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When I was an adolescent, I fancied myself a writer. I wrote poems, short stories, and essays. My love for Nancy Drew books inspired me to think of mysteries for my friends to solve. I’d leave clues around our classroom, short notes with cryptic instructions that they always enjoyed deciphering. Our mystery games brought out the sleuth in them while bringing out the creative writer in me.

I don’t remember how I acquired my very first diary. I do remember, though, writing how angry I was at my Dad one time, my current crush, an embarrassing situation I couldn’t bring myself to talk to my Mom about, my new crush, an adventure around the neighborhood with friends, another new crush… Years later, it occurred to me that keeping a diary was juvenile, so I stopped. Even many years later, I became a scrapbooker. I noticed that not only did I enjoy decorating pages of pictures; I looked forward to writing about them. I found that I belong to a minority of scrapbookers who enjoy “journaling” (the term used to describe the act of writing a short blurb about a picture on a scrapbook layout). I recognized that I was leaving my legacy among the pages of my scrapbooks and I wanted to write better. I registered for journaling classes wherever I could find them. I got better (at least I think I did) and became even more creative in my story-telling.

I started keeping a journal again. I discovered The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and wrote diligently early in the morning every single day for eight months. I bore witness to the shift in my thinking and writing. I became even more creative, but this time, not in my use of words, but in living. I envisioned things I wanted and found myself doing the actions that correspond to manifesting my desires. My thinking became more focused and clear, my movements deliberate. Somehow, I knew what I needed to do; my instincts were very strong. I didn’t waste time analyzing how this could be. I just kept doing what felt very natural.

I didn’t realize that I had been reaping all these benefits from journal-writing until I parked my pen again. It took five months for me to notice that I floated through my days, doing routine things out of habit and without thought. I lived, yes, but I didn’t participate. I made a few attempts to get back on track. Some were successful, others weren’t. Eventually I found my old rhythm. I don’t write every single morning anymore, but I do make the time to write every other day or so. With a newly-acquired knowledge of journal-writing techniques, I’m able to tap into that part of me that needs to be heard or that I want to explore. I’ve noticed that my words come easier and are very specific, heartfelt and authentic. Even the mundane stuff gets written about in such a way that makes it extraordinary.

I’ve discovered a loyal friend in my journal. I have access to it anytime I want. After a 5-month hiatus, it welcomed me back with open arms and has done so every single time since. I used to wonder what the correct term was for these “thought catchers” – diary or journal? Not anymore. Now I only wonder what I can become more aware of or what I can manifest next. I am finally participating in life again.

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