Tag: Journaling

• A Journal to take Home

  Last week when I sat by the Detective and asked him how things were going….he said, "I have two adolescent boys (who are talking to him about their sexual abuse) and I don't have nothing to give them….I am not sure about a journal, but I do wish I had something. And I surely can't give them the ones with the Lady on the front," he said with a smile and wistfulness. I said, "Let me ponder this and see what I can do."  

  I mentioned this conversation to my brother Carl (who was abused as a young boy) and he said he thought they would use a journal…he mainly didn't want them being overlooked.  He and I both felt it would be nice if Tom had a boy journal to offer.

  I found two smaller sketch journals as well as two black lined journals that I covered.  This was a stretch for me to make "boy" looking ones….or at least non feminine looking, yet still artful….a place to put such sacred truths.

  
  Above are the four I made this morning.  I wrote "Me, Mine, Love Truth, and I M Perfect" in the quilting.  I wanted to impart ownership as well as words that will reflect the essence of them speaking out.  

  
  

  I am in awe of such young brave boys…and even if they don't choose to take one, the idea will have been planted…to write.  It gives me hope that boys are now willing to speak up so they can be healed…to shatter the secret and open themselves up to living life in full disclosure.  Even if they never write, just having the ear of Tom Rosemurgy is huge.  He is such a kind soul.  And I want to help Tom as he helps them.

  
  May these journals find the right hands to hold them…and be a place to store the tragic truths of abuse.  Writing it down on paper, released the overwhelming emotions that swirled inside.  It was a place to go and talk…and cry.  A tool I used to find a clear mind.  May the children who pass through Tom's office shorten their pathway to healing…just by finding such a caring man…and a journal to take home.

  April 29, 2012

  abuse, healing, Journaling, sexual, to, writing

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• Life with no words?

  I listened to Deepak Chopra talk to John Francis who wrote a book called “The Ragged Edge of Silence”. He didn’t speak for 17 years. Yes, 17 years, but he did journal and he also gave up riding in gas vehicles. But what he said about silence is that when you are silent it is impossible to lie or argue.

  Isn’t that interesting?

  He also said that once he stopped talking he felt his authentic self arise and his ‘social’ self disappear.

  Imagine your day or week minus all the chatter?

  How much of your self is only known through what you say and not what you do, how you act or where you go.

  Would you be afraid to live in silence?

  I wondered if he talked to himself at all?

  Perhaps I will have to read this book and see what other insights come when you are silent with all people.

  And you know, I wonder how many people would be comfortable with you being silent, for many are uncomfortable in silences, awkward pauses would be frequent!

  It is interesting to know how you use language is it to share your insights, to reprimand, to command, to demand, to cheer, to delight, to ignite…imagine a life with no words?

  June 11, 2011

  deepak, edge, John Francis, Journaling, of, radio, ragged, self, silence, sirius, social, speaking, The, words

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• Mold in sight.

  What I didn’t know about writing is that you are supposed to have a plan first, a graph, a map, an idea, an outline, something for the words to fall into, that you don’t just stand there empty handed and catching them as they fall.

  I felt like a neglectful writer, unskilled, untaught and uncaring, yet as I step back and see the overview, I am astonished how hard most writers make it.

  It seems they are trying to predict the unpredictable, like trying to control reality, or planning for an unknown future.

  As I look upon my first 46 years of living, I had structure, I had rules of a religion to follow, and I had to fit into that, foregoing all my instincts and passion.

  My natural spiritual self was whittled down to fit into their mold.

  My mother sculpted this mold, and we had to squeeze ourselves into the walls, making sure we didn’t jut out unbecomingly.

  Our goal was to replicate this mold and make our children to conform to look the same, sound the same, and walk the same, little molds of sameness.

  Kept to the outside were words that didn’t match this mind set, this ideology and beyond their very rigid lines danced wonderful words and ideas in a field of pure potential…forbidden to us congregants.

  We had to disregard all things that didn’t match the mold, and by doing so passed up 99.9% of reality…and lived with .1% of our self.

  This .1% of me is where I began writing from, asking how I had sold so much of myself off and what did I truly believe coming from the base of me.

  From the base of me I ask the question and have no rules as to what comes, or where it takes me, what conclusion we draw, what systems we debunk, there is nothing off limits, there are no walls between me and my words.

  In fact I am tearing down the parts of me that have been crammed into the tight space, and giving life again to the long forgotten parts of me.

  There just simply can’t be a grid to follow, for I have no idea who I am, where I am going or what my purpose is…writing is helping me define who I am.

  I am meeting my words with a blank slate and they are coming from the mold of extreme restriction, so they too are excited not having to guard themselves and their truths.

  We are the clay and the sculptor with no pattern or mold in sight…

  March 23, 2011

  about, blogging, constriction, exploring, Journaling, learning, life, molds, patterns, reality, Religion, self, strict, writing

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• I found my soul.

  “Pen to the page to find and create sanctuary and asylum for soul. “ Margot Van Sluytman

  My blog is an asylum for my soul, a sanctuary for a confused mind, a place where I feel free to dialogue and debate the inner turmoil of unraveling a life too confusing to live, let alone understand.

  It is the place I run to when my emotions need a voice, when my feelings need to be heard, when I have discovered another part of me that was missing, it is a place for me to rest and be me.

  I speak in the asylum and I also listen to myself there, it is the oddest of things, and most often I receive newfound wisdom, wisdom I didn’t have when I put pen to paper, yet wisdom flows as I write.

  In my writings I discovered my innocence, explored my beliefs and challenged my thoughts, worked out crossed wires of dysfunction, expressed long pent up emotions, shed tears, and wrote words of comfort, all in the space of neutral white paper, my sanctuary.

  It is a sacred place, a soulful place, a place littered with emotion and tears, sorrow and pain, as well as decorated with wonderful moments of joy and gratitude and wisdom fills the air.

  I arrived to this place a very broken disillusioned girl, who had lost more than her heart could hold, and all I knew is that I seemed to feel better by writing it out.

  And it seemed to hear me, my great confidant.

  The sanctuary is my private space, to let down and let go, to not have to worry who I will offend or disappoint, for there is no one here but me.

  A space where you can go mental, rant and rave, and a place that is set aside to work on solutions, to find the answers you are seeking, to heal so you can once again rejoin your life.

  In this sanctuary and asylum I found my soul.

  November 29, 2010

  asylum, expressing, Finding, Journaling, Margot Van Sluytman, sanctuary, self, writing

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