Last night two exceptional things took place: I chose to light a candle before I sat down for my evening writing time and in doing so I claimed the time as sacred.
Before I went to bed, I blew out the candle and as strange as it may sound, my notebook insisted I take the time to do my evening sacred journal time.
My sacred strategic journaling time, something I have wanted to do consistently but had challenges making into a regular ritual.
I fell asleep later than expected last night and yet I am awake again before 6 am, writing. My life long lover – writing and the creative process – who I have been neglecting and in neglecting my writing practice I’ve also been neglecting myself.
Sacred. Set apart. Loved.
The action of writing, free flow, journaling is sacred. When I recognize and complete the act I recognize the blessings I receive in taking the simple action. It is the opposite of neglecting myself and my intention, it is bathed in spirit and love and it says “You have chosen yourself, you have chosen to invest in your vision, you have come inside it instead of pressing your nose against the window of it.”
Somewhere in the past few years at some time, it doesn’t matter right now exactly when and where, the last lingering shred of my daily practices fell away. I did them less often than I didn’t. I didn’t make excuses, I didn’t talk about it I didn’t even notice enough to put voice to their absence. Unconsciously, I pushed away what kept me the most productive and happy. I didn’t even look up as they exited the room.
A metaphor hovering above my fingers is “your lack of devotion to your practices closed your heart-door” and along with it my mind-brain door. And while I looked pretty ok on the outside, if one looked closely – it was obvious.
Now I’m back, now I am taking action – in the book-ends of sleep and waking. Three days in and a part of me says “You can’t call yourself back yet,” but I do and I am.
Yes, I had been writing – but it wasn’t as much of the free flow style, writing simply to write that quenches the thirst of my spirit, that actually soothes the underbelly of what’s showing up as “wrong” in life and understands clearly it is all simply process.
This was sacred. And I forgot it.
Last night, I picked it back up and held it in the candlelight.
I remembered. Sacred.
Sacred is back and I am, too.
I am sitting in the center of the sacred chambers of my heart, moving my fingers on the keyboard allowing words to find their way whether good or bad or boring – the letters and words are no longer stalled. I’m declaring the end of my prison term, the completion of my punishment and the return of the daily sacred, of experiencing the transcendent joy in the extraordinary ordinary, I am devoting myself a bride to my own worth and return to the safe haven of self-love.
I realize some people will find this entire public written display to be quite odd.
So be it.
This post came from engaging with the 7 Magic Words process from Marisa Goudy. Find out more here.
Julie JordanScott is a creative life coach, writer, poet, Mama extraordinaire and mixed media artist whose greatest joys include loving people into their greatness they just aren’t quite able to realize yet. To set up a complimentary exploratory session, please visit here.
Rather than get frustrated I have found a few strategies to “free” the words that are stuck inside me and then return to the writing process reinvigorated.
Julie Jordan Scott inspires people to experience artistic rebirth via her programs, playshops, books, performances and simply being herself out in the world. She is a writer, creative life coach, speaker, performance poet, Mommy-extraordinaire and mixed media whose Writing Camps and Writing Playgrounds permanently transform people’s creative lives.
What does it mean to be “woo woo”?
You know those beliefs that are stuck so deep you don’t speak them ever for fear of… well, for me I suppose it is fear of amplifying that belief no matter how false I pray it is.
Today I used a quote as a writing prompt, simply writing whatever flew off the ends of my fingertips in response.
Ouch. Sting. I reach for my face – my heart shaped scar, the tears that want to pour out but stay continually stuck. Frozen.
Note to self and you: this is normally when I abandon my writing, when I stop going any deeper with my words because it looks and feels scary and I don’t want to face whatever might come next. In so doing, I have missed a lot of light, a lot of hope, a lot of joy and who knows what else.
I remember feeling panic about my cat, Tina, being trapped and how we could possibly get her out. Samuel came with me and we brought a can of tuna to coax her. I was worried about getting any dust specks on their hard wood floor. I was afraid when Samuel came out from under the house he would leave traces of dust or worse, dirt, and they would be made at me (as if that was anything unusual.)
Old Narrative: People who don’t like me are always ready to find me in the wrong and make me feel more shame than I already do, naturally.