One Woman Revival

I had often noticed the location Magic Donuts marked on Google Maps, it seemed like an invitation to an adventure. Take a bite of donut and step into another world. When I finally made my way there I encountered elaborate creations, a donut topped with a giant burnt marshmallow or one with deep purple frosting but filled with key lime custard. Torn by indecision I defaulted to plain chocolate for myself, unable to commit to a more involved undertaking. But I selected a few decadent options to take to a journaling meet up later that morning. Perhaps someone there was a match for these donuts.

Our group had been gathering every other month since the start of this year. Each time one of us hosted at their house or apartment while another member of the group led the session. Themes had ranged from setting intentions for the new year to overcoming obstacles to traveling to outer orbits. We normally reserved time at the end for an existential discussion, especially given the torrent of political news we have all faced in the last six months. And someone usually brought pastries. I decided to make the donut contribution this time since I was neither hosting nor leading. I admired the dedication of the group to keep these sessions going and the core group of 4 to 5 who tried to make it every time. And for me, it is always invigorating to connect with fellow writers.

My relationship with journaling is complicated though, I started it as an attempt to unlock creative energy and I would write three full pages in a spiral notebook each morning as recommended by the book The Artists Way. After my husband died, I would fill up pages and pages trying to process the grief. My morning pages became mourning pages. At that time, it seemed to me that I had to feel all the love I would have experienced for my husband during our shared future and then I would finally be done grieving. So I scribbled all my chaotic thoughts down hoping that if I finally got them all out then my heart would stop aching. I did this for a year before burning out and my therapist gently suggested that maybe journaling was doing more harm than good. We brainstormed other ways I could use as an outlet such as by doing stand-up comedy or through writing fiction. 

Deep down I still hoped that somehow my suffering would reveal some insights to me, I felt as if I stood on the edge of an abyss staring into some greater understanding but could not to translate it into our corporal world. Or my realizations felt too harsh for anyone to accept or understand. But another possibility that nags at me was whether I was not the right lens, maybe I was just a stone that absorbs the white light rather than refract it into a rainbow. And perhaps accepting that will allow me to stop staring into the void that most people can walk alongside and ignore.