It began simply enough. A tool to reach someone with whom I had no other means of communicating. That first letter, handwritten, like I was a pioneer woman, perhaps contained 100 words, at most. What followed was an ongoing practice correspondence, albeit one way, but correspondence, nonetheless. Daily letters capturing my feelings and thoughts and through those words, I discovered a love for writing. Because, through writing I was able to communicate that which I often failed to find the words to vocalize. Through writing, I found my voice and surprisingly, healing.
But why writing?
Do you recall writing term papers in high school or college? I was a Political Science major, yes, I know, why??? Going into it, I could not imagine the amount of writing required. Turns out, term papers were the norm. And not one or two pages, it’s as though I slowly compiled my own textbook. Looking back on those years, I realize I was a procrastinator, I’d roll around the ideas in my head for the paper and not put my fingers to the typewriter – yes, I’m old – until days before it was due. I do the same today. Words would flow effortless onto the pages and I’d easily finish it on time, well, on time by college standards.
Unbeknownst to me, or maybe it was obvious if I’d been paying attention, writing was a passion. In recent years, I’ve blogged with hopes of gaining an audience for other work passions I have, but I think more so for myself. Not until I was on the launch team for Allison Fallon’s book The Power of Writing it Down did I fully realize that through writing, we “metabolize our life.” No wonder it hold power in my life.
Healing through writing
Go figure that the skill we’re taught in kindergarten, or preschool if you’re Baby Einstein, could lead to healing. We struggle through those early skills books. Perfecting the art of first print and later cursive so that we can use it later in life. Looking back nearly 50 years ago to my writing curriculum, who would have know that cursive is all but dead – I question if they teach it in school anymore.
Neuroscientists have found that writing increases neural activity in and activates specific, large, regions of the brain – those responsible for thinking, language, healing and working memory. Handwriting can evoke in the brain similar sensations to meditation. The smooth flow of the hand putting pen to paper stimulates the frontal lobe, also responsible for movement, reasoning, judgement, planning, and problem solving. Handwriting also helps our brain develop a stronger learning capacity.
Why we should reclaim the power of writing
My grown children mock me, on the regular, for how slowly I text. Or that I choose to use voice to text more often than they’d like, often with disastrous results. How Siri translates what I’ve said into words I’d never say in writing is a mystery. But then again, she’s always listening. The children of the digital age, which began swinging into full gear in the 80’s, are often introduced to screens, texting, computers at a young age, and they’re losing the benefits of writing by hand. Honestly, even I’ve tapered in recent years. And while typing out these words is cathartic, it’s not the same as time spent with pen to paper.
I say cathartic because that’s what writing is. Truly a way to “metabolize our lives” as Ally shared in her book. Spending time writing without forethought, but simply letting words flow will lead you to unexpected places. In The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, morning pages are introduced. The exercise is to write without stopping for three full pages. And though it will help you become a better writer it’ll also help you clear out the junk that clutters your mind. When adopted on a regular basis, the impact may be surprising.
So, why do I write?
Back to the beginning, in those letters, I found a way to express myself. Honestly, I struggle at times to communicate what I’m thinking or feeling. I have plenty to say when it comes to matters outside myself, such as at work, but in matters of the heart. I become tongue-tied or am unable to grasp the words from my foggy mind. I become flooded with adrenaline in a stress response and unable to think clearly. I know, bananas. And though I work at it, my inner self doesn’t want to rock the boat, leaving me paralyzed.
But writing is freeing, because the words don’t fail me when I’m silent as I speak them. The pathway to communication opens in front of me. And the benefits come, sometimes, as I’ve found, unexpectedly. The truth is, 50% or more of what I write isn’t for human consumption. You’re welcome. It’s purely digesting my life. Sometimes into a journal, and others, into the fire. Hidden, or not so hidden, in each of us are slices of life remaining undigested. Writing is a tool to free us of those parts. And you may say “I’m not a writer,” and the truth is, we’re all writers. I encourage you to use the tool you were taught in kindergarten. Maybe learning to write cursive isn’t a lost skill after all. Use it on your journey.
Be brave my friends. Lisa
It kept coming up in my Instagram feed, Abby Wambach’s book Wolfpack, so I put it on my reading list and powered through this week. It’s an easy quick read, targeted to women, reminding us of what we know but forget. And then I ran across the quote from Eleanor Roosevelt a couple days later, “No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.” The combined wisdom triggered something inside me and has stuck around.
I am the oldest child and have all the type A characteristics that come with it. Oddly though, my birthday is late in the year, which made me the youngest among many of my friends growing up. I was four when I started kindergarten and only 17 when I stepped foot on my college campus. It presented a dichotomy, oldest at home but youngest in day to day life. I’ve thought about the contrast lately as I’m mentally turning a corner. Still the oldest child, no longer the youngest of my peers, and in the middle of my life.
I got stuck. Honestly, the mid-winter cold firmly grabbed hold of me and wrestled me to the ground. More than once. Just when I thought I was getting better, I got cocky, went swimming and got smacked back down by the cold. I’d like to think I’m paying my debt to illness and will not be plagued for the rest of the year, but for now, I am not amused. What I did not expect is that it would propel me into limbo land.