Creative writing tool.

 

Journaling and writing

I spent quite a bit of time in America in the late 80s and in that time I was fortunate enough to take a seminar on journaling.  It was a life-affirming seminar that has stayed with me all my adult life.  Back then journaling was evident in the UK but in the USA it was gathering its own very clear momentum.  Now, of course, it is a global occupation for a core group of creative and dedicated beings.  I am not sure where I would be without my journals and I have come to realise that I take them for granted.  Pondering on their value has led me to record their special qualities and search out how others see journaling.

Journaling is, by definition, a record.  Your journal is a space where you can record whatever you like.  At its best it has no boundaries and no agenda.  It is a space where both conscious and subconscious thoughts can be left to play quite happily together and you will be content to leave them there.  There are many reasons to journal and we all know why we do it, but sometimes we forget.  I had forgotten that my initial reason to journal was to record my experiences as my professional dance career found its feet.  I had forgotten because when I look back at those early journals I see so much more than dancing.  I see a young dancer trying desperately to find her creative voice in a fiercely competitive world.  I see a frightened young dancer living in a strange country but making the best of friends.  I see a dancer that emerges into a young woman through a defining role as Eurydice and I see so much more.

This has taught me that we do not, in fact, always know why we are journaling but the joy in looking back on old journals is one of life’s most rewarding personal experiences.  I have always viewed journaling as a highly creative medium of expression.  You give yourself permission to be free in your journal and you are also free from judgement.  Many of us keep our journals private, but increasingly there is a culture of sharing.  I think perhaps a combination of both approaches is the one I favour.  There are parts of my journals that I keep private and sacred but there are other parts that need to be lifted off the page and shared.  An example of that would be a piece of choreography that demands an audience.

For me, it is important that my journal is not just about words.  Many of us view the world in pictures and pictures take front of stage in our minds as we try and make sense of our world.  Therefore pictures deserve a place in our journals.  Creating pictures can take many different forms and sometimes the joy is in the identification of the medium.  Some days I am drawn to watercolours while others it is charcoal and so the decisions take shape.  Sometimes my pictures are no more than doodles but I have come to realise how important these simple pictures are to my journaling process.  I have often found a new and inspiring idea locked away in a doodle and the joy is in finding it.  It is almost as if my conscious mind plays hide and seek with my subconscious mind.

There are black days though.  On black days I sit and stare at an empty page.  I desperately want to journal that day but for some reason or another there is nothing.  I have no starting point and I have no motivation.  Over the years journaling has become part of my spiritual life and I often feel a strong urge to journal.  But on black days there is nothing.  In those dark moments I turn to others for help.  There are many excellent web sites dedicated to journaling and I have left you with some useful links at the end of this piece.  I particularly like the ‘tips for journaling’ pages as they offer up starting points and usually that it all you need to break through the blackness and find the colour once more.

I have just a few tips of my own that I have found useful over the years –

·         See your entire page as an expression for your entry.  Take time to create a background for your words and note the association between the two aspects of the page

·         Never be frightened of a blank page – it is your gift to yourself

·         Keep writing or drawing and don’t stop until you know you are done and you will know. 

·         Date your entries as this will be important when you look back.

·         Don’t avoid difficult subjects as sometimes they offer up the greatest learning

·         Only ever share your journal on your terms

·         Avoid erasing you will probably regret it 

For me, as a writer, my journals are often my starting point.  They offer up suggestions and they don’t mind if I move away in new directions.  My journals are my constant companion and I usually have more than one on the go at the same time.  I am not sure I have ever truly experienced writer’s block as my journals have saved me from that fate.  There is always something there; you just have to look long enough.  Everything goes in my journal and it often appears to make no sense on first reading.  I am always fascinated by the connections between different entries.  For me this is where the subconscious finds its true voice.  It has already made the connections and it is just waiting for the conscious mind to catch up!  I view my journal as my writing fodder as it feeds me all the time.  I have a small notebook that I carry around with me all the time that feeds my journal.  My journals are too precious to throw in a bag as I dash out the door so I use a small notebook for that task.  In my notebook I record what I see, hear, taste, smell and feel.  I record anything that interests me and then, when I have more time, I transfer these points of interest to my journal.  This is a joyful stage where, sometimes in the transference, mutation occurs.  What eventually ends up in my journal has changed and grown wings and I love that.  And so the creative process begins and I am grateful that it has never ended.  Journaling is my creative life blood and if I could take them with me after I die I would. 

If you have never tried journaling give it a go. Visit some of the web sites suggested here to help you get started.  For me, one of the best bits of the entire process is choosing the journal that you are going to use.  The world is awash with wonderful notebooks and it is your job to find the one for you.  You will absolutely know when you have found it though! I hope that journaling brings you joy, peace and much creativity. 

Amanda

 

Amanda

 

There is beauty on the outside and then there is beauty on the inside.  When the two come together in the same being it is rare and incredibly precious.  You know you are witnessing true beauty as their light shines so very bright.

Amanda was just that light.  She entered a room and washed it with her light and everyone smiled.  We all smiled around Amanda because she smiled at the world.  She loved life and her place in it and we could all see that every day. Beautiful people sometimes have beautiful children and Amanda had three and their lights continue to shine.

One day Amanda’s light dimed very slightly as she heard the news.  A slow dim that suspended in time as others digested the inevitable.  All our lights dimed but then we noticed that Amanda’s light was shining through it all.  We felt ashamed of our dimed lights and did our best to reflect Amanda’s bright, white light.  There was, however, no competing with that light so we just looked on in awe. 

Over time the light still shone but a slow fade trickled in from the edges.  We could see the fade but ignored its presence and focused on the centre of the light.  Not once did that fade in all those long and difficult days.  She shone, so we shone.

The day arrived and we took our lights and gathered around Amanda’s dimming light.  Slowly and with enormous grace her light faded until it was almost gone.  Afterwards, if we looked very carefully we could see the smallest pin prick of a light glowing.  Some of us gathered it up and put it in our pockets to carry around with us.

When the day came to say goodbye I was not there.  Instead I was by a deep green pond flooded with bright sunshine and it was there that I saw them.  Hovering and flickering their lights as they dusted in and out of the lilies.  Beautiful shining dragonflies carrying their lights in their wings.  As I stood they flew high up into the blue sky before circling me and bathing me in the most precious light of all.  She was, indeed here and she has always been here.  Her light was in those delicate but powerful wings.  Just look into the light and she will shine back very brightly indeed.

This is Amanda

Short Story

My last Dance

The rain tumbled onto the roof above, far above.  As I listened I could hear the music beginning to sing, just as it always did.  I was glad to be able to rely on the music and slowly I began to create.  Dance flows from my soul and I needed to shape movements more than ever before.  In that moment I could disappear from all around me that was tugging at me, desperately trying to connect with the experience of death.  But this was my death and no-one was going to dictate my passing, except maybe the music….

Reality beckoned as I heard the familiar voice of my daughter entering the room.  She was already trying to take control with her very first utterances ‘Close the curtains, it is too bright in here’.

I liked the light, I was looking forward to the light tunnel that so many people talk about.  I think it will be spectacular.  I went back to my music to seek new movement and translate it to my story that was beginning to take shape.  My story captured the rain drops and tossed them out to sea where waves picked them up and tossed them back.  A battled ensued deep in the body as it curled and revolved, swayed and stretched reaching every raindrop one by one.

Suddenly my dance faded once more as a hand gripped mine.  A hand that once belonged to a stranger ,but no more.  A hand that had lived a lifetime by my side and I had loved that hand.  I still love that hand.

‘She is so cold, too cold’

I wasn’t cold at all.  I was calm and I was still but I wasn’t cold.  I could never be cold with that hand so close.  The hand that took my when we promised our vows and the hand that stroked me deep in the night.  I love that hand.

My music returned with the greatest of flurry as the raindrops peered beyond the storm to catch the clouds and curl them up.  My body rolled forward with the lightest of touch only to turn and roll again.  The rain clouds all dappled and grey parted slowly and slowly….I could feel it.  My heart was slowing, my organs failing and in that space I clung to my music.

Gentler voices echoed through the room muffled by silence and waiting.  The waiting was sure to cast its own spell but I didn’t care for that spell.  My music was coming to an end.  Quivering drops as the rainstorm passed and peeped through the window to spread their joy.  The hand was still there.  The music was still there.  But there was no light, it faded fast and the music dulled. 

I listened so carefully to those final sounds grasping at the notes that floated through the air before resting between our hands.  A space, the slightest space between our hands.  Shuffled movements and whispers abound as I took a moment to catch the sounds and trapped them deep in my soul.  But it was the music, those final notes, that spoke to me last and so they might.

I am going to sleep now and I won’t hear anymore music.  Night night.