Today is my two year anniversary of Morning Pages. Incidentally I find myself in the same spot where I began this practice in earnest: on the banks of the Potomac at the conference my former online writing group organizes at regular intervals. Kind of fortuitous, isn’t it? Auspicious even?
Over these two years I have filled these five notebooks with my early morning scribbles, and they have become dear friends to me. They harbor not only what’s on my mind and comes out through my hand each morning, they are also where my lists of ideas and tasks live, and where I glue in the occasional memento, such as a ticket stub from a show I loved, or the acceptance letter from a publication I was thrilled to get into. Morning Pages books are where little celebrations find a home, where the hohum of everyday life comes to a halt to get looked at.
I am deeply happy when I can settle into my spot on the couch at home, while the house is still quiet, to write my Morning Pages. It’s an early morning gift of happiness to myself. Writing Morning Pages is not discipline (I hate that word.). Rather, Morning Pages are visiting with myself, casting an anchor. If, for some reason, I don’t get to do my Morning Pages routine for a few days, I feel unhinged.
So, while I began the Morning Pages practice two years ago in a quest to keep the flow of writing going, I am, more than ever, indebted to Julia Cameron for recommending this practice because it has become a cornerstone of steadiness and happiness in my life.