Why write: Let the practice be a rebellion against the things that hold you back

Too much of our educational and cultural conditioning imposes the oppressive and stultifying idea that everything has to mean something or take us somewhere grand and significant. But that's largely a lie constructed for the convenience of social narratives designed to impose a purpose upon us for the sake of systems and productivity, measured against agenda-driven notions of value.

To give in to this notion, to be stunted in our expression out of fear of not fitting the mold, to be rendered silent from doubting we’re not “good enough” in ways that measure up to external parameters, is a recipe for dissatisfaction via delusion. If we’re not wise to it, this surrendering of a sense of purpose, value and merit to outside forces robs us of the chance to feel for ourselves, to know for ourselves.

Writing for the sake of writing, is a rebellious, revolutionary act.

In writing for the sake of writing first and foremost, rather than for praise or acclaim or recognition, we learn to trust our own wisdom instead of seeking external validation to confirm that our lives, our endeavours, our words or our thoughts matter.

In committing to the process, that is what makes it worthwhile; we get to know without having to be told that what we decide to do is inherently worth the time we give it; there doesn’t need to be anything more. To think there does is likely a view we’ve adopted that isn’t necessarily our own.

Yes, we are social animals, yes, we need to feel seen, read, heard and witnessed. And yes, there are ways of doing things well that effectively and powerfully convey meaning and engage us in the reciprocal process of facilitating understanding.

But before that, we have to know what we’re about, know what we have to say, know what we wish to say, to take the time to feel it and truly know it from the inside out. Writing as an exploratory process - also known as journaling, contemplative writing or reflective writing - allows for that.

It’s a means of reconnecting with ourselves, a way of figuring out, spending time with our thoughts and sifting through the mud.

It is the practice of paying attention, tending to experience and cultivating a depth of understanding that we only get from practice. In that way, it’s a wholly embodied and mindful act of coming alive to what we experience, what we think, what we feel, and from that, realising who we are.

"A writer listens. A writer is vulnerable. A writer trusts that they are worthy of words on the page, despite the voices that say otherwise." - Felicia Rose Chavez

There is so much joy, release, relief, and satisfaction to be had from discerning for ourselves our own purpose, from embracing the practice with no goal in mind.

I’ve nothing against goals and purpose-led work, in fact I’m all for it in other realms of life and work. But when it comes to the art of expression, we do better when we spend time contemplating what it is we feel and think and wish to communicate. In other words, authenticity arises from within, not from emulating what we see outside.

Writing slows us down. It's a call to pause.

To contemplate and commit to paper, in a culture that is too much about the rush, where we can feel we don't have time to stop, is a gateway to presence - to flinging the sense doors open wide, to really and fully feeling, tasting, touching, listening, seeing.

Even before pen touches paper or pad touches key, we can get curious, wonder, rather than let life slip by unawares. We can be there for it, pay homage, remember, linger longer.

For me, it’s no overstatement to say that writing has always been and remains a life-saving, life-preserving, life-affirming practice that counters the conditioned and ancestral impulse to rush, to feel like I have to get something done, get through it, get it over it, and move on.

I’ve learned in my own practice and process that all of these motions towards distracted action are often a turning away from what I need to face, an unexamined impulse to override reality. And yet also within me, equally conditioned and ancestral, is the urge to know, to feel, to notice, to pay attention, to give value to wonder. And this is the impulse I cultivate, through the daily practice of writing.

Writing allows me to wrangle with the tangle of my thoughts, to reclaim an unhurried relationship with time and to clear space, both physically and mentally. To embrace messiness and disobey the rules of what or how someone else says anything “should” be.

In that sense, one of the greatest gifts of this first love of my life has been the embracing of imperfection. Sometimes the words matter more than others, make some sense and none, in terms of revelation or illumination. But no matter, I carry on. I care less for the external impact and more for the internal, because that’s where the difference, the insight, needs to occur first.

Writing is a liberating experience.

I get to decide the what, the where and the how of it. There need not even be a why. In fact, in my own practice and working with others, I embrace the purposeless of the process.

Write for the joy of it, the love of it. Let the structure, the formality and the search for a neat beginning, middle and end come later – if that’s your intention, your desire, to write to be read, to compose a story for others. But first and foremost, write for yourself, to examine the contents of your mind.

Let yourself feel free.

Let the words be simple, mundane, ordinary – words which themselves, like so many words, are loaded with connotations of unworthiness.  And yet, being okay with the ordinary and mundane, when freed from the expectation or insistence to make it something bigger or somehow other than it is, allows for the feeling of lightness of relief.

Of course, there can be revelations, grand and complex, labyrinthine and spectacularly simple. All of it is worth it. All of it is life. Meet it with your pen ready and your mind and heart open. Nobody has to know or read it unless you want them to. But it will change you. In big little small fantastic significant ways. 

You’ll begin to see patterns emerging that show where your mind goes and the direction your energy moves when you consider a question. And this might prompt a question of why, or “aha”, or “that makes sense now that I see it!”

It's a revelatory process. Sometimes.

Other times it's the simple, and occasionally frustrating task of sitting with what feels at first touch like the tedium of the moment, but after spending some time with it, opens up to be something much more.

It can be a destabilising or relaxing encounter with the mind as a blank. Of feeling you have nothing of interest to say. No matter what, you work with what you have, with yourself, you sit with yourself, regardless. No moment is unseen.

The marks on the papers, the papers with untidy scratches, the neat swirls of your most mindful handwriting, they all show you were here. Let them remind you of your aliveness.

"In daily life we're disconnected from ourselves. We're alive but we don't know that we're alive. Throughout the day, we lose ourselves. To stop and communicate with yourself is a revolutionary act." - Thich Nhat Hanh

The untidy scrawls tell something of your mood. And better a scrawl in a notebook than a scratch on the arm or a cuss flown harshly in the wine towards another.

Writing isn't therapy but it can feel therapeutic. You can take it all out on the page, get it out, let it go, excavate through dust for the sake of clearing out. No matter if no jewels come, this time. It's a practice.  Let it be what it is, get to know yourself. That’s the value. That’s more than enough.

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And now an invitation -

Want to come write and relax with me, amidst the beauty of the Andalusian mountains? Well, you can, Spring 2023, when myself and dear friend Nina are hosting a three day meditative retreat focused on embodied mindfulness practices and contemplative writing.

You’ll receive the support, skills and space to slow down and listen inwardly, express yourself freely, tap into your inner wisdom, and cultivate a sense of deep understanding and ease. The practices are rooted in and respectfully inspired by the teachings of Yoga, Zen, Buddhism and Daoism, and draw on the work of writers, poets, thinkers and artists who have shaped my own explorations and reflections over many years.

All the details can be found on my website - 28 April - 2 May, make the time for yourself and join us, at Las Mecias regenerative farm. From £650, which includes 4 nights accommodation / 4 breakfast / 4 lunch / 4 dinners / various daily sessions with your truly. Hope to see you there!