A few days ago I had the radical impulse to write nothing but my honest thoughts and feelings in my private journal. I obeyed and was surprised by how many pages I was able to fill in no time at all, how easily the words flowed out of my pen. I was surprised by some of the words themselves.
“I just filled five pages of my journal with nothing but honest thoughts and feelings,” I announced to my husband afterwards, with the air of someone who has just run ten miles or asked their boss for a raise or cleaned their bathtub. Hours later, I heard what I said and added, “I realize that’s what most people use their journals for, but that’s not how I use mine.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, his level of concern going in the wrong direction.
What can I say, I’m a practical gal. I wouldn’t even buy chips and salsa in college because I didn’t feel their nutritional value was worthy of such a big chunk of my grocery budget. Apparently, I ruled my own private diary entries with the same iron fist.
If, while journaling, a thought or a feeling related to something beyond my control–the behavior of a family member, the artistic choices of my employer, the behavior of a family member–rose to the surface, it was tossed aside in favor of things I can control–my behavior, my artistic choices, my self. Healthy, right?
Useful, perhaps. People like me acknowledge that feelings are unavoidable (and that they are neither good nor bad), but they tend to think of them as obstacles to getting stuff done. And there you have my dirty little secret.
The danger with people like me (see Siobhan from Succession for a chilling portrayal of the worst version of this type of person) is that we become so alienated from what it is we actually want that we couldn’t tell you honestly if we tried. Our lives become hollow charades in which we seek to impress others in hopes of proving our worth. Surely, if it takes all kinds to make the world go ’round, Achievers are among the kinds needed. But when our own desires are so divorced from our ambitions, we’re like some sort of mutant beanstalk. Impressive? Maybe. Obnoxious? Uh-huh.
Ever since my radical impulse I have consistently filled eight pages a day with honest thoughts and feelings. Compare that with my usual daily goal of three and my average of one (which was often heavily peppered with my favorite phrase, “I don’t know”). Now, I can barely turn the pages fast enough–my pen just will not stop. No word is off-limits, no thought unspeakable, no opinion too unenlightened. I even use all caps sometimes.
Whereas I used to dole out my words and sentences like individual lentils, screening them for stones and unfair generalizations, I now pour the entire sack onto the page. (And, if you don’t already know, few things feel better in this world than running your hand through a giant sack of dried lentils.) It feels like I’m taking a swim in Truth, not caring if my hair gets wet, or if I stay in too long, or if I sound like a jerk.
This is not a story yet. It’s either the beginning of something, the end of something, or a wide spot in the road that no one’s even going to stop to take a selfie with. I don’t know myself well enough (there’s that phrase again!) to predict which direction this is going to go, or if you will still like me (assuming you like me) while this new update is in progress. All I know is that, while my Logic Machete has gotten me this far, it’s time to get to work on my Wisdom Canoe.