Some start their day with
A poop.
A removing ritual. It’s one way our bodies de-clutter, flush out waste.
Another exit strategy is different. But the same. It contains a pen and 3 sheets of paper. Bear down, click the utensil. Go.
Ain’t nothin’ pretty here either and it’s what makes this ritual smack dab gorgeous. I write… mostly illegible scribbles. 25% is half-sentences for reasons of scatterbrain. Multiple mini mid-thoughts. 195% full-on streams of consciousness sewn together like a geometrical quilt. Then jot other lines, can’t quite connect ideas. What was I saying? NM, make to-do list. Need yogurt, sched wax, call ADT.
Write the present.
I am crying and I can’t stop whyyyyyy??? Next line. My life is perfect on the outside, how do I make it on the inside? Next line. Do I have pickles for my ham sandwich?
Itch my left earlobe and daydream. I right words speled wrog. Cross out, underline, keep writing. Create sentences flooded with fiery feelings, forgiveness and f*ckery. Affirmations for the soul. Brain gunk goes down through mind chute swirl. Just keep writing through page 3 no matter how much I want to STOP.
If there’s one thing I’m going to finish today, it’s gotta be this.
Some creatives may know this writing routine. Morning Pages, an idea by the frustrating and brilliant and annoying writer Julia Cameron. Her 33-year-old book still hits and this writing practice makes us see ourselves in ways that are uncomfortably confronting yet completely necessary for us to get out of our own way. In creativity. In our relationships. With our own lives.
Just write 3 pages. But it’s hard sometimes many days. That’s what makes it good.
But, you see, it’s not about being a writer, or an artist, or even being “a creative” because, by nature, as humans, we are curious and, therefore, there’s creativeness in all of us.
I dread/love/hate this 3-page chicken scratch. But I keep coming back so I can be.
It can clear my mind. It can purge the poison in my gut. It can organize my hoarder’s hell of a brain.
This 20 minute nuisance is the most irritating and profound thing I’ve slotted into my typical 16 waking hours a day. It’s — Writing to live. Writing to be. Writing for growth, love, peace, hugs n kisses. Writing so that I can listen and tell it to STFU. Censor-free. Rated G through XXX.
On this scrap paper
I make space in a place I feel small.
I say what I want exactly how I want. Because here, the page and pen don’t talk back or behind my back. It doesn’t insult or throw things at me. Doesn’t gossip, doesn’t cut me off. Doesn’t minimize my experience. I can be the dom or sub or I can be the mid-road limbo lumberjack if I wanted to. I can be anything on these 3 pages every single day.
The key is dissipation. It is knowing I don’t need to look back at what I wrote. Almost never do. No one will ever read this. Toss it in the bottom of the blue recycling bin. Might as well Burn. After. Writing.
This thing I do for me. WRITE FOR NO ONE. 3 lined pages has been my sacred spot. Cheaper than therapy. There’s no hourly rate. No need to coordinate when to meet.
Just hole myself in a corner, pick up my journal and pen and move my hand.
Let it be the voice that can scream,
the guttural kind.
It can whisper lovely things, chunks of gratitude if I’m feeling thankful. If I’m ungrateful and hateful, that’s FINE TO WRITE, TOO.
Hopes prayers wishes dreams regrets ‘n’ curses.
I can spill contents of my mind that society would CANCEL me for.
I can be controversial.
I can lean left or right or be pro or con any which way to Sunday I damn well want.
I can commit bad grammar. I can be who I want to be right now. Here on these pages. I can be who I want to be in the far off future. Here on these pages. I can let that child self finally scream and have a snot-spewing kicking-my-legs-so-high-you-can-see-my-underpants tantrum. No more fake performance I’ve been
dancing
like
a
marionette.
Here on this paper I don’t need to pretend to be, to exist.
Writing is the place in which my voice is truly mine. In this way, where the words are burned already when they land on the page — there is freedom. In knowing I won’t look back. Because I can be everything I’m scared to show the world, without any consequence.
It’ll all drift away, clouds clearing from the sky. Disintegrate all the secrets. Flush it away.
Tomorrow another blank page.
My morning pages have a crush on your morning pages 😆
I won’t lie…I often think about my morning pages being found after die or something - and all my crazy thoughts being out in the open. 😅