When I was little, I had one of those diaries with a teensie little lock to keep prying eyes out. I lost the key after about two entries. I tried my hand at journal keeping again in my early twenties, when I was living in London. I wrote sporadically in a black notebook for a few months, then gave up. When I re-read the entries later, they reeked of despair; probably because I was in a strange city, an unhappy relationship, and dealing with the grief of a close friend’s suicide. Not a great combo for upbeat writing.
A few years ago, as part of my preparation to become a yoga teacher, I undertook a year-long vibrational healing course. There was journaling. I sucked at it. I know all the stuff about how healing the practice can be, but I just can’t seem to sustain the momentum.
The truth of the matter is this: I have always felt a little silly writing for an audience of one. This blog represents my longest-standing record of my thoughts ever. And it continues because someone else reads it (I hope!)
I would love to know how you feel on this topic!