The Art of Journaling

Journaling is like muraling without the pictures. Maybe that’s a stretch, but in both cases we are expressing what’s in our hearts. Expression is therapeutic. Reading our own words allows us to see more clearly who we are and how we really feel. Our journal is for our eyes only, which frees us to talk about whatever crosses our mind.

I have been journaling for the last ten years, regularly. It became a habit, like brushing my teeth. I picked up the habit from my friend, Raymond Lee Zanger, author of “Window of Self.” It is a very precise and instructive book on the techniques and history of writing a diary. Ray is the owner of one of the largest diary collections in the world.

I took Ray’s class, remembered the parts I wanted to remember, and put together a plan for journaling that is a bit looser than his.

Here are the aspects of journaling that work for me. Just like muraling, journaling requires a little preparation.

Buy yourself a NICE little journal (you wouldn’t want to waste that investment).

Your book should be bound—not the ring-type (so you won’t be tempted to rip out a page

Use an ink pen (so you won’t be tempted to erase your own words).

Make it a pen that flows well (so there are no excuses not to write.).

Place the book and pen in a permanent and convenient spot, like the coffee table near your favorite chair (so every evening, there it is, waiting for you to talk about your day).

I spend approximately five minutes per evening writing down the events of the day. The first thing I write is the day of the week, the month, day and year (every entry) at. Jan. 22, 2011—next line is the substance of the day.

Where did I go and what did I do and with whom

Any thoughts about what happened during the day (I use little happy and sad faces a lot)

I write three to ten lines every evening before I go to bed

I write down new medications, and how old ones are working

Any change in diet or medical symptoms

New ideas I want to hold onto, things to do

The one thing I would like to stress is, DON”T STRESS. This is your journal and you can write anything, as much or as little as you want. But you must train yourself to write—even if it’s only one silly sentence, even if it’s only one happy face icon.

The real fun happens when you pick up your journal a year later, or many years later. Even the smallest entry brings back the day, the people, the feelings you had. In other words, that day was not lost. That day had importance and the events kept their importance because you wrote them down. You can bring back to mind your own history.

Some people are more long-winded than others. Just because I write a bare-bones diary doesn’t mean you can’t write in detail, fifty lines a night if you like. The more the better.

Set a realistic goal and stick to it!

Author Joyce Oroz
"Secure the Ranch" - Mystery Novel - Available in Kindle and Paperback Format.

Unraveling the Dietary Mysteries of Labrador Retrievers

Rumors are flying that a golden lab named Sandy eats artichokes. “No way,” they all say. But she has been seen scraping the good stuff off the leaves with clenched teeth. You go, girl! Just don’t get caught between Sandy and fresh cabbage leaves. Trampling is never pretty.

The rumors get more ridiculous. Sandy has been spotted pulling weeds with her teeth and eating them. As she works hard to manicure the backyard, her boyfriend, Rocky, on the other side of the cyclone fence mimics her. Now his yard is looking good too.

Sandy is never allowed to have candy, but she can be rather persuasive as she holds an Easter bucket in her mouth, hoping for donations. She finally gives up the bucket and takes a stroll wearing her fake fur bunny ears. Try that, Rocky!

You know it’s a bad day when:

Your dog brings home a bone. You say, “good boy.” Six cop cars surround your neighbor’s house. They discover a body buried in the backyard (minus one femur) and your property value drops by half because you live in a dangerous neighborhood.

From "Secure the Ranch"

“Oh, my God, Solow,” I gasped. I hadn’t a clue how he took the crash. I jumped up and raced out the front door. Herbert had the light on in the garage that looked like Hurricane Josephine had hit it. I rounded the truck and opened the passenger door. Solow practically fell out. I helped him to the ground, noticing his whole backside was crimson. I stifled a cry with my hand. Tears welled up as I embraced the best dog-friend a person could have. Down close, hugging him, he smelled like strawberries.

Once I realized Solow was wearing strawberries and a few other food groups, I relaxed considerably. He had polished off a pound of ground round, a pint of cookies and cream ice cream and a dozen raw eggs. He had been literally rolling in groceries under the dash. Every dog’s dream!