Morning Pages

Around this time last year, I followed the 6-week self-improvement program laid out in a book called The Listening Path by Julia Cameron. The goal was to become a better listener.

A key part of the regimen involved writing three stream-of-consciousness pages in longhand immediately upon waking each morning. And I mean immediately. You were supposed to get to scribbling before your feet even hit the ground. That’s probably why a good number of my “morning pages,” to use the book’s term, had to do with needing to pee.

I think the purpose of the exercise was to make you spend time paying close attention to yourself and your surroundings in order to set the tone for the day, priming you for all the many listening opportunities therein. The idea, perhaps, was to experience writing as an act of meditation rather than what it actually is: an act of frustration.

Other things I had to do during the 6 weeks included jotting down my observations after nature walks and, toward the end of the book, transcribing my imagined dialogues with deceased loved ones and personal heroes. As if Harvey Milk and my grandma don’t have better ways to spend the afterlife than helping me work on my listening skills.

I can’t decide whether all this therapeutic writing made me more attentive to the people, natural elements, and ghostly gay rights icons around me. I’m inclined to think, though, that the Listening Path was too cluttered with words. I could’ve used a little more silence and stillness along the way.

But maybe dipping back into my morning pages will persuade me otherwise. Here’s a portion of what I wrote immediately after waking up on this day, Jan. 24, one year ago (2024).

The theme of The Listening Path this week is listening to our higher selves. So we’re supposed to focus on paying attention to the small inner voice that is wiser than the intellect. I’mma try right now.

Invisible Zachary, are you there?

I am.

Are you real?

I am.

What do you want to say?

Have faith. Don’t make fun. You don’t always have to make fun. Don’t be embarrassed. You’re always embarrassed.

Why am I always embarrassed?

Shame. You’re afraid people won’t like you.

Why does that make me want to cry?

Because of the kid you were. The parts you hid were the best parts of yourself. Your voice—the one you present to the world—still drowns out the real you sometimes.

Is God real?

It’s foggy. Too much riding on that one to get a clear answer.

Don’t ask me why my higher self sounds like a cross between a cheesy life coach and a Magic 8 Ball.

At any rate, the above is just an excerpt. I have redacted big chunks from that morning’s morning pages because there’s only so much vulnerability I am willing to put on display for you people.

I suppose Invisible Zachary, cited above, wouldn’t approve since, according to him, my private parts are my best parts. But, actually, I’d probably be willing to show you my private parts. Just get me drunk.

Incidentally, Invisible Zachary was the name of my imaginary friend when I was a young child. He was just me, but invisible. I worry that this suggests I was not only a narcissistic kid but an unimaginative one besides.

Perhaps I’ll discuss the matter with my higher self someday and he can be like, “Reply hazy; try again later.”