Insert witty title here.

When I sit down to type these little thoughts and feelings, it's for myself and no one else.

A long time ago, I heard of a psychological technique that intrigued me, and in practice, it seems to work, at least for me in some fashion.

The technique was primarily used to help people dealing with pain and struggles of their own, be it abuse, an alcoholic parent, or a failing relationship in counseling, and any number of life's horrible dealings that face us all.

It involves the person in question writing out or drawing on paper all the anger, pain, resentment, anguish, loss and depression. Be it a journal or diary, or even just on note cards or the closest paper plate one happens upon.

The act of writing is in itself, very therapeutic, and I recommend it to any and everyone out there. But the therapy exercise took it one step further: once the person had gotten everything out that they needed to, the writings were put to flame and burned to ashes.

Very dramatic, I know, but it makes sense.

We hold onto so much pain in our lives - it's just part of being a species with cognitive thought and deep, lasting memories. We always have to think back and recall the GOOD...but the BAD is always there, just under the surface, ready to spring itself on our lives, from just hearing a particular song on the radio, or finding an old picture buried in a box long forgotten.

Something as simple as a smell, or the way someone says something to us, sets us down that path of hurt, and we suddenly remember why we bear the scars that we do.

How do we let it go? How can we forgive, and learn to love again?

Well, someone's idea: burn it.

We write it all down, taking control of those faded memories and very real pain, in our own words, with our own minds and spirits guiding the pen or hitting the keys.

And we burn it.

The old therapy trick noted that the simple act of willfully putting those notes, those scars into the fire...watching the flame come alive with something new to feed on...seeing the paper, or the card, or the pictures drawn fade away into an unrecognizable pile of ash...it provides such a real, tangible release to the person in need of doing so.

So, here I am.

My paper, an electronic notebook full of questions, realizations, small moments of clarity interspersed with the true comedy of life.

My flame, the vast openness of wired space, where someone from Asia is a daily reader of my little thoughts and silly stories.

But I write for myself. And I click a button to burn them in the fire. And even now, in sitting here and clik-clacking away on my keyboard, I feel a sense of release, like the wind blowing across me, refreshing the very spirit, strength and love that I need.

I mentioned in a prior post that this year was going to be quite different and most definitely interesting, if not exciting, and I still hold true to that. But I'm finding myself still asking those questions above, and I suppose that will never really end. In an ironic way, I think those same questions are what keeps us going, keeps us striving forward to improve, to grow, to learn and mature.


So I write, and I burn. With each pseudo-ash I create, I find my strength and patience renewed.


//end.