With the thrilling news that National Treasure is finally getting a totally unnecessary but also quite necessary sequel, I want to make a “Book of Secrets” tie-in and talk about journaling — a practice that used to be as common to my days as breathing, cross-country running, and skirting bullies in the halls.
I say “used to be,” because I don’t journal as much anymore. Maybe once a month? Maybe. Maaaybe. I think every 45 days is a more accurate average from the last year.
And I really want to change that in 2020.
I’ve had a bit of a journey with journaling since my youth. When I had no friends and no other outlet for my emotions and the messy travails of my life, I spilled those secrets onto the page. From my elementary to teenage to early twenty-something years, I filled books upon books with adolescent angst.
They’re all stored away in a giant duffle bag now; it’s enough heavy-laden words to sink a battleship.
On the one hand, it was good to talk about all that stuff somewhere; on the other, I needed more humans in my life — like really in my life. Boy did I.
Thankfully, I’ve garnered many-a-friend since penning all those heavy books of secrets. I’ve pursued counseling. I’ve found listening ears and solid hugs and spiritual wisdom abounding in numerous people over the years.
Beyond confessing to and investing in those dear folks, I’ve also written more vulnerably publicly. I’ve published two books. I blog regularly. I podcast and produce videos.
I’m investing way more of my heart and creative energies into more diverse projects than ever before.
I’ve realized the heavy-laden words aren’t just for me anymore. They’re still words about me, but they’re also about everyone else in this messy human mosaic.
I’m not the only one who’s had to avoid bullies in locker rooms. Or experience shame about my body-image or sexuality. Or feel otherwise lost in a world where everyone else has seemingly found their way.
I’m humbled and glad that words I used to keep to myself have landed with so many out there.
Nowadays, it’s almost felt counter-productive to devote a single word of my limited writing energies toward a journal that only I will ever see. What about my next book? My next blog? My next podcast or video production? Aren’t all my words better served going out rather than remaining in?
While I’ve certainly devoted more energies toward blogs and books and other projects in recent years, I’ve also lost something in the process.
By not journaling as regularly anymore, I’ve lost countless thoughts. Thoughts that never quite churned or spun or sparked like they used to and could have done had I simply taken five, ten, fifteen minutes to jot them down. Plant them. Let them grow.
Gosh. How many ideas have I lost in the last five years? Will they ever return to me? Can I ever get them back?
I hope so. I’m counting on it.
The other day, I purchased a new journal — my first new journal in years. I’d been using the same, thick, never-ending journal since 2016. Since I first moved to Asheville! The more I wrote in that thing, the less frequently I wrote in that thing, and the further away that final page felt.
I felt increasingly less motivated to write in that journal as the years passed. And the cycle only continued.
It’s rare (if ever) that I’ve stopped a journal before the final page, but this was a no-brainer that should have happened months ago.
I don’t need to perpetuate that chapter any longer. I need to pen a new one.
The 2016-2019 Asheville chapter is officially over. A chapter filled with excellent vistas and truly dreadful hells.
All part of the story.
I’m starting fresh in 2020 with a brand new story and a new leather journal. And it’s lineless. This is only my second lineless journal, and I’ve already determined that all future journals will follow suit.
Lines restrict. Lines limit.
Lines tell you what to do. When to start and stop and how much you can say.
No graphics allowed. No text larger than a pinky nail allowed.
Uniformity is expected. Every page a replica of the last and the one being turned.
Well, eff that.
I want to write normally and I want to write tinily and I want to write “F#$%” across the entire page.
I want to write in print. I want to write in cursive.
I want to sketch images in my head. I want to write sideways and upside down.
I want to weep and beam and bleed onto the page. Each and every one. Unfettered.
I want to stretch myself throughout my days, so of course I should stretch myself in my journal.
I want to plant words in the secret place again and watch what happens.
Some will die. But some will grow.
While continuing with my public writing outlets of recent years, I’m also aiming to return to regular rhythms with personal journaling. Once a week feels like a manageable place to start.
A chance to check in with thoughts on life and faith and practice some poetry, even if it’s forced or stilted or just plain awful. Some psalm-writing — “ptalms,” if you will.
(You will.)
A friend recently recommended we shut our Bibles for a second and pen some psalms of our own. I couldn’t stop smiling and feeling convicted over his blunt advice. I want to follow it.
So, here’s to 2020. A bright and shiny new year with a bright and shiny new journal. A bounty of blank pages without any pesky lines to trap me.
The old is gone; the new is come.
May I make a mess of things and perhaps capture some sparks along the way. Sparks that ignite these pages and the pages beyond.
