Stories of Stories

Lately I find myself turning to my journals and its almost like picking up the phone and calling a good friend. Writing has always been a large part of my journey yet even today as I read what I wrote only a few weeks ago, I am sometimes surprised at my words and the eloquence around them. There is also a knowing behind them, a truth.

Last year I would wake up in the morning, set a timer for fifteen minutes and write my "pages" as I called it, writing down my stream of consciousness. I would write whatever came up for me. I'm not sure what I wrote about, I've not gone back to read this journal. I am sure that sometimes I simply wrote about the weather and there were other times I would have profound insights. Either way it was a good way for me to sort through my thoughts, release them, or simply send my wishes out into the universe.

I have kept a dream journal which is difficult for me to be consistent with, especially when I was moving around a lot. It started on the Vision Quest and every night I would sleep with my journal next to me and a pen inside of it with my owl feather in the pocket of my tent because owl feathers are known to reveal secrets. I find that it helps to make a conscious decision before I go to sleep to write my dreams down once I wake. When I lived in San Diego, D and I used to share our dreams with each other, we were both keeping a dream journal, and I found that helped me get back into the habbit because I had someone to answer to. I find if I don't write them down I have a hard time remember and sometimes I'll wake up thinking "Damn, there was something I was supposed to remember from the dream world and I can't quite put my finger on it."

In Peru , my journal served as a trusty companion. I picked it out especially for the trip since I had finished my current journal just as I was leaving. I love it when I write in the last page at a perfect time of transition. I was attracted to a small book with a celtic design. I wrote so much in Peru there were times when my hand would ache. One day I was walking with my journal tucked into my vest and it fell down a drain. Luckily it was dry down there and to the astonishment of the Policia that helped me get it open, I crawled down into the street to retrieve it. Good times.

Funny, as I finish this blog I have been writing in the last of my Peruvian/Celtic journal. For me, the end of a journal represents a closure of sorts of stories that I will always take with me that are also somehow ending. I will share a couple of entries from this book now:

October 15th

There is a new confidence about me. How could there not be? I followed my heart here which is exactly where I needed to be. I am trusting my Self. As we were walking off the mountain today, my gait felt strong. I felt beautiful and confident and, I don't know.....charged somehow.

October 17th

I feel surprisingly unattached to much of anything or anyone right now. I guess you could say unattached to any story. It feels different, so light. In a way, I am just beginning my life.

Yesterday we were at the Temple of the Ancient Ones (I'm not sure of the Quechuan name). As I knelt at the beautiful altar there I was surprised at the grief that came up. As I placed my elbows and forehead against the rock, tears arose and when I finally pulled myself away I notice the stain of one of my tears. N wanted to know why, who and how the site was created. As far as I'm concerned, it may as well have been created for me in that moment.