous scrawlings…
I was aware when this slide began a few months ago. I wasn’t particularly bothered by it at the time; I don’t view it as a spiritual discipline merely a useful tool. Steve has often said, “a tool should serve a purpose, not the purpose serve the tool.” As my entries became more sporadic I merely looked at the rise of intimacy with Steve (often my sounding board) and thought of the openness of my friendships with people like Charlotte, Helen or Freeman.
As I sat, a little hot in the muggyness before our almighty midnight storm, I began to write. Nothing long, or worthy of note, but I used my pencil to scratch away my surface, step back and examine myself. What I found was a soul missing the council of solitude, the private outlet that allows me to arrive in surprising places and can’t hide behind the input of others.
I think I might pick up my journal again. Not because I feel guilt or because it’s a duty, but because I think I need it. I think it helps me to think in a way that doesn’t come naturally to me. xc