Analog Writing as Ceremony: Returning to Remember

In October, as the leaves begin their turn and the pace of the world naturally begins to slow, five writing teachers gathered on an Instagram Live to talk about what happens when we pick up a pen. Victoria Erickson, Monique Schubert, Jess Frey, Jess Durivage, and Kaitlin Curtice—presenters for Kripalu's Fall Writing Immersion—spoke about a practice so simple it almost feels subversive: putting words onto paper by hand, in an age when most of us type, swipe, and scroll without stopping. The conversation revealed something deeper than a nostalgic turn: writing by hand is a way of remembering who we are.

Why We're Drowning in Information and Forgetting Ourselves

Victoria Erickson named the condition we're all living in: "There's like a firehose of information coming at us in these times." The constant stream—notifications, feeds, urgent messages—creates a kind of cognitive static that drowns out the quieter signals within us. When we're overstimulated by the digital world, we lose touch with what Erickson calls "that natural river that runs through us, that creative flow." We stop accessing our own wisdom and intuition and instead react to stimulus rather than respond from what feels true.

This is where analog writing enters as a practical antidote. Jess Frey described it plainly: "When we put pen to paper and we go old school, we are invited to slow down. So, it makes it easier to hear ourselves." The act of writing by hand is inherently slower than typing. Your hand can only move so fast. Your mind follows. In that enforced pause, space opens.

Writing as Remembering: Recording Your Own Truth

One of the most elegant ideas that emerged was the notion of writing as recording. Not in the sense of capturing events for external consumption, but recording the imprint of your own being in a moment. Jess Durivage pointed to this: journaling is "a real analog way of moving and of remembering, if you think about remembering as like recording, you know, like recording who we are, recording the moment, taking the time to really create an imprint of what is happening for us."

When you write by hand, you're not outsourcing that act. You're not using an algorithm to decide what words come next. You're meeting the blank page with your own hand, your own breath, your own intelligence. Monique Schubert emphasized this distinction: "When we can tap back into that intuition or knowing or wisdom that is ancient in all of us, it offers space for a deeper, more free expression of what wants to emerge, and what wants to be known. And not just known, but actually embodied and lived."

There's a difference between knowing something intellectually and embodying it. Writing helps close that gap. The physical act of forming letters, crossing out, revising—it engages your whole self, not just the thinking mind.

Writing as Ceremony, Not Just Task

Victoria Erickson spoke of writing itself as ceremony. "I see writing as ceremony even when we're just here speaking about the act of writing and not actually writing. It's always ceremony." This reframes what many of us think of as mundane: a journal entry, a letter, a poem scribbled in a notebook. In a culture obsessed with productivity and output, calling the writing itself—not the product—the sacred part is quietly radical.

Ceremony implies intention, presence, and a kind of reverence. You're not writing to produce something publishable or impressive. You're writing to be in relationship with yourself, with the moment, with what wants to come through you. That shift in purpose changes everything about the experience.

The Wisdom of Autumn and Letting Go

The Fall Writing Immersion was titled "Return to Remember," but autumn also teaches us about release. As one presenter noted, fall invites us to notice "it's the right time to let it go. Time is coming back, digest that, reset." Fall is the season when nature itself is composting—breaking down, returning nutrients to the earth, making space for what will come next.

This mirrors what happens in a writing practice. You write something down, you look at it, you let it move through you. Sometimes you release it. Sometimes you transform it. The practice itself becomes a seasonal rhythm, honoring the natural cycles of attention and release that run through us just as they run through the earth.

The Act Itself: Why Process Matters More Than Product

Monique Schubert spoke directly to something many writers struggle with: "The writing doesn't feel alive coming from that place of like, 'Oh, I need to write something,' or somebody is telling me what I should be writing. It's when we can kind of access that truth. And so I think with what I mentioned before, the practice, the act itself of writing is important." She distinguished between writing that emerges from genuine impulse and writing that's forced or derivative. The authenticity lives in the practice, not in the result.

This is an important inversion. We're taught that writing matters if it's shared, published, liked, or validated by an audience. But what these teachers are saying is that the writing matters because of what it does to you in the act of doing it. It recalibrates you. It reminds you of what's true. It gives you back your voice.

Tapping into Flow and Fall Energy

Victoria Erickson mentioned working with "flow state" during the October sessions, noting that "we're as a culture, I think we're outsourcing our creativity as we're outsourcing it and embodiment." When you write by hand, with intention and presence, you're not outsourcing anything. You're the one generating the words, making the choices, feeling the resistance or ease of expression.

The teachers also pointed to dream work and the symbolism of autumn—the season of return, of going inward, of witnessing what naturally needs to fall away. These themes aren't separate from the writing practice; they're woven into it. Writing in the fall, writing about the fall, writing while honoring the seasonal shift—it all becomes part of the ceremony.

Where to go from here

If you find yourself drawn to this practice, start where the teachers suggest: with pen and paper. Not a special journal, necessarily. Not waiting for the perfect moment or the right words. Just a notebook and a pen, and permission to slow down. Notice what happens when you stop typing and start writing by hand. Notice what wants to be remembered. Notice what surfaces when you're not being bombarded by notifications or performing for an audience. The practice itself is the destination. The remembering is the point.