Publishing this post today, my heart is heavy with the news of the horrible events in Paris. A prayer for love and kindness in the world, and for each of us to remember that it starts with the way we treat ourselves and those closest to us, and radiates outward.
As I’ve often noted here, I am a compulsive journaler and have been since my teen years. I don’t ever have to drag myself to my journal; in fact, I usually relish the expanse of the blank page there (this is not always, or even often, so for other forms of writing!).
Lately, though, I notice that while I go readily to my journal to write, I’m restless after a few minutes and it’s hard to stay there.
I’ve gone through these periods before, and they usually happen when I’m about to approach what I call “hardcore” journaling — meaning, there’s a lot that’s ready to come up, and I know it’s vital that I allow it to come up onto the page, but it’s not going to be easy. In fact, it’s going to be intense, and even draining. But it’s so worth it.
In this way, I compare journaling — or any kind of writing we do — to an athletic activity. We are building all kinds of muscles when we write regularly.
And this is true for any form of creative work (or play, as I prefer to call it!) that we do steadily. Doing it makes us stronger, more flexible, vaster — it widens our scope as human beings, as spiritual beings.
But sometimes, the process is especially tough and tender, as it has been for me lately in my journal.
Yesterday I was drawn to pull out Natalie Goldberg’s Thunder and Lightning, one of quite a few wonderful books she’s written on her writing life and process. In one chapter she describes leading a class in which she read to her students from Richard Nelson’s The Island Within. The writing was sinewy, alive, present, tender. And yet, she saw her students’ attention wandering; she saw them yawning and getting bored. How could this be happening when the writing was so alive?
The students, Goldberg realized, were resistant to the intimacy on the page. The writing was so there, it brought them so unflinchingly close to the subject, that they were afraid of that intimacy. They wanted to avoid it.
As someone who’s taken many writing classes and viewed them from the standpoint of both student and teacher, I’ve experienced this as well. There is something in us that is afraid of beauty, of aliveness, of what’s true — and, in our resistance to it, we feel tedium. We pull away.
When I was about twenty, I had a conversation with a guy in a coffeehouse that has always stuck with me. He talked about the book he was reading — it was a novel by Gabriel García Márquez, but I don’t remember which one — and he said, “You know, it’s a boring book. It tries my patience. I want to put it down a lot. But some of the most boring books I’ve ever read have been some of the best books I’ve ever read.”
This was a totally new idea to me at the time. I pondered what he meant for a while and I got it. He didn’t really mean that the whole of him thought the book was boring. He meant that the part of him that was afraid of being present, the part of him set on instant gratification, that part that just wanted to be distracted from itself, found the book tedious.
The whole of him felt compelled to finish the book — it knew something important was there for him — and, guided by his essential self and not his impatient instant-gratification-seeking self, he kept reading.
(A writing teacher of mine once said, “A ‘boring’ book is often a failing of the reader, not the writer.” Martha Beck talks about “the cultural pressure to seek excitement” here.)
There are so many challenges in this world to our staying with something. Anything. When I got an iPad several years ago, as much as I loved it, its built-in ease of use presented a huge test to my powers of concentration. Now, when I write, when I read, or even when I want to fully focus on a movie, I keep the iPad away from me. (Unless, of course, I’m reading or watching the movie on the iPad. A-hem.)
So how does this circle back to me and my journaling? I’ve been avoiding the intimacy of being with my own aliveness on the page. How crazy is that? Well, not crazy at all — actually, very human.
But I know I will stay with the journaling because I have been initiated into its magic. And the magic only comes when I stay with it.
Is this true for you and your creativity, whatever form it may take? Do you find yourself avoiding the intimacy that comes with staying present to yourself, to the world around you? I’d love to hear how you experience this, in the comments.
A few things I’m up to …
- Reading Dog Medicine by Julie Barton, a beautifully-written memoir about a woman’s struggle with depression and how her bond with her dog helped her through it. It’s not an easy read by any means (I’ve cried through quite a bit of it), but having experienced first-hand the healing power of animals in my own journey, it’s helping me embrace my own story. Which, to me, is the most amazing thing writing can do.
- Preparing to teach a class locally on supporting ourselves through the vulnerability and other rough stuff that comes with writing autobiographical material, a topic close to my heart.
- Continuing my low-cost Autumn Transition Coaching Sessions (you can still grab one through Wednesday, Nov. 25). If you’re a sensitive creator who’s deep in transition and feeling stuck or scared, I’d love to help. Find out more here.
Image © Scarf_andrei | Dreamstime Stock Photos
8 thoughts on “Avoiding the intimacy of creating”
I know this is what my occasional writer’s block is all about. Thanks for your words.
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Glad it resonated, Joan! Thanks for reading. 🙂
Oh yes! I’m not sure I’d articulated it to myself this way but I am very familiar with this kind of avoidance! I’ve written a journal on and off since I was 11, and it’s been really good for me in all the ways journaling is. 🙂 I haven’t been near it for a couple of weeks now, which does happen sometimes, particularly if I’m very busy elsewhere in my life headspace wise, but I can see that yes it’s exactly that, an avoidance of intimacy in some way. It’s like part of me is saying, I just can’t go there right now, I don’t have the capacity for that kind of depth. Which means I have to keep an eye on it, because it can lead to lower moods and feeling like I’m living too shallowly for my own wellbeing. I really like how you wrote about it here Jill. Always enjoy your posts. 🙂
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Exactly, Tara — so well put. And I think that sometimes we really are making a wise choice by avoiding that intimacy on the page when we know we currently don’t have the capacity for it — but like you said, it’s important to keep an eye on it so we’re not living “in the shallows”!
These last couple of days I’ve really broken through and finally done the “down and dirty” journaling that I’ve been avoiding, and wouldn’t you know I’m feeling a lovely inner shift. 🙂 Thanks so much for your comment, I always love hearing from you!
So glad you found your way back to it and through to the inner shift part! Lovely! I’ll also go with your ‘wise choice’ angle, since I’m still in the thick of head stuff and am not feeling at all like writing heart stuff right now. 🙂
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Thanks, Tara! And I hear you. My hunch is that you’ll know when you’re ready to return to the journal — that’s usually what happens for me. 🙂
Ooohhh, what a topic! Yeah, sure I know this one…and actually, if I’m honest, I quite like playing with it, and actually, that’s exactly what I do with it. I write (or speak) my resistance, like literally, I’ll write ‘not now, ok, just not now’ and I can feel ‘something’ smiling and saying (and I write) “ok, I hear you, you’ve heard me, I can wait…” and then a kind of giggle… “and I have a feeling I won’t have to wait very long:-)” and then I’ll be like, “oh yeah! you reckon! we’ll see about that!” and so on and so on. Usually I know something’s waiting, I’m not usually caught by surprise, so I sit or walk with an intention to face it. So glad to read in the comments that you’ve come through and that that has shifted your inner space. Enjoy 🙂 Happy hugs, Harula xxx
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Harula, I love the idea of “playing with it” and your process for how you do that! It certainly takes the pressure off to make it fun, and also to sit or walk with the intention to face it — yes! I truly believe the deepest part of us *wants* to show up for ourselves, for creating, so if we’re feeling resistance, it helps so much to make it lighter. Thanks for sharing and for your support, as always! xo 🙂
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