I have about ten journals under my bed, hidden away in a suitcase that’s seen more of my bedroom carpet than it has of the world. Two suitcases and a travel bag live under my bed. Note to self: See more of the world! Let those suitcases be covered in destination stamps and enjoy baggage collection conveyer belts. Point is, I have ten journals under my bed and not one of the ten journals is full. Most are five to ten pages in, some dating back to 2009! A pattern emerges here, beginning without completion. The headlines I’ve given most stories in my life ‘I shall start this but knowing me, it won’t get completed without a panic, a fight, the building of a wall to distract from the task in hand’. The life of a journal needs to be fed, so that is what I’m doing. I’m feeding those lonely journals with undiluted juice, the unfiltered flow of thought that bumbles around my mind.

Journal, I can’t promise it’ll fun but it’ll be better than the flat-line you’re currently experience during the in-between adventures of the suitcase and me. In the inspiration words of Nancy Slonim Aronie “Getting the story of your life out of your body means you don’t have to carry the weight of it around anymore”.

Reading diary entries from many years ago feels like a privilege. The pouring of my heart onto the page was a rarity in those days when all was muddled and my behaviour was circumstantial, a reaction to the external. I was playing the blame game, blaming myself mainly… so when I did journal, it seemed like it was a last resort and I was pleading for help. Negotiations within were constantly in action, insisting those inner peacemakers should speak up and quiet the destructive chatter of the outspoken, angry voices. It was a constant suppression of every human emotion. The dark, the hurt, the anger was expressed in short stories about someone else. I was now the narrator. I was giving half of me away; that story wasn’t mine, it belonged to a different character. I was detached; separation seemed natural as when you don’t want something you give it away, right? I recently noticed that my comforting self-talk also involved the narrative of a third person.

“You are absolutely fine Emily, chin up and do better”.

Talking to myself like a frustrated mother addressing her child who’s tugging ferociously at her skirt for reassurance. I think at that point in my life, it wasn’t my truth I was searching, more of a validation that I wasn’t a complete fuck up, even though I felt like I was 99% of the time. So of course, each character in my story was in deep turmoil, creating havoc at any given opportunity. In hindsight, it was a sense of unworthiness; I didn’t feel worthy to fully acknowledge my truth. I didn’t have an alternative path, yet I knew I didn’t want to feel the sadness that down poured heavily, each day. I was the antibiotic killing the germ but never understanding the root cause of disease.

I didn’t see things like others. Or maybe I did but I lacked the confidence to express for reasons I still can’t understand. I guess it doesn’t matter. Now is now and what happened then, happened. Going over each and every event in my past, trying to fix or probe or understand is feeling less important each day as understanding comes when our soul is ready for the lesson. For many years I believed I was the unworthy, depressed, fictional character in the many stories I wrote. I was trying to live the life of someone I now know is so far removed from my divine truth, my soul, from my heart.

Question is how do you live a life from the heart? How do you know when it’s your heart or your head driving operations? As humans, we like to know how everything works. Science lessons have much to answer for… where’s the proof? What are you trying to say in your conclusion? If there’s no evidence, it’s not true!

I like to bring it all back to nature, this seems to calm my need for immediate results and offer some always needed grounding. So many leaves from many different branches fall from the abundance of trees I see each day, some I notice, some I don’t. Some days it’s a yellow flower that calls my attention while other days it might be the bark on the cherry tree that fascinates my curious mind. I guess that’s where I’m at right now, learning to halt the questions about why and how and is this right? Enjoying the objects of my attention and not distracting myself with contradictory thought or allowing past sadness to cloud the beauty of the present moment.

Over two years ago I was planning my spiritual path like a student working towards an A*. Of course that planning all went to shit but in the best way imaginable. Happenings beyond comprehension have occurred over the past few years. People, places, magic bigger than my imagination have entered my world… or maybe my imagination is expanding or maybe I’m growing into the magnificence of my imagination? Who knows? Nobody. That’s the point.

I’ve got ten (almost empty) journals under my bed, waiting for the pen to connect and my truth to flood the page. Just keep swimming through the algae as clear, turquoise water beckons… bring it on!

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