I have chosen the journal method to capture thoughts, feelings and experience because I believe it allows space for deep listening, awareness, unravelling and
In my psychology practice, informed by the work of Pennebaker (1990) on the use of writing to work with and heal trauma, I encourage clients to keep a therapeutic journal where applicable. I have kept personal diaries since 1980 that ranged from recording basic details of events to deeply reflective writing from my inner world. Journaling offers the opportunity to self-witness with words reflecting back to me what is seen and what was previously hidden (Reiter, 2009). Working in this way provides a safe, creative, even sacred, space to give voice to struggle, confusion, seminal moments and inspiration, “A journal provides a map of the journey towards growth, healing and change” (Thompson, 2011, p.30). My journal of a year of contemplative practice includes a variety of sources and materials, which have been a “means to turn-life-into- text” (Graham, Walton and Ward, 2005, p.18). The act of externalising interior experience is often a mysterious unfolding, where witnessing and self-reflexivity deepens my awareness and understanding, challenges my assumptions, changes perspectives and situates me within social and political contexts.
For me, poetry is an important element of reflection in journaling, I find it medicinal and an intimate way of processing and expressing deep feelings and experience. Professionally, I regularly share poetry with clients, it can provide a powerful channel for emotional engagement. Poetry has the ability to “help make evident personally significant material lying just beneath our consciousness” (Chavis, 2011, p.229) it is also artful in its means of encapsulating and communicating experience (Etherington, 2004). I used the poem Wild Geese (Oliver, 1986) throughout my autoethnography as an inspirational reference point and a frame for the elements of self-compassion. In doing so I was “merging story and theory so that story becomes theory in action” (Adams, Holman Jones and Ellis, 2015, p.92).
3.6 Material Collection and Analysis
I have not used the reductionist term data because my experiences and relationships are not mere data. Data implies a concrete, stable and measureable thing, often elevated by positivist approaches as evidence of a fact, whereas my experiences are living, evolving and impermanent. My position is encapsulated in the following comment. “Seeing is not believing, believing is not seeing. Data isn't everything, everything isn't data. Data is just one segment ” ( RenegadeEcon
, 2015) . Therefore, I prefer to use the term material rather than data.
My contemplative journal was the primary source of material, it contained day-to-day reflections on contemplative and self-compassion practice and anything else that was relevant and inspiring. The journal comprised written text, poetry and photography and a range of material from Buddhist teachings, social media, emails, television, radio programmes and theatre. I used my emails, Twitter feed, Facebook and website as spaces to think, wonder and write. I also drew on teaching and clinical notes as well as previous personal, research, and meditation diaries. The journal comprised concurrent self-observational and archival material (McIlveen, 2008), it was written over a one- year period from 1st July 2014 to 1st July 2015. Journal writing took place daily where possible, at a variety of times, but often in the morning. The journal was written by hand in notebooks and kept in a central file as well as entries made on my phone and laptop computer.
In the original research proposal, I stated that I would be conducting reviews of the journal at weekly and monthly intervals. I decided not to do this because I felt that analysis at these stages would interfere with the natural flow of recording experience. I wanted the process to evolve rather than imposing early and intermediate analysis and interpretation. The narrative was mainly in free format alongside some pre-format such as: day/time, context, interaction, activity and location. Journal entries included experiences that arose in my personal life, at work, on retreat, at conferences and undertaking the Professional Doctorate. Specific journaling was also carried out to record and reflect on the process of becoming a trained teacher of the MSC programme at the beginning of the research between the 1st and 7th of July 2014 and the experience of delivering the full eight-session MSC training by the end of the research period. Composites of client and MSC student experiences that illuminated particular phenomena in relation to self-compassion were also included. In addressing ethical issues of respect, care and protection of those who populate my story, I ensured that any identifying factors in the composites were removed. I also checked with my husband, throughout the whole process, on how he felt about his inclusion and the impact that reading my story had on him.
In preparation for writing-up the research, fieldwork material was collated from all the various sources and sorted into chronological order. A lot of material had been amassed; the portion of the journal on my computer alone amounted to 39,309 words.
Although I did not apply heuristic inquiry throughout the journal analysis, aspects of this approach described my engagement with the text. “Heuristic inquiry requires that one be open, receptive, and attuned to all facets of one's experience of a phenomenon, allowing comprehension and compassion to mingle and recognising the place and unity of intellect, emotion, and spirit” (Moustakas, 1990, p.16). The six phases involved in heuristic work acted as stepping-stones as I made my way through the narrative. Engagement with the material involved curiosity and the dynamic of the tacit dimension (Polanyi, 1962; West, 2011) of awareness, impressions, sensing, listening to my inner voice and experiencing the impact and movement of emotion and memory in my mind and body. For two months I was deeply in the immersion phase; reading through several times, making preliminary notes as part of the initial sense-making. It was an intense process, best described as sometimes fluid and at other times turbulent. Analysis felt like getting into water, sensing the impact on my body, feeling out of my depth, fearing I may drown, panicking, finding anchor points, calming and then enjoying immersion. Beginning to make interpretations could be likened to climbing out of the water, sitting on the side, taking in another view, seeing patterns, regularities, inconsistencies and connections emerging.
I took time over several weeks to allow what I encountered in my journal to percolate, what Moustakas (1990) describes as incubation. This process was very necessary and could not be forced or rushed, it allowed me space to pause, be curious and also for my voices as a Buddhist, Psychologist and researcher to emerge and speak to the experience. I did not have to search the landscape for long before prominent themes emerged, they were visible for miles, whether I wanted to see them or not. As I sat in my garden with the journal I heard Chrissie Hynde on the radio sing, “something is lost but something is found” (Keene, 1986) and this reflected my sense of what was emerging of things lost and found. In reflecting on emergent themes, I asked questions posed by Adams, Holman Jones and Ellis (2015): What’s going on here? and What does this mean? What story are you telling about yourself and your fieldwork? What does your experience suggest about culture? and What does the culture/context teach you about your experience? (pp.70-71). The themes and these questions were woven into the landscape of my stories alongside relevant sections of the journal and photographs. Analysis and interpretation of my self-reflective material and throughout the writing of my stories was guided by the questions compiled in Appendix 8.
Although planning was necessary to prepare and begin the journey, there was no rigid or predetermined route laid down to be followed, it was an exploratory and immersive process that I increasingly learned to trust as I proceeded (Dyson, 2007; Adams, 2015). In terms of the stories that formed, supported by my contemplative practices, I wrote as I was moved to do so, guided by strong feelings and memories, sometimes bringing pain, sadness and anger and at other times relief, loving-kindness and, above all, compassion. Narrative analysis continued as the “messiness, depth and texture” (Etherington, 2004, p.81) of my story developed. Along the way I questioned the effect of culture and context on my experience, how meaning is emerging and changing through writing my story and how cultivating self-compassion impacts on the narrative (Adams, Holman Jones and Ellis, 2015). When the first draft of the thesis was completed I went through the journal again to check for anything overlooked, understated or misinterpreted. Macfarlane (2012) observed that “Paths connect. This is their first duty and their chief reason for being” (p.17); the whole process was one of connection, with my voice, experience and body, to meaning, need and understanding, within the theory and practice of self-compassion and wider cultural contexts.
Finally, the metaphor of navigation and mapmaking that I introduced in Chapter one, expresses my experiences of walking this path, finding my way and mapping out the journey into self-compassion. “Autoethnography could be likened to an adventure; setting off with a map and compass and some understanding of the territory but not hidebound by expectations or predictability” (Muncey, 2010, p.63). It is a journey that reveals complex terrain above and below ground and, whilst I would not presume to advocate an ideal route to take, my intention and hope is that the mapmaking illustrates pathways to self-compassion, self-care and healing that are clear and meaningful, and encourage new paths to be taken. No matter how earnestly and assiduously you study a map, it cannot provide the experience of exploring and walking a path; you have to live it, you have to experience it. Buddhist teaching is often described as a map, “Essentially, Buddhism is a map. In this case, the journey is a pilgrimage to our true nature, to the place of safety and peace” (Kittisaro, 2014a, p.1). In the next chapter I will be considering how Buddhist practical theology provides the compass points and guidance that translates theory and intention into practice.
Chapter 4. Guiding the Way to Compassionate Action: Buddhist Practical Theology