When I finished high school I went straight to the monastery. I’m not kidding—I lived in a cabin with 50 other people my age in the Kings Canyon National Park attending a weird “discipleship school” dedicated to figuring out how Christ would live in the 21st century through reading the bible, volunteer work, and manual labor. I call it a monastery because I signed an agreement that avowed me to abstain from all media consumption for the 9 months i went to this weird, but useful christian conservative cult school. A lot of people broke the rules, but that option hadn’t occurred to me and so I cleansed my brain and confronted my darkest, worst thoughts, straight out of high school in my first experience away from home. Pure terror in sublime nature.
Silence was good for my smooth marble Christian girl brain. My teenage emotional habits reformed themselves, and instead of becoming attached to content, I grappled with intense self-loathing and joy. That was my first taste of mental solitude that wasn’t prayer and while it was agonizing and partially damaging to my psyche, I survived it, mostly, and it made me who I am today. I’m unafraid of silence and deep self-examination, skills that have served me well for decades.
These extreme but temporary constraints plunged me into deeper work with myself; I processed things with more clarity. On it's own, my mind has the sonic quality of a Dave & Buster’s; my inner monologue is already competing with the noise of the genocidal world and the 110 highway outside my apartment window.
So, how do I create an open space to slug through my research and subconscious—especially when I have an extremely difficult time getting started or switching gears—especially when I’m attempting to assess an era of life I haven’t taken much inventory of yet. I need to feel clear, but safe, supported and diligent. Here is my game plan, pulled together by supportive friends and fellow writers:
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