By Dawson Jollie
Sitting in my dorm room one restless April night, I flicked on my lamp and sighed. It was midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. But how could anybody, with a million thoughts zooming through their skull, every last one begging for our attention? I could feel waves of emotions swell in my chest. I needed to act, needed to do something with those thoughts. And so, I reached for my notebook.
With the pages flipped open, empty, in silence, those thoughts seemed to scream out, each wanting to be recognized in the notebook: my inspirations; my forlorn, college angst; rising fears for a future fast approaching... The desire to fill those pages never felt higher. But staring into the paper, those lines and margins so concisely laid out, helped to close the gates in front of my brain. Close them, but only enough to form a funnel, where I could usher out what’s written.
In that moment, three ideas came to mind: a concert. A wave of faces. And a heart, beating loud into beautiful lights. These are what would fill my journal that night.
This was one of my several experiences with journaling, or the act writing in a journal. For a long time, the process has been a chance to seize reflection: analyzing our emotions, actions, imagination, and the world around us, in the attempt of gaining a better understanding of our place in life. It still serves that same purpose today, no less effective.
And this is something I can attest to. Many people can. Living in an age of constant adaptation, stress, and anxiety, it gets far too easy to lose sight of what really makes us so unique. Hence the reason why a journal should first and foremost be a service for yourself.
So then what does that look like? How does this work?
Well, I started writing that one night, letting every detail come out in order. Not a single thing forced. I described the concert prior: the heat of a hundred bodies, a hundred strangers I’ll never see again; the spectrum of colors that painted the crowd and their faces; the thumping of my chest as my heart raced with a thundering beat.
A picture was being formed by the words echoing in my mind, and the emotions jumping toward the light. I had no plan to stop.
Instead, I went deeper… how nice it was to be at a music venue, without having that nagging sense of a threat to normalcy brought by the pandemic. I looked back to the faces of those around me, all their eyes expressing that same relief. All worries and pains, stifled, then soothed. Like the world was suddenly opening to us and revealing a future where “normal” was no longer a distant memory.
I filled the first page quickly… then another. And another. And another. But seeing it all before me, my own emotions and experience laid out on every line, I saw myself reflecting through the writing. In every entry I made.
“And that’s the beauty of it all: just like yourself, the page of a journal can become as much as your imagination dictates.”
And that’s the beauty of it all: just like yourself, the page of a journal can become as much as your imagination dictates.
With that said, the only “wrong” form of journaling is the kind that doesn’t encompass yourself. It may be one thing to write something down on a piece of paper, but what should be a therapeutic tool turns into a chore when it doesn’t speak to your interests. Or your growth as an individual.
One may really find peace losing themselves in 5 minutes of daily prose; or perhaps a long session diving into the deepest desires of the heart. Or maybe some thoughtful sketches to describe what can’t be put to words. Regardless of form, a person’s journal should be tailored to themselves; a blank space that only they have control over.
So why not give it a try? Take a few minutes, 5 or 10 sometime during the day, and just write what comes naturally. If you feel sketching would be better: then sketch. Spend a couple weeks building that habit, digging into that perspective you thought you knew. Scribble away at that journal, and watch as you find yourself forming on the pages.
It was 3 am by the time I stopped writing that morning. And with the sun soon to rise, I flicked the lamp off. Closed the notebook. Heart and mind, finally satisfied.