To Know We Aren't Alone
Reasons to write and share our writing
I’m delighted to welcome as a guest author this month. Sara writes Will It Ever where she shares stories of her life as a mother of a daughter with Down Syndrome and as a writer, film photographer and professional ballerina. She’s sharing her story here of the role journalling has played in her life to help her make sense of it all. I hope you enjoy it. Please do let us know in the comments. How has journalling helped in your life?
And a HUGE thank you from me for the outpouring of support after my email on Wednesday. I received so many messages that I am unable to respond to them all but please know I am so grateful for you reaching out to me. And to all of the kind souls who bought me cups of tea and upgraded their memberships, I am so touched by your support and it makes a real difference at this challenging time. 🙏🏼💙
We found a holiday cottage that we were able to move into on Wednesday evening for a week but currently don’t have anything to go to after that when we leave in four days. We can’t afford to keep renting holiday cottages in the UK so may have to tootle off to the continent where it’s cheaper. But because of Brexit can only stay there for 90 days then have to leave for 90 days. So if anyone has an affordable place for us to live in the UK or Ireland, please do get in touch!
With love,
To Know We Aren't Alone
When I was eight I wrote my secrets on the pages of a puffy precious moments diary. That took all of one paragraph, so then I took to documenting my day. Little snippets of an eight year old’s day, so riveting!
As a teenager that paragraph grew into pages of self discovery as I learned that my parents were just people too, friends could betray, and what it felt like to love.
Somewhere in my young adulthood classwork and more important writing pushed out any journal practice. It wasn’t until my early thirties, after nearly a decade, that I found my way back.
Still young with very young children I woke in the dark stillness to write angry hurtful words I was ashamed of holding. My pen scribbled dangerous thoughts of resentment as I filled page after page. My blessed life had become a cursed existence. I’d committed to write three pages a day. Often those three extended to five, seven, nine as I poured my heart onto the page. I tore through the people I loved with hot scorching judgement. All the things I thought I couldn’t say out loud.
Until I did.
At the counter. Across from him. Through tears. I said what I thought I couldn’t say.
I love you still he said.
I wrote it all and kept none of it. I buried the notebooks deep in the bin and carried it to the street. As pall bearer and gravedigger I put the words to rest. Words that no longer hurt me. Words I learned weren’t true. Writing them I was rid of them. I’d written my way to courage.
And then,
I started again. In the stillness of the morning I wrote what it was to be mother, not Sara. Then Sara mother. Then mother Sara. Then Sara. Then mother. Poems, meandering nonsense, stories and boring paragraphs about my day. I wrote it all and kept it.
These are the thoughts that have poured from me when I think of my writing practice. I suppose I’ve always had one though it’s morphed to suit my needs through the years. I haven’t sought it out because I’ve wanted to be a writer. I’ve written as a way to move through my life and now I find myself unable to keep some of those stories to myself. Writing those stories for myself in my journal looks very different than the finished pieces I share. I suppose that is why I have the micro prose above and this explanation beneath. I want the above to be enough, but as a guest post I can’t help but think it leaves the reader a little wanting. Though I believe it get’s the point across.
Maggie Smith set me free when she quoted her friend who, after reading her journals, said how unremarkable and whiny they were. My journals get to be the whiny navel gazing dribble I sometimes need. They also get to be the brain dump of mental nonsense I have to carry as a mother of five children. They get to be anything I want and need them to be.
I used to have notebook for every subject. One for the dump. One for the business ideas. One for the documenting of daily life. One for the ‘real’ writing. It was stupid. Switching books constantly left me lost and without flexibility to change between topics mid-sentence when my hand couldn’t keep up with my thoughts. One notebook to rule them all lets me freeform in all the ways to finally land on the one idea I want to expand on. I use gold stars to make the passages and pages to return to if and when I need to mine my journal for content.
I have had periods where my journaling is deliberate, habitual and the same everyday. I have had periods where my notebook never leaves my side and I jot down my thoughts whenever I have them. I have had times, like now, when the practice is spastic and chaotic. I won’t put pen to paper for days then fill ten pages with all the words I’ve been storing up. There is no right or wrong way only the way you are or aren’t doing them. If you feel badly about it change it. If it’s working don’t fix it. Practices aren’t ridged things. Perhaps they’re female in nature, able to expand, become softer and work outside the norm to be exactly everything we need them to be. They should serve our purposes not enslave us.
We write to know. We write to understand. We share what we find for connection. We write so we know we aren’t alone. Keep writing, for yourself and for others. Build a mountain of words. Share only the best.
Thank you for sharing this with us, Sara.
If you’d like to write a guest post for The Mindful Writer, you can send me your ideas here.
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moved. thank you both, Amanda and Sara.
This really resonated -- journaling is such a powerful tool to be able to hold all the things that feel true - even if they aren't! so that we can process, let go, acknowledge, etc.