I was born in Mexico though I was raised in the United States.

Living in Silicon Valley was supposed to be a temporary thing – just one year as my Dad trained the employees of a Motorola plant. One year turned into two turned into ten and we never moved back. My Dad was such an outstanding asset to the company, they made his temporary position permanent and he eventually rose in the leadership ranks.

This meant that we would return to visit all of our family in Mexico over extended vacations – Christmas, Easter, and Summer Break my parents, younger brother, and I would pile into the panel van and drive the length of California and the width of Arizona to land in my hometown in Mexico to visit my mother’s side of the family. My father’s side of the family was further into the interior, a more difficult trip that we only managed every 2-3 years or so instead of 2-3 times per year.

I had a cousin whom I never saw without a guitar in his hands. Although my singing voice wasn’t (and isn’t) anything Whitney Houston (que en paz descanse) would ever worry about, I loved the act of singing. It brought me tremendous joy. I was (and am) an enthusiastic, loud, and off-key vocalist, a charming and terrible combination for any audience.

When my cousin, Gustavo, would pull out his guitar I would join him. I have an incredible memory for lyrics, which is good for ensemble singing sessions. And my eagerness and ardor likely inspired my cousin to play more.

I felt a kinship with him – the older cousin! I was expressive, always acting out scenes or dancing. I read lots of books and had an active imagination. I wrote poetry and stories. When assigned coloring sheets for school, I spent extra time and multiple shades of blue to describe the sky. I wanted to sing like Billie Holiday or Linda Ronstadt, a local hero. I wanted to be an Artist with a Capital A, whatever that was. But I believed you had to be born with it, and my off-tune singing, poor drawing skills, and silly dancing didn’t portend well for my aspirations.

 

My cousin wanted to be a musician. This wasn’t an acceptable career choice for a good Mexican son in the late 80s. I don’t know how my aunt and uncle persuaded him to pursue a law degree but he dutifully did, to please them. He busked his way through Europe. Then returned to gigging in cities across Mexico. He played Asia. He was living the artist’s life, legitimately and I wanted to know how.

 

This was before email and cell phones, so we wrote letters to each other. He told me about a book he had been introduced to which changed his worldview, called The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

Written in 1992, it’s a book that helps anyone develop their creative side. Though Julia Cameron is a writer, this isn’t a book exclusively for writers, or even painters, dancers, or filmmakers.

The book is divided into 12-week lessons meant to debunk myths and encourage confidence, allowing your creative side to emerge and develop.

One of her best-known tools is called Morning Pages. Every morning, before you do anything else, you write three pages of whatever.

It can be the list of things you have to take care of that day, how tired you are, a poem or a sketch might emerge. It typically takes about thirty minutes, but it can take less. Morning Pages are the way I have journaled for the last 28 years.

Ninety-eight percent of the time it’s just gobbledegook. I’m not trying to write a masterpiece or The Great American Novel. It’s a check in with myself, or God, or Spirit. I often ask myself, after greeting myself or God on the first line, How are you doing?

Did you catch that?

I have to ask myself how I am doing on the third line of my Morning Pages because otherwise the entire day or a few days or weeks might pass before I can answer that question. I won’t know how I am doing – truly doing – unless I do Morning Pages.

 

For many years I complained about my weight and my husband. This was still during the years when I yearned for something but didn’t know what it was or how to get it.

I thought my problem was my husband and that I was fat.

It was neither. My problem was me. I was the problem – I am the problem. I am the center of my universe. No matter where I go, there I am. Blaming other people, circumstances, or events feels “easier” because if I have to take responsibility for myself, my choices, and my decisions, I have to take responsibility for the state of my life. And if I think my life sucks I have only myself to blame.

But I was only able to come to this understanding after decades of excavating past the blame barriers I had erected.  It’s not always pleasant in there, facing my shadow side. Deep inside lives my greed, envy, arrogance, judgment, impatience, and selfishness. So many groovy, funky things that I try to avoid because I don’t want to be perceived as a bad person. It’s so much “easier” to blame others for my condition, and want them to change. It’s much more difficult to accept where I am and change.

 

Morning Pages help me with all of that. I can whine, complain, gossip, and gripe in peace without fear of judgment. I make a mess in those Morning Pages. But then I can go deeper. After so many years of Morning Pages, I direct less judgment toward myself and allow myself to be more curious.

 

For example, this morning, I woke up exhausted. I complained about being tired and all the things that made me tired and all the people and places I had gone that made me tired (THEY made me tired) for about a page and a half.

But then I got curious. I asked myself some Whys and Hows. And I got my answer.

I’m an Extroverted Introvert. Since Saturday night I had scheduled too many social engagements without sufficient time to recover and restore in between. I was/am exhausted, even though I’m getting 8+ hours of sleep, exercise, meditating, sunshine, and drinking lots of water.

All those inputs that I know add fuel to the tank aren’t enough. I need a few hours of stillness. Maybe some creativity, or maybe I’ll just stare at a wall or at a tree outside.

I have one more social engagement this morning but then a few hours before I pick up The Adolescents and help them with their Finals, make dinner, and hit the sheets.

I would not have understood what I need unless I spent some time journaling. My journal is a place of unfettered freedom.

I’ve got hundreds of journals now after so many years. Believe me, they aren’t all fancy. I mostly use yellow legal pads. Currently, I’m slogging through graph-lined Composition books – these are not my favorite but I have a large inventory when I purchased one 12-pack on Amazon instead of purchasing one. I’ve made my peace with the format and that is good to know too.

Most of the writing in my journals is complete garbage. It’s not for anyone else’s eyes or hearts. I’ve burned many of the journals after leafing through them. I give myself a lot of grace when I look at old pages. The person who wrote those things still lives inside me and I love her. We’ve been through a lot together and I admire that.

I admire myself for having lived through my life.

Can you imagine? I wasn’t able to say that before. I could say it about other people, but not myself. I love and approve of myself. I encourage myself. I can say those things because almost three decades of regular and consistent attention have allowed me to get to know myself and love myself the way I’ve tried to love others.

 

 

I wake up early – much earlier than most people. I meditate first and then straight to the Morning Pages.

Some days, depending on how it goes, I may write later in the day. I keep smaller journals in my car, in bags, around, so I can capture my thoughts and feelings. Some of these journals are made of scrap paper stapled together. I’ve written on old newspapers and magazines, the back of algebra assignments, and envelopes.

It’s like the old song, “It’s All Right to Cry”, from Free To Be You And Me. Sung by football legend, Rosey Grier, the lyrics say:

It’s alright to cryCrying gets the sad out of youIt’s alright to cryIt might make you feel better

 

Well, I feel that way about writing – it gets the sad out of me and it makes me feel better.

 

Do you journal? Why or why not? What holds you back?

 

Today’s prompt, try it. Grab a notebook – I’ve used plenty of half-used notebooks left over from The Adolescents academic school year – and write for three pages – three sides, I should say. Just go for it. You could write – this is so dumb, why am I even doing this, this isn’t going to help anything. And see where it goes.

The point isn’t to write sonnets. The point is to get to know yourself better, to see where you are, what you need, and what you want.

 

Be a friend to yourself first. You can only do that by spending time with yourself and getting to know yourself.

Of course, we spend all day every day with ourselves, but I don’t believe we get to know ourselves. We just sling our meat suits around from place to thing, never really checking in. Maybe we are afraid to know. Maybe we don’t want to face our shadow.

 

That’s OK. This is the time of darkness. The way to eliminate darkness is by shedding light on it.

 

A little bit of journaling can help illuminate. You are safe. Try three pages for three days this week and see how it goes.

Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear about your experience. And if you already journal, what are some of your tips?