I took a day off from journaling yesterday, just one day, it shouldn’t have really been an issue. But, this morning, I felt resistance get between me and the page in a way that felt familiar to me a little more than a month ago.
It wasn’t a conscious decision not to journal. The day just had too much in it. I thought multiple times during the day that I’d, “set aside some time to journal, in a bit…” Nope.
Why is it, since I do see the value of journaling daily, and have even proved it to myself recently, that I still resist the change?
All I can think of is that maybe, on some level, I feel that I don’t deserve to be satisfied with myself, who I am, what I am doing.
And, as I sit writing this, silently, after pushing through the resistance that I was hoping that I had left behind, sadly, I feel like that is true. I think there is a healthy dose of self-dissatisfaction that can be used to spur one onward and achieve more. I am starting to wonder if my slice is larger than the recommended daily allowance of self-judgement.
Coming down off of an enforced #PostADay for a month, was this just me taking a breather? It doesn’t feel like it. It feels more akin to waking up on a truly cold winter’s morning under a thick down comforter and resenting the day to come as it seeks to draw me out and into the persistent chill.
I’d like this to be a habit, and by that, I mean something automatic, almost subconsciously necessary for me to function. It’s not. It is something I can choose to do — or not.
Maybe it needs to stay in that realm of choice? Unless I consciously commit to the blank page, is there value in it for me?
Maybe that was always my issue with Morning Pages. They seem designed to process the sub-conscious brown water flowing from the tap that live between the writer and the act of writing. Maybe my issue has always been more about committing to the art, in the moment, once I am there?
No answers today. Only questions. Sometimes, that’s a good thing.