Uncharted: In the Lines of a Scribble
“Through tears and laughter, joy and strife,
words carve landscapes, breathing life,
each stroke, a path; each page, a door,
a mirror to the soul’s rich core.”
I remember this specific night… grappling with a heartbreak that seemed too big to bear… I was so young. My heart was a tangled mess of confusion, a raw ache in my chest, pulsing with loss, boiling with anger, yet somehow hollow as an abandoned room. The world felt both too loud and too quiet, a contradiction resonating within me, leaving me longing for something I couldn’t quite grasp.
A spark ignited within me, an instinct rather than a thought. There was something about words, something primal, something soothing, like a melody that had long been playing in the depths of my soul. I didn’t understand it then, dancing to my own rhythm, guided more by intuition than reason, but I was desperate for release—for something, anything—that might help me untangle the confusion, the pain.
So I began to write. Not with the conscious intention or deliberate artistry I learned in school but with a raw, jagged urgency that spilled from a place I hadn’t known existed within me. My hand trembled as I scribbled, tears blurring my vision, but something magical was happening. My pen’s tip scratched against the paper, a rhythmic sound mirroring my heartbeat. In my hand, it felt steady yet alive, its ink spreading like a slow revelation, translating emotions that words alone could not contain.
Those words, those imperfect, honest words, were a mirror to my soul. They didn’t judge; they didn’t demand explanations. They simply were, as real and genuine as the emotions that fueled them.
Days turned into weeks, and those scribbles transformed. They became my confidant, my silent companion through sleepless nights and endless days. I poured my fears, my joys, my discoveries onto those welcoming pages, and they absorbed it all, whispering back wisdom I hadn’t known I had.
Through writing, I stumbled upon hidden parts of myself—those cherished insights, those forgotten treasures tucked in memory’s drawer. I discovered words that felt like hugs on gloomy days, sentences that acted like guides when I was lost, paragraphs that were solid rocks to sit and rest upon.
Life, with its hidden complexities, often builds storms within us, doesn’t it? Quietly brewing, they go unnoticed until they unleash their fury. It was at that turbulent juncture that writing revealed itself to me, like a sanctuary in the storm. My words became vessels, each one carrying a fragment of my soul, a surge of grief, a spritz of joy, a mist of uncertainty, a whisper of love, and all that lies veiled in between. They poured out on paper, free and unburdened, giving voice to the unspoken, allowing me to breathe again…
Now, decades later, as I reflect on those formative years, I recognize that the emotions I navigated then are universal, transcending time and place. They are as relevant today as they were in the 1980s. We all face storms; we all seek harbors.
In Lines of a Scribble
(2005 © Julia Delaney)
Unscripted Connections: Words Without Walls
“Whirl me, turn me,
in this dance so sublime,
in the arms of old tales,
where stars always align…
where wisdom whispers,
where harmonies weaving embrace,
in grooves and valleys,
a connection to essence profoundly felt…”
And so it was, in that embrace of raw, unfiltered creativity, that I found my sanctuary, my refuge. I had built a world within words, a landscape unbounded by time or place. But to truly understand the roots of this dance with language, this relentless pursuit of self-expression, we must venture back to a time rich with its own melody—the 1970s and 1980s, decades that were the crucible of my becoming.
The decade was marked by its own contradictions, its clashes, and harmonies, and I found my own world within the walls of our apartment in downtown Kyiv. A world where books filled shelves in double rows, their spines weathered and wise. As I pulled them from their perches, I was greeted with the soft rustle of pages and the rich scent of ink and aged paper. Each tome held a secret, a hidden truth waiting to be uncovered. Their texture was familiar, a comforting embrace as I delved into worlds unknown.
A world where vinyl records spun on the turntable, their grooves humming stories from across the globe, the crackle and hiss of each track weaving a captivating narrative. The bass resonated deep within me, while the treble notes sparkled like distant stars. I soaked them in, day after day, their melodies becoming a part of my soul’s dance. Each story was a lesson, each note a whisper of wisdom, as I memorized their tales word for word.
Just across from our building, in a corner of a bustling district, my school was a world apart. It was considered one of the best schools in the city when it came to liberal arts and science. This was no ordinary place of learning, for sure; here, we delved into the study of multiple languages with both depth and intensity. Languages weren’t just mere subjects; they were expansive landscapes to explore, pathways to understanding different cultures, bridges to other worlds.
Our days were saturated with grammar, syntax, poetry, prose, and the subtle art of translation. It was a curriculum designed not merely to teach but to immerse us, to forge connections that went beyond mere words. In that unique educational environment, I didn’t just learn languages; I lived them, breathed them, and became part of them.
But the exploration didn’t stop at languages. History breathed life into ancient civilizations, music played in harmonious echoes, philosophy a probing quest for truth and the depths of existence. Literature, screenwriting, even ballroom dancing—all were taught with a depth and rigor that nurtured my mind, my creativity. That was the place where the foundation of my skills was laid, sharpening my understanding, and developing my capacity to express myself. My voice, that unique essence, was still a fragile, timid seed within me, awaiting its time to bloom…
Rebel Lines 〰️ Wild Words and Sacred Silences
Can I share a secret with you? While at school, when it came to conventional writing methods I was sort of… untrainable, I always semi-cheated in the eyes of conventional wisdom. From an early age, I danced to a rhythm only I could hear, my own style of writing, my own way, my own sacred flow. Conventional rules were mere shadows, fleeing in the face of my creative fire, defying the rigid structures of formal education.
Essay writing, with its rigorous formal training, puzzled me. I found myself caught in a struggle between my natural instincts and “the proper way” of doing things. They taught me to start with a title, to create an outline, to build an introduction, to construct an essay according to the plan, and finally, to craft a conclusion, you know the drill. It was a neatly prescribed path, one I should have easily followed, a logical procession that should have made sense. Yet, I would sit for hours, consumed by the emptiness of the paper before me, a headline at the top declaring “The Plan.” But no plan emerged, no title, only the haunting silence of expectation and… a quiet knowing that my path lay elsewhere.
You see, for me, writing was never a mechanical process. It is an intuitive dance, a connection with something profound and mysterious. It’s not about following steps; it’s about surrendering to a creative flow. It’s an ethereal connection, a trance-like experience, a freeing of the soul. Words would flow, not from me, but through me, finding their way, leading me to places I had never dared to explore. It is an untangling of thoughts and emotions, a delicate weaving of the unseen.
I would let the words flow and then step aside, rearranging, shifting, allowing the narrative to shape itself. The conclusion would reveal itself, followed by the introduction, and the title would appear undoubtedly clear and resonant. And only then, after all was said and done, would I write an outline for formal submission. My essays were always met with approval, the marks never betraying the unconventional method behind them. The A+ was but a symbol; the real triumph was the connection, the feeling of creating something that was uniquely mine yet resonated with a universal truth. And that was how I moved through the world – not defiant, but attuned to my inner guidance, finding my way not through force but through intuition and grace.
When it came to poetry, the dance continued. Rhymes were a play, a delight, threading effortlessly through my fingers. I cherished the learning, the reading, the analyzing, the memorizing of poems; yet when I composed, I let my soul take the lead. I never thought of a particular scheme; I allowed my inner expression to find its path, and only afterward would I discover under which scheme it had landed.
This was my little secret, my way of being, my treasure, my affirmation of who I was. I did it my way. I honored the unique voice within me, a voice that refused to be tamed, refused to conform. It was a celebration of authenticity, a dance with my true self, a relationship with the craft that was not bound by rules but was instead a loving embrace of the pure, unadulterated essence of creativity.
I found joy in the dance of words, in the rhythm they created, in the images they painted. They were not mere letters; they were colors, sounds, textures, all blending into vibrant pictures of life. They were my songs, my paintings, my expressions, my art…
Words Without Walls
Words without walls,
no boundaries hold,
brave and bold,
in the heart’s chambers,
in mind’s wide space,
a dance, a drift, a seamless embrace.
A word, a whisper, a look, a touch,
so little says so much.
No script, no plan, just raw and true,
a connection’s birth, pure and new.
Words are my colors,
thoughts are my brush,
in ink’s wild flow, a liberating rush;
No gates, no locks, just open sky,
a canvas unbounded,
where dreams can fly.
Language a river,
a path, a journey,
just you and me,
through valleys, through mountains, and over the sea,
unscripted, unwalled, wild and free.
(2007 © Julia Delaney)
Cut in Realms: A Dance of Two Worlds
But for all the freedom and connection I found in my writing, there was a world outside my paper sanctuary, a place moving to a different beat, filled with calculations, equations, and strict logic. There, people danced to a rhythm of numbers and precision that I observed with a mix of fascination and disconnection. Yet, there was no escaping it; it was the reality I lived in, a demanding rhythm that clashed with the beat of my heart.
In my writing, equations turned into metaphors, and logic merged with intuition. The pen wasn’t merely a tool to express; it became an instrument to explore and reconcile these contrasting realms. My writing was more than a sanctuary; it was a conversation between the seen and the unseen, the felt and the suppressed. Through the endless pages, through poetry scribbled on humble napkins, I found more than solace; I found a synthesis, a harmony transcending mere words, revealing a hidden strength beneath layers of longing and confusion.
I pursued the path laid before me, juggling accolades, master’s degrees, motherhood, and marriage. But beneath the facade of achievements, a powerful undercurrent of creativity shaped my path, ever-changing and free, as I danced to a beat that resonated deep within me..
The ’90s were not merely a backdrop but a mirror reflecting my transformation. Walls were crumbling, both globally and within my soul. I found myself breaking free, questioning, exploring, and discovering new facets of my identity, just like the nations redefining themselves.
Love blossomed in this time of metamorphosis, radiant and full of promise. A marriage filled my days with warmth and joy, but soon, I felt the chilling bite of separation. The divorce cut deep, leaving scars that re-shaped my perception for a while. Alone, yet never truly alone, I had the guiding light of my daughter’s presence, my twinkling star, a gentle touch of love and purpose in a world that had shifted beneath my feet.
This was a time that shaped my understanding not just in abstract ways but in the harsh reality of love, loss, and growth. These events, as diverse as the seasons of nature, each brought their colors, scents, and textures, weaving a complex and beautiful pattern that was uniquely mine.
These were not just personal milestones; they were markers on a journey that mirrored a world in flux. I danced with my demons, embraced my shadows, and celebrated my light. Writing was no longer just an act; it was a part of me, a rhythm as natural as breathing. It was a connection to something greater, a pathway to understanding my place in this multifaceted world.
A Dance of Two Worlds
I witness a balance achieved,
in two worlds’ dance,
I cut a reprieve.
In pen and paper,
dreams and schemes,
I weave a dance
of two clashing themes,
In heart and logic,
a dance refined,
a delicate balance of soul and mind.
(2006 © Julia Delaney)
The Soul’s Migration: Weaving Words Across Worlds
In 2000, the world stood on the threshold of a new century, and I took my first step onto American soil. This was not merely a change in geography, but a profound shift, a turning point that mirrored the world’s leap into a new era. Leaving behind the cozy cobbled streets of Ukraine for the unexplored vast horizons of the USA, I was stepping into a new chapter of my life, one filled with unfamiliar faces, languages, and customs.
Eagerly, I immersed myself in the new culture, absorbing its nuances, its flavors, learning to read its signs, to move in harmony with its rhythm. My writing, that constant companion, followed me, chronicling explorations of my soul. My pen became my mirror. The joy of discovery, the pang of longing for the familiar, the thrill of new beginnings—all reflected in the words dancing to a rhythm that was uniquely mine.
Poetry, that mystical dance of words, continued to emerge unbidden, catching me at the moments I least expected. Verses sprung to life from the mundane, seemingly ordinary… A glance, a touch, a sunset—all were my wellsprings of creativity, sparking lines that resonated with truth and beauty.
The fascinating thing was the way language danced along with me. Some days I would thread beautiful lines reverberating in rich Ukrainian hues, lyrics steeped in the soul of my homeland. On other days, Russian verses would be spun seemingly from nowhere. And with time, the profoundness of existence began to resonate through me with a pulse of English rhyme, the language of my new home merging with the voices of my past.
English… a new dance, a new melody. It entered my life, not as a sudden burst, but as a gentle stream, slowly whittling its way through my thoughts, through my dreams. The transition was neither immediate nor forced, but rather a tender and organic evolution. At first, English was just a whisper in the background, a distant tune that I could hear, I could speak, but not yet feel. As I immersed myself in this new culture, surrounded by its flow, English began to permeate my consciousness.
I found myself dreaming in English, the images and emotions transcending language barriers and painting my dreams with colors unseen. It was not just a shift in language; it was a shift in perception, a new lens through which I saw the world.
Writing poetry in English was an enchanting discovery, a mesmerizing dance I never knew I had within me. The moment the first English verses began to pour out, I was both astonished and in love. There was no uncertainty, no hesitation; the words danced on the page as if they had always been a part of my being. Each line resonated with a melody that seemed to have been waiting, hidden in the depths of my soul, ready to burst forth in a cascade of creativity. I felt drawn to this new rhythm, not as a stranger to a foreign land but as a lover to a long-awaited embrace.
English poetry became a thrilling adventure, a joyful exploration of uncharted territories. It was as if I had tapped into a hidden reservoir of inspiration, and the words flowed effortlessly, weaving themselves into verses that resonated with truth, beauty, and a profound connection to the core of my existence. The language wrapped itself around me, and I was entranced by its cadence, its nuances, its ability to convey emotions with melodic intensity and grace. Writing in English was an affirmation of the endless possibilities of creativity and expression, a tranquil dance.
In this dance with English, I found a fresh voice, a new song, a different way to connect with myself and the world. It was not a departure from the old but an expansion, a blossoming, an unfolding of a part of me that I never knew existed but now could not live without.
I found strength in my roots, the grounding force of my mother tongue. I found wings in my dreams, in the soaring melodies of English, that allowed me to explore new horizons. Each language is a different rhythm in my heart; they’re woven together, a harmonious blend, reflecting my way across continents and cultures.
Forgotten Words In Shifting Shadows
At the height of my bustling life in Boston, where the rhythm of days had settled into a familiar pattern as I diligently ran my business, trying to survive and cover the bills, something insidious began to creep into the picture. My body was signaling a change, a mysterious shift, leading me down a path I had never anticipated.
Lyme disease struck like an invisible yet brutal assailant. The initial symptoms, though painful and fatiguing, were dismissed as mere byproducts of a restless entrepreneurial life, filled with long hours and constant challenges. But as weeks turned into months, my body began to reject this notion, shutting down in a powerful act of self-preservation. The fatigue became a heavy chain, dragging at my limbs; the pain, a relentless fire consuming my energy.
The wake-up call came not as a slow realization but a sudden discovery. What I thought was a routine doctor’s visit led to a blood test and an urgent diagnosis: Lyme disease. The symptoms I had ignored and brushed aside as temporary inconveniences, had finally revealed their true nature.
My writing became a means of connecting not to who I once was, but to a deeper realization that what I thought was lost was never truly me. My essence, untouched by illness, unaffected by memory loss, remained unchanged. The words on the pages were a reminder of experiences and reflections, memories rendered precious in their fragility, yet they were also a pathway to a deeper understanding. They led me to the realization that, in the midst of change and uncertainty, my true self was ever-present, unaltered.
In the shadow of potential memory loss and altered cognition, writing became more of a mindful practice, a way to explore and honor the impermanence of life, while celebrating the eternal within me. In those quiet moments, with pen in hand, playing with the words, I found a way to express, to reconnect, to just be. Writing wasn’t a grand affair; it was a simple presence.
Memory loss is a silent thief, stealthily taking what you may never even realize you had. But it also leaves behind a profound awareness, an appreciation for the memories that remain. Each one stands as a unique marker on life’s path, not held tightly but observed with a knowing that it could so easily slip away… at any moment.
In the very act of being lies the intricate puzzle of identity. What molds the face we recognize in the mirror, the voice that whispers in our thoughts, the soul that stirs in our most profound moments? This question began to vibrate within me, no longer an abstract notion but a living, breathing reality.
Identity, I discovered, is not a fixed landmark but a flowing river, nourished by countless streams. Each one adds to the current that forms the ‘me,’ a fluid dance of elements merging and separating, never the same yet forever connected.
The power of writing was a bridge to my past self and a gateway to deeper introspection. In those written words, I found reflections of my multifaceted identity, shaped by personal history, but reaching beyond the constraints of mere memory. Writing was not merely an act; it was a moment of mindfulness, a celebration of an ever-evolving yet unbreakable bond with the core of my being.
The acceptance of all the layers, the embrace of transformation, and the courage to explore and grow, allowed me to pick beyond the surface.
Breath and the Dance of Forgotten Words
(2007 © Julia Delaney)
Stripped Bare: Words Lost, Self Discovered
but now I know,
beyond words and noise,
there’s a deeper glow,
a rhythm so divine,
life’s most beautiful line...”
Seeking to mend my health and the ceaseless demands of work, I moved to sunny Florida, a change that was meant to be a fresh start. But life had other plans. A chain of devastating events, too painful to recount here, stripped me of identities I had held dear, throwing me into a dark abyss of depression.
Night after night, my heart ached with a wish never to wake up again, a prayer for release from the torment of my experience. And then, came the crushing blow: Cancer.
The news was a sledgehammer, breaking me open. It was an experience beyond words, a moment of transcendent clarity that I expressed in my poetry, and strangely enough, it brought peace. Facing mortality straight on, I found solace and insights. I discovered that identities are fluid, our essence unbreakable, and that in the dance of life, we are both the dancer and the dance… and so, I danced…
The surgeries were grueling, the chemo a relentless assault on my body. But more than the physical toll, the most devastating blow was the impact on my cognitive function. The condition known as the “chemo brain” ravaged my mind, robbing me of my ability to read, write, listen to TV, and even, at times, comprehend speech. Words, once my friends and companions, became elusive strangers.
My writing, my poetry, my very ability to communicate, all stripped away. Often, I found myself adrift in a world I no longer understood, reaching for familiar landmarks that had vanished…
The way I wrestled with ‘chemo brain,’… it was chaos – frustration, fear, pain… Words became scattered fragments, torn and adrift in a sea of noise. Once, twice, people repeated themselves, but anger soon boiled over: ‘How many times do I need to tell you!?’ I would shut down. Alone, lost, wanting the noise to stop…
I remember being in my backyard, alone, in the midst of a tropical storm. The sky burst open with a blinding flash and a deafening bang, thunder roared, the rain became a ruthless stream…a thick wall of water that drowned my screams… The screams, torn from the depths of my being, became one with the thunder, my tears one with the rain. Yet, finally! Finaly-it was a language I could understand, a connection I could feel.
Reading, watching TV, listening – it all started to spin, a whirlwind threatening madness, as I was trying to grasp the meaning, trying to catch up, hold on to the words… I needed escape. I found refuge in nature, under my trees, by the canal, the ocean. That felt good… Alone, yet not lonely. I could hear, I could connect, I could understand. Nature spoke to me. I heard the earth’s song, felt its embrace. Sounds too poetic? Oh, if only you could hear it, feel it, know it as I did. It was my gift, my solace, and I am grateful…
The loss felt not just intellectual, but existential. Writing had been more than a passion; it was my connection to myself and to others, a way to unravel the mysteries of the world. And now, it was gone, and with it, a part of me, a lifeline that had tethered me, to life itself.
In those days, I came face to face with the fragility of identity, with the realization that who we think we are is intricately woven with how we express and connect. Yet, in the deepest despair, there lay a lesson, a painful but profound insight into the essence that remained untouched, even as my perceived world crumbled.
The way through health challenges, through loss and rediscovery, was a crucible that tested, broke, and reshaped me. It led me to a deeper understanding of what defines me, beyond the words, beyond the roles, beyond the fleeting constructs of the mind.
A fog in my mind,
a storm in my soul,
words lost in whirlwinds,
no longer whole,
fragments and pieces,
they drift and they flee,
once friends, now strangers,
Where is the sense, the clarity, the grace?
Lost in confusion,
in time, in space,
not a word,
but a cry,
a nightmarish dream.
their voices clash,
a meaningless crash.
in a world of noise where no one wins.
Rain on my skin,
a tropical storm,
a new world is born,
in screams lost in thunder,
in eyes lost in rain,
a connection to nature,
my only sane.
The rhythm of waves,
the whisper of trees,
the song of the earth,
brings me to ease;
The touch of the wind,
the kiss of the sea,
in loss I found,
I found the essence of me.
The world keeps spinning,
but now I know,
beyond words and noise,
there’s a deeper glow,
a rhythm so divine,
life’s most beautiful line.
(2017 © Julia Delaney)
In the aftermath of my physical healing, there emerged a new, potent longing to reconnect, to forge a pathway back to the part of the world that had felt so distant for a while. My body was mending, but my soul needed its own kind of nourishment. Meditation, yoga, and writing had been my lifeline, my inner sanctuary, and now I felt it was time to extend that sanctuary outward, to reach others who might be standing at their crossroads, facing their own trials.
With a blend of excitement and trepidation, I designed and developed this website (PositivePranic.com), a digital hearth around which we can gather. Here, I began to share some of my writing, my poems, the things I learned through my life, and those intimate glimpses into my soul that had sustained me through the darkest times. I ventured onto social media, tentative but hopeful, extending my voice into the virtual expanse. And the response was surprising.
Strangers turned into readers, readers turned into companions on this intricate dance of life. Emails and comments began to flood in, each one a testament to the universal resonance of human experience. The pain I had penned, the laughter I had captured, the hopes I had nurtured—all found resonance in hearts across the world.
There are those who found solace in my verses, those who discovered reflections of their joy, their grief, their longing. My words, once confined to the solitude of my room, became bridges, spanning across cultures, languages, and personal histories.
But I feel that it is more than a mere connection. It is a shared recognition, a communal understanding that transcends the particulars of my story or theirs. It is an affirmation of our collective human journey, the undulating path that we all walk.
There’s a moment, a precious, rare moment, when you realize your words have touched another heart. It’s a glance across a crowded room, a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment that says, “I understand.” It’s a bridge that writing built for me, a bridge that stretched from my pen to the pulse of others’ lives. My pain, my laughter, my hopes became a shared experience, a reassuring whisper that breathed, “You’re not alone.”
A Meeting Point
(2022 © Julia Delaney)
Every poem I post, every reflection I share on the digital pages is not just an expression of myself but an invitation—a beckoning for others to join me in this exploration of the rich complexity of our shared humanity.
The connection I feel with my readers is profound and humbling, a testament to the power of honest, heartfelt words to transcend barriers, to heal wounds, to brighten paths. The writing that had once been my personal refuge has become a sanctuary for others, a place where they too can dance to their rhythm, guided by intuition, strengthened by understanding, and embraced by a community that cherishes the authenticity, the raw beauty, the very essence of what it means to be human.
Because I’m entering yet another chapter of my life. It’s a dance I continue, a melody I hum with gratitude, a story I write with Love. For in the end, we’re all stories, intertwined and unique, etching our verses on the endless pages of existence, dancing to our rhythm together…always together.
Be Alive 🌱
Love ❤️, Julia