Writing Is Magic

I've been writing since I was a kid. I made a book when I was five years old. I wanted to make it a real book.

My mother often referred to me as a product of her, as if I did not have independent thoughts. She told me she had no idea how to make a book. She asked how I made the book and often asked, "Where does that comes from? It doesn't come from me?" I wondered what she meant as things would appear and disappear in our house. She treated me as if I were spooky. 

Is creativity spooky? Is creativity and writing a form of magical ability?

I was living with her and her fourth husband and saw how my mother was troubling him. I wrote a letter to him, as I was afraid to tell him in person. I explained how her emotional explosions was her way and she didn't mean anything by them. I thought it would give him perspective and he would realize it wasn't his fault. It was meant to comfort. 

I was truly and incomprehensibly wrong. He shared the letter with her. I was kicked out of their house. Thrown out like trash. It was a brutal act of theater. She accused me of many things, and at the core, betrayal.

My sixteen year old self could not conceive of the damage I had done.  

I created a wound that took many years to come to terms with and still has the ability to bother me. When others say things like "get closure" it is clear they haven't done the deep work. There is no closure. Wounds, physical, emotional or psychic wounds, don't heal perfectly. These wounds are battle scars. I will always remember how I received each, and yet, it will ache less and less over the years. My memories do not get wiped, but my attachments and emotional responses will lessen. I can now remember, when I choose, these events without even a glimmer of emotional response. 

How To Detach

For years I wrote every thought, strong emotion or question in order to deal them. I had boxes of journals. I wrote on every available space. I would not allow myself to call a journal complete without using it completely. 

I carried those boxes of journals around, moving them from place to place for years. One day I threw them out.  I threw out my prized journals. One day she thew me out. Curious, I have not seen this connection until this moment. Another gift of insight.

The regret of throwing out my journals has been deep. Now, with hindsight, I can see that leaving that part of me and those troubling thoughts, wasn't getting rid of me, but letting go of the heavy load. Transforming those memories and reactions into something else. Those thoughts and experiences I wrote down on paper are incorporated into me. I cannot dislodge them. I can allow them to fade. 

I am a product of all that I have experienced. I am also how I respond to those events. Do I react or respond or allow it to pass? Not all things require a response either.

It has been 35 years since my mother and I spoke.  I've used writing to deal and reshape my world. I can pause to consider the action and possible results. I take my personal inventory each day. Logging my pros and cons and acts of service each day. I teach myself how to be a better person with writing. 

Writing has been the magic tool that has helped me gain awareness. Curious, a pen can be considered a wand, casting spells.

The Work

Writing is my answer, my alchemical process to transformation. I cannot change the past or how others behave. I cannot change the events. I can gain insight into the events.

Something happens when I organize my thoughts and write. There is a process that happens that allows me to see things more clearly. I often argue or discuss an idea with myself presenting all sides, with the desire to unlock the troubling situation and reveal the hidden gem of insight.

Writing has allowed me to understand and come to terms with things that speaking with others has not. I don't need to be told what to do. I need to mine for the answers within myself. I have a moral compass inside. I know what is right, true and just. I've always known I have to figure it out. I haven't wanted to admit that I have to do the work. 

I have now built a library of journals with beautiful memories, interesting life lessons, and amazing moments along side a remarkable man. 

 I am grateful to those who taught me about writing. The act of writing my thoughts, feelings, and experiences is pure alchemy. Writing reveals aspects and ideas I didn't see initially. I did not understand the magic and transformative power in the act of moving a pen across a page. 

I know my answers. I simply have to uncover them. Writing sheds light if I'm willing to see.

If you are interested in journaling or any creative writing endeavor, here are some links to assist you with this magical journey.