Mindful Journalling

“I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that
you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and
your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”
– Clarissa Pinkola Estés

This writing thing, I love it. But I have strange conceptions about it. I think that I can write only when I have something juicy going on, like a moment when I began to really see my child, or moments when I overcame a difficult phase in my life.

I absolutely shut down shop when I am wading through difficult waters…when it seems like the difficult phase I’m going through will take a long time to pass. I also can’t write when I am feeling like I have nothing to offer to others who read or to myself. When I am mindlessly dragging myself through life.

I love conceiving an idea, letting it grow in my mind and heart, I love playing with words and I love how musical sentences can be when you weave them that way. I love how words transform and give meaning to my experience. I also love how they open my heart out and make me more grateful, kind, calm and whole. But sometimes this very thing is such an effort.

I love playing with notions of mindfulness, love, compassion, hate, jealousy, desire , anger, freedom, independence, interdependence and so forth and how they play out in my life and that of others . But I can play with these notions only when I am feeling somewhat accepting of myself and my present moment.

When I am angry and overwhelmed, I am a mess and cannot stitch two words together. When I am sad or longing for someone I am poetic, deep even. When I am happy I am busy celebrating it, not writing.

Nevertheless, I don’t think I have ever written like this. And I am realising that writing like everything else is practice. A daily practice of just returning to the now, of returning to myself, of bearing witness to my life and experiences, again and again.

To delve deeper into mindful and intentional living, take a look at our Mindfulness Programs.

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