Morphology

 

6. study of structure of something’s parts: the study of the structure of anything made up of interconnected or interdependent parts

I have not been here for several weeks due to being busy in other areas of my existence. First, came a nasty summer cold with all the attending hacking, sneezing, and sniffling. Second, was a family crisis with my Mom which continues and will do so for some time. Last of all, my router went out and I had to order and wait for a new one to get back on the Internet.

But, I have found a new word to play with, Morphology, and one of its several definitions is listed above. I, at first, intended to use it to define all the doodling I have been doing. I started out doing Zentangle Mandalas, but that morphed into something else that morphed into yet something different again. It just kept morphing, thus the new word. Before you get completely confused, I’ll give you examples.

Zentangle Mandala 8/12/09

 

This is the sort of thing I started out to fill my sketch book with. That however, morphed into other images.

Zentangle 8/13/09

And morphed again when I added color and realized that the images were a bit of fantasy.

Fantasy - The Gate 8/25/09

I was happy and content with the word, until an older and far better artist than myself, pointed out that these images could only be two dimensional and therefore couldn’t actually be considered a structure. Semantics!

We did explore other possibilities such as Doodlology (I had to try it four times before I could actually say it, and laughing didn’t help), as well as Scribblosophy, because, of course the images have stories built into them. But, semantics aside, I still am leaning toward my original choice.

During all of this stress and busyness, I continued to fill the pages of my journal as well as my sketchbook. And began to see a definite connection between the two. My journal is written in English, but my sketchbook is an entirely different language, one I am learning and watching expand on a daily basis. I truly want to title the sketchbook The Art of Morphology. Then realized that might be a good title for my journal as well.

My life is morphing with each new day. My consistent journal entries are actually my own study of the structure of my personal existence. The pieces and parts of that existence are definitely interdependent and even, sometimes interchangeable.

I think that the best part of all of this is that my sketchbook is actually another kind of journal. One that is far more deeply connected to my subconscious awareness of what is happening in and around me. One I might have missed entirely if I hadn’t been cataloging my attempts on my daily journal pages. It has been filled with wonderful little surprises and a plethora of connections to all sorts of other things, including some of my poetry from many years ago.

If we allow it, we all grow on a daily basis. We change and become other than we were yesterday or the day before that. In that sense, we morph from one level of existence into others. Being aware, studying those changes, can and does make that process easier at moments. Journal writing and doodling are ways of accomplishing that process. Simple ways that can result in deep satisfaction and also moments of delight.

Expectations and Rose-Colored Realities

 

I watched David Cook on American Idol last night. My journal, this morning, is filled with my personal reactions to doing so. Not sure exactly what my expectations were in the moment, but I was once again, mesmerized, feeling a bit foolish, yet eager to see and have my senses satisfied. They were and they were not.

That’s the problem with expectations. They are so wide open, so hopeful with a cloud of possibilities that seemingly go on into an unknowable future. But, also laced with at least a fifty percent chance of failure, often more. Yet, we go on creating them, fantasizing over those possibilities and sometimes investing ourselves emotionally, and otherwise, into what is essentially a long shot at best.

When they, as they most often do, fail to materialize, we spiral downward into disappointment, sometimes depression. Think ourselves foolish or worse, for placing our emotional well-being in what is essentially nothing more than a dream, a rose-colored reality where all things wished and wanted suddenly come true.

Is that an accurate assessment? Yes. And, no. Hope is a necessity. Without it, we simply become lumps of energy forever stuck in a gray world that lacks all color. We move, but our movement lacks meaning because it doesn’t have a goal or a purpose. We trudge through our gray world, never looking up, unable to see whatever might be in front of us. What is always in front of us, are other possibilities.

That may be what is wrong with expectations. They are a narrow path, leading only to what we want, not necessarily to what we need. And because the want is so deep and strong, we fool ourselves into thinking it is a need, the only one. That one, that if it is fulfilled will make the rest of our sojourn not just palatable, but filled with contentment and enough excitement to last forever. That is a fantasy. Life doesn’t work that way on a moment to moment basis.

Life is a balancing act of ups and downs, joys and pains, laughter and sadness, and all the other opposites one can think of. It doesn’t run smoothly for more than a short time, no matter how much we may want it to do so. And because expectations are, for the most part, very narrow paths, when we get caught up in them, we fail to prepare for those other eventualities.

A lot of expectations center around other people. Other people doing what we want them to do. In the process, we forget that each individual has choices, a life of their own, people and things to be accounted for and to. As I wrote in my journal this morning, I realized that I simply wanted more time to watch David Cook. I want to sit down and talk to him, ask him questions about his journey, hear the small details of how that journey has changed and altered him.

I will never meet David Cook. If I did, I’d blow it and become completely tongue-tied and probably just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. Not a pretty image. He’d walk away, disgusted at this waste of his time, and probably thinking something quite derogatory about old women who have too much time on their hands. Would his assessment be accurate? Yes and no, perhaps.

Yes, I am an old woman and one that is fascinated by this man’s journey because it has impacted on my own. If you want to know how that came to be, you will have to go back to the beginnings of this blog. For right now, we are discussing expectations. And some of mine were fulfilled last evening. I wanted to know if I still experienced a connection with his person and his music. I did and do.

The song that he sang, Come Back To Me, has a big piece of my own story inside of it. I’d not heard it before and was surprised to find soft tears falling as he sang it. When members of the audience screamed out that they loved him, and he immediately responded with, “I love you, too!”, I laughed because that was a 100% David Cook response. So, yes, I am still connected to the man and his music. And no, he has no idea and never will. That’s the way it should be.

Which brings us to realistic expectations. One of the reasons I have them is because I keep a journal. It is always amazing to me, how easy it is to see the fantasy versuss the reality when one actually writes the words down in black and white. Those rose-colored images actually have clouds of pink mist floating around and through them. Makes it so much easier to see.

The reality may be far more mundane, but it is also easier to accept than getting lost in all that mist and coughing at its fumy presence. Which, by the way, is probably what I would do if I ever came face to face with David Cook, have a coughing fit, or faint, something I have never done in my life. Which, as far as I am concerned, simply means that David Cook is an extremely lucky man for being totally oblivious to my existence.

So, where does that leave me with all of my expectations. Surprisingly satisfied. Disappointed that he was only on for less than ten minutes, but happily aware that his journey continues with a platinum record under his arm. Happy to realize that my journey will also continue and that, on occasion, I may sit down in front of my TV and catch a glimpse of the only connection I have with him. That is reality as it should be, and I am more than happy to allow it to remain so.

Those rose-colored clouds leave a residue of dust behind that simply mean more dusting and cleaning to be done. I am so not into that.

Yah, Let’s Do It

 

Was chatting with a friend on Instant Messenger yesterday. In the course of the conversation, she dropped a comment that included a memory we shared from years ago. So we began to throw one liners at each other about our years of shared experiences. All of them included laughter, the result of the things we did back then and got ourselves into and out of. When I finally remarked that she was a part of the best memories I own, she agreed and said that it was like following your heart, but with a best friend along who would always say, “Yah, let’s do it.”

We ended our conversation by making plans to revisit some of those experiences in warmer weather. Many of them centered around road trips, camping, and fishing. We even discussed the adjustments we would have to make to accommodate the effects of the years that have passed since we did those things. Road trips and fishing won’t be too difficult, but sleeping in a tent would definitely put a strain on arthritic joints and a deteriorating back condition. But I am hopeful that together we will figure out the logistics and find a way to do what we both long to do.

It all reminded me of a little saying I have seen here on the internet. It’s a sticker you can send to another individual and it says, “When you are in jail, a good friend will come and bail you out. A best friend will be sitting next to you and saying, ‘That was fun, so what’s next?’ “ Well, at least the gist is the same.

It’s not that either one of us want to go back and be the people we were all those years ago. We want to have that feeling, especially the laughter that was so much a part of our shared adventures. The laughter that comes so easily even now, separated by distance and years of silence. It might be a lot of wishful thinking, no more than a dream, but in that dream we are standing next to one another and both saying, “Yah, let’s do it.” That’s a commitment.

Another friend recently put a quote by Goethe in a comment she left after a piece I had written on Soul’s Music. This is the quote:

The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves as well. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen accidents, meetings and material assistance that no one could have dreamed would come their way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.

Personally, I would define that as synchronicity, one of my favorite subjects. And it does apply here. Boldness, power and magic, three hefty little words, subtitles to that one word: Commitment. And all three of them were present and active during those long ago memories we made. They have been present throughout the complex history of our relationship. It might be that that is the very substance each one of us is seeking with our thoughts of warmer weather, the substance of synchronicity. All it takes is a commitment. Simple, right?

Commitment means so many things, yet only one thing. Committment means change. Raising your hand when all others are neatly folded on flat surfaces. Speaking into a lull in the conversation. Stepping through a doorway, where one has been standing, hesitating, perhaps for years. All of those things are commitments that will change whatever the background image entails.

Following your heart would be so much easier if your head didn’t stack up logistics that feel like mountains that rise higher and higher into infinity. And each mountain wreathed in the clouds of self-doubt that accompany such longings. It would be so much easier if you had a friend with you, someone to nudge you, whisper in your ear, “Yah, let’s do it.”

Someone to move through those changes with you. Share the ups and downs of whatever comes, offering a smile of encouragement when needed, or a pat on the back when things go well. Or a bit of dark humor that erupts into raucous laughter that lightens all that it touches.

Which brings me full circle and back to the beginnings of this blog. I have a friend who wants to go on a road trip, fishing, maybe even camping (can you hear the doubts on that one?). And I am committed to doing that. I have another friend who reminds me of synchronicity and how it works to encourage following through on that commitment. But best of all, I have a third friend that will listen while I work my way through all those doubts, concerns, what-ifs, the actual planning, and more. A friend who happens to hold a Get Out of Jail Free card. Will lean in and whisper, “Let’s do it.” That friend waits patiently as always, on the empty pages of my journal.

Talisman

I made another trip to Dictionary.com this morning, before coming here. I had been talking to a friend in Arizona, and she was telling me about a picture she had found and carried around with her because she so liked the face in the image and what it represented to her. Eventually, she got the image laminated and used it for a bookmark. Then enlarged it, bought a frame for it, and has it hanging on the wall in her office, where she comes into contact with it on a daily basis. She now has a talisman.

That’s what prompted my sidetrip to Dictionary.com. This is what I found. A talisman is:

1. a stone or ring, or other object, engraved with figures or characters supposed to possess occult powers and worn as an amulet or charm.

2. any amulet or charm.

3. anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.

What does any, or all of that, have to do with journal writing? Reread number three, please. It’s obvious that I believe a journal is a talisman, possibly one of the most important ones we can create. As we do so, we may very well go through the same process that my friend in Arizona did. She found the image and was immediately drawn to it. So much so, that she found a way to possess it and carry it around with her.

We may think of jotting down our thoughts, on occasion, then pick up a pen to do so and feel utterly ridiculous at the very action. Put down the pen and walk away. But the thought remains, and one day we actually do it and discover it resulted in some good feelings toward our own person. Or we may hear someone, like myself, speaking about doing it, liking what we hear and trying it out for ourselves. It makes no difference what draws us, except on a personal level, which may be shared by thousands of others, or none. We are drawn. The idea of it has power and influences our actions.

The next step my friend took, was to carry it around with her. You may find that you enjoy this jotting things down so much, that you purchase a notebook that you can keep with you for that purpose. You might feel a bit curious about all of this, so you start writing down how you feel about the experience. My friend started speaking to the image she was carrying around. Either action, which could be seen as somewhat the same thing, gives or invests the object (or notebook) with more influence and power. We are even more drawn, and investing time, energy, and expression into the object and discovering that it has an even deeper meaning than we first gave it.

My Arizonian friend of almost forty years, then named the figure in the image and honored it by finding a way to give it a prominent place in her everyday life. We might do the same and with good examples. The first one that leaps to mind is the fictitious character, Kitty, to whom Anne Frank addressed her diary entries. She even wrote of her reasoning for doing so:

Anne had expressed the desire in the re-written introduction of her diary for one person that she could call her truest friend, that is, a person to whom she could confide her deepest thoughts and feelings. She observed that she had many “friends”, and equally many admirers, but (by her own definition) no true, dear friend with whom she could share her innermost thoughts. (Wikipedia)

When I first set out to keep a written daily account of my thoughts, feelings, and doings, I seriously gave some thought to doing what Anne Frank had done, giving a name to my morning pages. I didn’t do so because, although my desire was to write and therefore maybe become a writer, I already knew the power of naming a thing and backed away from so deliberately acknowledging what this was really all about. In other words, I was a very scared beginner. However, inadvertently, my journal did acquire a name. It became My Morning Pages. And I created a special place for it by doing it daily and not allowing anyone to interfere with that process. Even turning away phone calls from that dear friend in Arizona, to our mutual surprise and shock.

Carving out a particular place and time could also be simply refusing to go anywhere without that new companion, your notebook. Either one, makes our journal, or whatever we choose to call it, a talisman. We are acknowledging it’s primary importance to us, and its prominent position within our existence. Its power and influence over our thoughts and feelings. We do that because it actually holds our thoughts and feelings. Words we choose to express ourselves, create new and different definitions for our own small piece of world and our place in that world, maybe even renaming ourselves in the process.

Does this have anything to do with those first two parts of the definition for the word talisman? Yes, it does, but that is for some other day, when I might speak to you about what one (if one chooses) might put into a medicine bag, which is just a container in which one keeps ones most precious talismans.

Synchronicity

In my last two blogs, I have written about anger and pain, and the advantages of using a daily writing habit to seek solutions and healing for what happens to all of us in the course of living our lives. It is certainly far cheaper than counseling sessions, also more personal and private. Today, I am going to speak of another important advantage in that regular writing: synchronicity.

Synchronicity is when two or more diverse things, moments, flow together, and blend to create a deeper moment of understanding, or enlightenment, for the individual who experiences them. It is also the deepest and richest reward of a regular writing regimen or journal. We all have those moments when we find ourselves saying, “Ah, hah. So that’s the way it works.” That’s what synchronicity is, and a course of ongoing daily writing is a catalyst to such experiences, actually bringing them about on a more regular basis.

We all engage in thought process. Constantly and continuously aware of the thoughts that flow through our minds like a never ending film unreeling from an inexhaustible spool. For the most part, the thoughts are there for less than a second and then move on to make room for the next, and the next, and the next one. And again, for many of us, those ongoing thoughts get lost in that constant movement. We are just too busy to make space for them to take root and develop past that first, and sometimes, only flash of unreeling. They include commentary, emotional response, and reaction to what is happening around and inside of us. And synchronicity happens when some of those thoughts collide and present a new perspective.

The problem is that there are way too many of them. They become extremely easy to dismiss, can even be an annoyance or hindrance to what we would rather be doing or have planned to do. They can and do change the color of our environment, altering our response in the moment, whether negatively or in a more positive vein. All of that, in the blink of an eye, and often without comprehension or understanding. Our minds, our hearts, and our souls, are speaking to us, but that doesn’t mean we are actually, actively listening.

That is where the writing comes into play. When we deliberately sit down and write, we are slowing down that unreeling spool. Letting it speak to us in imagery, words, ideas, and emotional content. We are finally listening to our own inner voices, and don’t be surprised, we do all have them. But because the movie keeps moving, we can’t differentiate between the nonsense and the necessary. Some of it is absolutely necessary to our own well being and continued health and growth. And yes, other parts are absolute nonsense, and might have value as humorous party chat. How much value is there in knowing the difference?

In slowing it down, even for fifteen minutes a day, we are giving ourselves a signal that we are ready to pay attention. And it is incredibly amazing how swiftly those inner voices respond to that invitation, sometimes speaking far faster than we can write. We are taking notes, making that senseless constant thread comprehensible. In doing so, we are also allowing ourselves to make note in facilitating our memory about all of it. Because we now have the notes, we are far more inclined to see some of those ideas, thoughts, images, etc. come together and blend into newer, more advanced ideas and thoughts that can be put into play in changing ourselves, our lives, and our environment.

On some level, this can all appear as some form of magic. It isn’t, but it can certainly feel that way. It is synchronicity and you allow it by simply choosing to take a few minutes to write. I find that taking those solitary moments, puts me more deeply in touch, not only with myself, but with everyone I meet and the world around me. That constant flow of thought, has become my own secret source of ongoing synchronicity. It is a flow that allows me to know that I am in the right place, doing the right thing, for me and those around me. It allows me to embrace my own existence on ever deepening levels of awareness. That’s not a bad outcome for a few minutes of solitary occupation each day.

In the sixties, synchronicity was called serendipity. I like the sound of that word, but to me, it seems to express something that is happenstance, only occasional, a sort of slippery coincidence that maybe shouldn’t have even happened, or happened only because of some secret magical force that only occurs at its own peculiar choosing. On the other hand, synchronicity, seems to put a solid foot down and say this is real, its happening for a purpose and it might be best to pay attention or miss out on the experience. I much prefer staying in contact with all of my experience and learning from it as much as possible.

For a more lengthy discussion on the subject, I would suggest a reading of Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way. It too concerns itself with a regular daily writing regimen that really works on all sorts of levels. I know that because I read it through several times and even facilitated groups in its endeavor to enhance ones own creativity. Synchronicity certainly plays a major role in that activity.

My suggestion, for today, is that you write about one synchronistic moment you have experienced, a moment when you said an inner “ah, hah”, a moment of personal enlightenment. How did it come about? What were the diverse elements that made up its content? How did you feel when it happened?

Anger As Energy Flow

        I have done my part, and whatever happens, will simply happen. But it will only happen at my choosing. That knowledge alone, is worth the few tears I shed.  ___quoted from last post

After years of words that were not understood, or worse, misunderstood, I have learned to choose my words carefully. That sentence:  But it will only happen at my choosing, was written deliberately and with thought. For many years, I held my anger deep inside because it was inappropriate, unseemly, foolish, or just plain wrong. Or so I had been taught. And in turn, I thought I was all those things because I felt them. It took me years to fully understand that feelings are feelings, a barometer to let me know what the temperature is in my environment at any given moment. A simple gage, that allows me to access the information I need to be able to choose how I want to respond inside of that situation. Obviously, as a child, I jumped to the conclusion that if anger spoken was wrong, bad, or not okay, then silence would be the only way to deal with it.

Although a childish, therefore only partial solution, it still remains one of my choices. A good one in the appropriate situation, even as an adult. Let me explain. Anger is an energy flow provided by the system to allow for action. It is not bad, good, and hardly indifferent. It is simply the energy we need to either stand and fight, or to flee and save further action for another day. As an energy flow, it can be either destructive or constructive, used to end the threat that caused it, or build, create something new in its stead. And that is where the matter of choice comes forward. I can either choose to scream as insanely as the idiot who is pissing me off, or I can walk away and conserve the energy for something more creative in the future. Why waste the energy, especially at my age, when it comes as a priceless commodity? Ahhhh, the things I have learned by keeping a journal.

Pain is a threat to the system. As such it produces anger, the energy flow to combat the threat in whatever manner we choose. In my last blog, I wrote about a deep wound that I had uncovered, and allowed myself to revisit on the page, and in private. I even stated that I was consciously aware that it was only a first step in the process I have been learning by writing regularly. I woke up yesterday morning with a depth of anger that might easily match that of Mt. Vesuvius on her best days. Acting on it, was out of the question. It meant that I might very well explode at everyone and everything that crossed my path. Although satisfying in the moment perhaps, releasing the steam, could do damage to me and to others as well.

I acknowledged the anger, but then went on with the day I had already planned that centered around several different creative outlets. I didn’t bury it, simply put it on a shelf where I could easily see and even use it for other purposes. And I did just that. I changed the look of this blog space to one of my original design. Not the one I ultimately want here, because that one will take more time and effort, but an inter-um image that tells me this is now my space. I chatted with a friend, and even took a nap. I read some things in a very good book, which has a great deal of information (synchronistically speaking) about the hard work that must take place after uncovering buried memories and the very real emotional storm they produce.

Before I went to bed, I had a telephone conversation with a friend. At the end of the conversation I told her I needed to go write a poem that was waiting for me to find it. She laughed and said two words that became the poem I wrote in the following half hour. It is one of the better pieces I have written in a long time. And it includes some of the images and feelings from that original unspeakable pain. It is actually a love poem, addressed to someone very important to me. For me, it was the best use of that anger energy I had encountered that morning. Not destructive, or explosive, but contained, controlled, and ultimately, far more satisfying than any other choice I could or would have made.

There was a time when I would have written down those angry feelings in graphic detail. That does work. However, I knew intuitively, also based in past experience, that that can backfire as well. Sometimes the writing is like poking at the anger, watching it to see what happens, releasing some of its fumes into the air I breathe. Other times it can be an incredibly soothing release and answer for pent up emotions that have no other place to live and would become destructive if left inside. That again, is a matter of choice to be engaged in by the individual in individual circumstances, learned through experience, and the growing of discernment. Sorry, it all takes time.

What do you do with your anger? Let it possess you, corrode you from the inside out? Do you confront it and how? By letting it drip from your lips, or explode like uncontrollable and flammable chemicals that are corrosive to your own and others’ environments? Do you struggle with it, like I have done, or throw up your hands in defeat and let it fly wherever, or bury it in the hopes that it might not hurt anyone, but especially you? These are just questions you might want to investigate on paper with pen. Until next time…

The Unspeakable

Today, in my journal, I found myself writing about an ‘unspeakable’ pain I have carried around inside of me for almost ten years. Where do you go with something like that? Something so hurtful, that to unleash it, to open ones mouth and put it into words, is to unleash a torrent of pain and hurt that might have no end and therefore, no healing. What choice is there in that situation? To put it into words is to define it and all the tendrils of its reality and the effects that those realities have visited upon your person.

I think most of us, like I have done, just don’t go there. We don’t speak of it, refuse to think about it, lock it in a box, decorative or not, and place it on the highest, darkest shelf of our inner being. We completely silence it and ourselves. But, is that silence really silent? We may believe, because we must, that that funny little box is hermetically sealed, but it isn’t. The human psyche simply doesn’t operate that way. We may all have those moments when we wish that it did, but it doesn’t. Living organisms (anything that breathes) can not abide a vacuum in their midst. It must be opened and filled with more of self.

So, the tendrils escape, seek paths in the darkness and, I believe, seek light and the heat that is life. Places where they can continue to breathe, live, and ultimately grow to fruition. And just what are the fruits of such labor, in those darkened corners of existence? I found at least three of them in a single page this morning: hesitancy based in fear, distrust of someone I care about deeply, and feelings of both abandonment and betrayal. I guess that’s four, but I’m fairly certain that over the course of ten years, there are probably at least a few more.

So why did I even open this can of worms today? Because it was time, and more than that to do so. Each morning, before I write, I go back and read my last morning’s page/s. I had made a strange statement at the end of yesterday’s scratchings. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and sort of just dangled there at the end, like the physical members of a middle-aged male chorus line with beer guts and too much hair where it shouldn’t be and far too little where it should. It really was too highly visible to ignore.

Being who I am (never more apparent than in those morning escapes), I couldn’t move away without comment and once I started, I filled the entire page describing the incident upon which it had been based. And yes, I was definitely crying by the time I was finished. I was alone, no one saw the tears or need ever know they were present. No one knew, or even had to know what, if anything, had occasioned them. No one, but me. I had brought myself to awareness in five or six paragraphs. That isn’t something to sniff at, remember, all of this had been buried deeply for ten years. It certainly needed an airing, maybe even more so, a throwing over a clothes line and a good beating with a wire whisk.

That may all come tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe next month, or heaven forbid, even ten more years from now. These steps in awareness take time, to settle, be digested, and work their way through the system, in order to bring about the healing they are intended to produce. All I know, is that I have taken that first big huge step, and put into words what had been unspeakable. I have done my part, and whatever happens, will simply happen. But it will only happen at my choosing. That knowledge alone, is worth the few tears I shed.

Yesterday, I wrote here, that a regular writing regimen is the cheapest therapy known to humankind. Then had to face off with my own reality this morning and prove it to myself once again. Don’t you just love it when that happens? I do, because it is the one signal that tells me I am in the right place, doing the right thing. That pleases me, no end. Do you have that? Something that tells you that you are being the best that you can be in any given moment? Something that lets you understand that what you do is essential to further growth and your own personal evolvement? Perhaps a friend that you can invite for coffee and a little venting, a counselor or confessor, a place you can go and scream at the top of your lungs, or hug yourself when no one else is around to offer that?

The only problem with any, or all of those, is that they often can’t be spur of the moment things, immediate to and in the moment. Some of them can be expensive, while others might demand some deliberate preparation and planning. A journal never does. It’s always there, doesn’t get busy talking to another friend and leave you waiting, cooling your heels while the moment and its need disappears into other things, people, or activities. It’s there whenever you need it, want it, or can’t think of another way in which to turn the unspeakable into definitive words, that in turn, allow them to be worked through to resolution. And that is really good therapy.