Category: Adventure
Friday, Sep 18, 2026 | Adventure, Fire, Manifest, Organizing, Reading, School, Space, Work, Writing |
Hello again. This summer, I was a writer working toward finishing a new manuscript (essays and poems) and revising my next novel; and now I am a full-time grad student, studying Spiritual Care and Psychotherapy.
It is weird and not-weird, I feel old and not-too-old, at times more socially inclined than I’d expected, at times a little too tired to rise to the occasion of small-talk with desk-mates (I try!). A big goal is to read in a way that allows me to absorb and retain what I’m reading, and that’s very time-consuming; I fear falling behind. But then, I need to practice balance and managing my own expectations; can I learn how to prioritize? For example, I spent about five hours this week on a brief reflection that is worth 5% and was guaranteed to receive an A+; the exercise felt valuable for me personally, but probably not 5 hours worth of value, if you see what I mean.
Proportionality. I have been prioritizing getting to the gym every morning before school. So far, still able to see friends, family. Volunteering. Where will I cut back in order to fit this intensive workload into my hours? I won’t be writing much, creatively, I mean. Journaling, yes, starting a novel, no, probably not. My evenings might be devoted to readings rather than doing a puzzle or watching a show (or going for a walk? but I want to go for walks!). I am still figuring this out.
I feel energized by the material. Open to new experiences. A little bit overwhelmed; mostly calm, prepared, attuned, attentive. I can walk to campus; I pack good food to fuel me through several night classes; I’ve made a few friends (or excellent acquaintances, perhaps more accurately). I sense the importance of building a group of professional peers in this context, as necessary and meaningful for this particular work.
On Monday, I’m going to draw “what God looks like to me”, as a reflective in-class exercise for a course on the “Spiritual Care” side of the roster. On the “Psychotherapy” side, I spent all day reading textbooks about Professional Ethics and the “Ethical Lives of Clients,” with great interest and engagement—I didn’t drift off to sleep even once! Side note: I am aiming for 7+ hours of a sleep a night, and (almost) managing that.
Sitting in the classroom, I feel a strong sense that I’m where I want to be; and wherever it leads, well, that’s a question for a future version of self, the one who’s read all these chapters and written a bunch of papers, and talked to peers, and played with balancing life and study and practice and care. Stay tuned.
xo, Carrie
Monday, Jul 13, 2026 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Coaching, Exercise, Family, Friends, Fun, Manifest, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Writing, Yoga |
“Flow is an antidote to transactional reality.” – Dave Evans, on Hidden Brain with Shankar Vedantam
(Note: This post qualifies as a “long read,” so take your time.)
I call myself a writer, but in practice, my medium is the simple state of flow.
Flow focuses on task, not outcome. Flow draws me into a sensory experience, a somatic experience that links mind and body and spirit seemingly effortlessly—how? In flow, I am wide open to the world around me, as if “I” were not bound by my edges, but a drop in an ocean.
Last week, I was mainlining episodes of Hidden Brain, the podcast by Shankar Vendantum that focuses on social science, psychology and communication. Recent episodes have been dovetailing with my interest in spiritual care. (I’m returning to school in September to start an MA in Theology, with a focus on Spiritual Care and Psychotherapy.) I’ve been jotting down notes, transcribing, and reflecting on the skills developed during thirty years, or more, of practicing the craft of writing, specifically creative writing, writing in pursuit of beauty, writing to illuminate some meaning that’s just out of reach, writing to sink into mystery.
“Flow is the experience of full and deep engagement, where time stands still.” – Dave Evans, again
From practice, I know—a simple flow state is ever-available, it is always here to step into, just waiting for me to arrive. Like a river, the flow runs alongside the distracted, anxious, needy experiences that riddle my life (aka being human!), and this river is here for me to swim in, drink from, dip my toe into, stare at, always available, so long as I am available, too.
I am not talking about heightened experiences of flow, about the “apex” flow experience. I am talking about simple flow. (Thanks for naming that distinction, Dave Evans.)
“Flow can occur when you’re operating in the flow channel. The flow channel [aka river?] is a place of experience where the task you are currently involved in and your skills to perform that task are in approximate balance. You’re neither over-talented, so you’re bored, nor under-talented, so you’re anxious and nervous you might fail. You’re right at the edge of your capability, which means this task is demanding your full attention.” – Dave Evans (and, here, he cited the work of Mihaly Csikszenmihalyi; see below)
I have been trying to find a name for a skill that seems to come easily, for me. I’ve called it, at times, “creating a welcoming space,” and it’s a skill that I’ve applied in different areas of my life, from running a workshop, to coaching soccer, to reading to kids, to hosting a party. Sometimes this skill gets called “leadership,” but that’s not quite accurate. It’s a directional skill that is also about ceding control. Essentially, I have become skilled, through practice, at ushering not just myself, but others, too, into simple flow moments. In these moments, we are in a flow channel—my river, their rivers, our river—and our collective capacity meets the collective task, so we neither feel anxious that we won’t be able to do the thing and also are engaged and present.
Basically, it’s directing attention toward a particular task that brings us in concert: into the same space, the same moment, so that we are part of a shared experience, which may be delightful, reflective, comforting, challenging, fun, but most importantly, is as spacious and as focused as possible.
“Each person allocates his or her limited attention either by focusing it intentionally like a beam of energy, or by diffusing it in desultory, random movements. The shape and content of life depend on how attention has been used.” – from Flow, by Mihaly Csikszenmihalyi
In practice, “directing attention toward a particular task that brings us in concert” (I need a better phrase for this) requires a certain amount of design, while leaving space for the unknown. Elements that can be considered in advance include: the removal of barriers or friction, an understanding of constraints, and a clear articulation of the goal and the tasks that give structure to the process. That sounds super-vague, and maybe I should be inserting an example here, but the details and context really make a difference in appropriate design; I tend to boil my design down to the simplest and clearest options for communication purposes, with the fewest foreseeable barriers to participation. The limitations and practicality of my design become clarifying only when the experience is rolling. I can see what’s working, and what’s not. I can make changes as needed—though preferably not in a reactionary way; I have to be comfortable with discomfort—my own and others’. Afterward, I may suffer from doubt, need to debrief, and seek to learn from the experience and tweak my design; but in the moment, and this is pretty much no matter how the task is unrolling, I experience a spaciousness and calm that feels freeing.
I am fully inhabiting my self and I am not bound by my self.
I think others feel it too, at least some of the time. And I think that’s all that’s happening—I am in the flow, and others are there with me too.
I’ve begun reading “Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience,” by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, and I’m reflecting on the concepts of “differentiation” and “integration,” which on first glance appear oppositional. How can I be both unique and connected at once? (It’s a big Life question for me—how to be an artist, which requires ridiculous amounts of time and energy focused on the particularities of a craft, while also being an attentive and connected parent, partner, friend, daughter, sister, etc.).
To be confident within my expression of self while feeling connected across barriers and boundaries—in communion with other people, ideas, art, nature. That’s flow.
Being myself fully and being fully myself with others—this is kind of the ultimate joy in life, isn’t it?
“This simple truth—that the control of consciousness determines the quality of life—has been known for a long time; in fact, for as long as human records exist.” – from Flow, by Mihaly Csikszenmihalyi
You don’t have to make art to be in a flow state. What’s required is your attention. Attention is always possible, but not always available. Practice helps. Mindfulness is a starting point, meditation is good practice, but so is holding an infant and pairing your breath with theirs, so is sitting with a child who is sounding out letters on the page, so is getting up early to move your body, so is dancing, singing, walking with a friend and listening closely and learning to ask good questions, or watching the birds in your backyard till you feel like you know each one. The more you practice steering your attention toward what matters to you, the easier it becomes to inhabit liminality, to step from here to there, into the flow.
It’s so wonderful, it’s a wonderful state to inhabit, but there are so many distractions, our attention is constantly being pulled, and we only have so much to give.
How much control do we have over where our attention goes?
“With consciousness, we can deliberately weigh what the senses tell us, and respond accordingly. … Power returns to the person when rewards are no longer relegated to outside forces…. The most important step in emancipating oneself from social controls is the ability to find rewards in the events of each moment. ” – from Flow, by Mihaly Csikszenmihalyi
Where are your inner resources? I used to say this to my kids when they were small, and bored, needy, fighting, rolling on the floor. How I wanted them to have inner resources to pull from—imagination, creativity, curiosity, resilience, playfulness of spirit. (And I think they did, and they do!) How I want that for everyone, actually, myself included. And it’s not always possible, and that’s hard sometimes. There are times when external events knock me to my knees, and my attention fades, my “psychic energy” is poured into attempting to solve the insoluble, I become confused by ugly emotions, by grief and loss and self-doubt and pain.
And then … I need reminders, I need well-worn paths that lead down to the river, or even just get me close enough to hear the water rushing past, to trust that it’s still there. I need to give myself over. Maybe it’s a kind word from a wise friend at the right moment. Often I find entry into the simple flow most easily through my body—breathing; walking; stretching; sweating at the gym. Get me out on my bicycle, and suddenly I am more alive, more open to what’s flowing.
My discipline is writing. My practice is flow.
xo, Carrie
Wednesday, Jun 24, 2026 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Confessions, Family, Library, Mothering, Organizing, Parenting, Peace, Poetry, Publishing, Spirit, Success, Work, Writing |
During the earlier years of my writing career, all life experiences were filed under “material” for future writing projects. This mindset helped me endure difficult times, and even the drudgery of caring for small children (which goes hand-in-hand with the joy) could be made to feel useful, as if I were collecting scraps that could one day be turned into a delicious writer’s stew.
A few years ago, during the pandemic, I recognized that all of my writing was therapeutic, including the literary writing I’d been calling my career and vocation. I did not like this idea at all. I rebelled and revolted against it, maybe because it felt exploitative, even of my own experiences (let alone everyone else with whom I am in relationship).
Lately, I’ve been feeling at peace with this discovery—that my writing is therapeutic, that I’ve practiced it with devotion out of necessity, as much as discipline. My writing has kept my head above water, while also giving me a sense of purpose and hope during dull or aimless or desperate periods of my life. Writing soothes and comforts me. Writing fiction has deepened my capacity for empathy, sharpened my curiosity to learn how others see and frame the world. Writing is a magnetic force that pulls me in its direction; yet writing has never quite become the organizing principle around which I can structure, to satisfaction, my energies and priorities. Is writing my reason for being? My purpose and calling? Or is it the practice that sustains my purpose and calling?
My life is structured around relationships. Connection is my organizing principle. I am a quiet interior person, yet I thrive on sharing experiences with others.
I recently did a time audit, tracking the minutiae of my activities throughout a week (valuable, because so much of my time is “unstructured,” at present). First, I noticed that I spend a lot of time being with others, focusing on the needs of others (and that this brings meaning to my days). The flip-side is that I spend a lot of time in self-oriented activities—going to the gym, writing and journaling, quiet time alone, walks with friends. Focus on self; focus on others. Fill the cup; pour it out. Experience; process the experience. Action; reflection. Sometimes there is overlap between these circles—for example, biking on an errand feeds my spirit while the errand may benefit someone else; a walk with a friend can be both an experience and a processing of experiences.
One more observation: I spend very little time “working,” when work is defined as as an exchange of one’s time and skills for commensurate financial gain in the form of salary or paycheque, benefits, pension, etc. When someone asks “What do you do?” they generally mean “What do you do for a living?” And for this, my time audit showed very clearly, I have no good answer. I’ve been writing poems all spring; does that count? I also spend a lot of time looking after my dad right now, trying to understand his needs as they change, keeping my siblings and wider family in the loop, connected, feeling togetherness, mutually supported. Is this work? It’s just life, isn’t it?
When my kids were little, I stayed home to look after them for close to a decade (while trying to find time to write). This was a hard time, in many ways, for many of the same reasons that now is a hard time, in my life. “What do you do?” I’m a writer, I would have said then; or not, depending on how confident I felt in that identity on a given day or hour.
Twenty years ago, I was writing poems too.
They’re in a stack of books and projects beside me now—a manuscript titled “Famous Love Story,” which was never published in full, and did not earn me a living, though it probably kept me sane and grounded. Reading those poems now returns me to the tones and textures and chaotic/serene inner life of early motherhood. (As in the photos above and below, when I was the mother of a six-month-old infant.)
Maybe poems belong to this strange between-time, when my identity feels threadbare outside of my relationships—mother, daughter, sister, spouse, friend. Thank heavens for friendships, the landing spot for safe ranting and commisseration and truth-telling and kindness. (Not that there isn’t respite and kindness and ranting inside those other relationships too, but friends are a different category of caring and reciprocity; side note, just finished reading The Weekend, by Charlotte Wood, and now I want to write a book about friends—maybe in twenty years or so!)
So. Poems. Self/Other. Making meaning, meaning-making.
Is my CV an incoherent tangle of part-time, contract, volunteer, temporary job-jobs? Or is it a fascinating but partial record of a person who has been a steady, creative, connective presence in the life of her family, for which there is no job title, no description shorter than a novel, and for now at least, no particular beginning or end? Probably both. That’s life.
xo, Carrie
Wednesday, Jun 3, 2026 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Conflict Management, Mediation, Meditation, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Writing |
Questions for the table
Where are we now?
Who are we now?
What if you just accept what is happening?
What does it mean to be tenacious , ambitious, to use your natural born skills?
How do you know if it matters?
Does it matter if what you make is good? (How would you know? Who would tell you? On what grounds would this judgement be made?)
What instinct shall you follow?
What are your priorities, and how are they expressed, through what means?
(Why do you write?) Why do you do what you do?
What do you hope for?
Are there things you want to learn?
Are you done here?
What are you carrying?
Are you well enough to continue?
What would it be about instead?
Where does it hurt? When? How?
What gives you relief?
xo, Carrie
PS This is one of my circle poems, but I will also use each question as a prompt for a future journal entry, to get beyond “what’s on your mind?” A few of the questions are yes/no, but even those can work as prompts, urging an explanation, depending on the tone you’re hearing the questioner speak in.
Can you imagine a dinner party where you’d go around the table asking everyone to respond to one of these questions? Which one would you choose to ask? (Today, I’d like to know, What are you carrying?)
Tuesday, Nov 18, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Fire, Lists, Meditation, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Work, Writing |
Today is the first day that I’m not going into an elementary school (a library or a school office) in about three years. It’s wild to be out here and not in there. I’ll miss the kids in the library. I’ll miss them coming in and basking in the light of my attention. To thrive out here, I need to be sure that my attention pours onto someone else, something else, every day.
Why give yourself away? Because it returns to you, tenfold. What you give returns. So know what you’re giving, give with honesty, give what is true to your experience, and what you’d hope to receive.
Dear school library, thank you for re-tuning my focus. Thank you for healing my heart and mind.
At the library: I’ve learned better boundaries, I’ve learned the value of structure in trust-building, I’ve learned the importance of recognizing what’s holding me back (so often a blockage in my own mind), I’ve learned how to seek what I want. How to ask—wait, is this what I want? Or—how can I improve on this process? what’s not serving us? how can I set us all up for success? I know that I am part of a community, I am part of the larger world.
There are things that I don’t want to return to from my life and routines before this job.
Looking back, I see my own self-pity. I recognize a tendency toward self-inflicted martyrdom. If I could change anything about my past self, I would excise the self-pity. Tell yourself the truth! That’s what I say to myself often, when I hear myself tipping toward self-pity. I could pretend that it’s other people stopping me from speaking my mind; I could pretend that I have to work a “real” job because of financial concerns rather than it being a choice I’m making; I could pretend that I don’t have the time to write; I could pretend that an artist can’t be a “good person” and that’s why I don’t want to be an artist.
But I am an artist. Many people are, possibly even most people. (And why this obsession with being “good”? Still trying to figure that out.)
An artist is someone who seeks beauty and wants in some way to interpret it and preserve it and share it.
I’ve learned that it works just as well, if not better, to share my art with kids, to pin it to a bulletin board, to ask questions, to witness others who have found a voice in small part due to my being there to listen.
I’ve learned that it’s okay to want to publish—it’s one way a writer finds connection with the larger world, but it’s a way, not the only way, and that’s often confusing and the experience of publishing can feel really disconnected from the effort and play and experimentation that went into a project. So I like to think of projects differently.
I learned that every day there is the possibility that I will be connecting with someone else, in some way that feels meaningful to both of us. I hope for that, out here too.
Unconditional positive regard. I hope to walk with this into the world, into relationships, to the best of my ability, and when I can’t or when I struggle: box breathing, 5 breaths; a walk in the wind; music and watercolours; notebook, 5 minutes, what’s on your mind?; go to the gym; find a repetitive menial task; or cook a homemade meal and hope for lots of takers around the table.
xo, Carrie
Wednesday, Oct 1, 2025 | Adventure, Big Thoughts, Driving, Job, Manifest, Meditation, Source, Space, Spirit, Work |
Leaving work, driving out of my school’s neighbourhood, I saw a woman walking, alone. She looked like she was walking for no particular reason, just because she wanted to. Envy. That’s what I felt. I wanted to be her. Instinctively, I tried to squash that feeling, crush it, shame it into disappearing; but like all feelings, envy is not bad or good in and of itself, it’s neutral, it exists, it’s information.
The woman was walking, alone, coming from a wooded trail, there was still a lot of afternoon left, the air was warm, the leaves on the trees sun-soaked. I’d already swerved swiftly, effortlessly into envy’s twin, self-pity. She’s so lucky, she looks so content and free, that’s not for me, I don’t have that kind of time. All of this happened — seeing her, feeling envy, swerving to self-pity, squashing down both — in approximately ten seconds while I was turning a corner to get onto the highway. I had decided to run errands between work and home, and my first stop would be the library, about a ten minute drive away. I was listening to a political podcast and quickly became distracted by an aggressive driver who tailed me onto the highway, then floored it to pass me. So I wasn’t thinking about the woman, or envy, or self-pity anymore, or not consciously.
But as I walked into the library, I thought, you could just go for a walk.
It was there for the taking — the very thing that had sparked my envy. There are trails near the library. I didn’t have to be anywhere in particular. I actually did have the time (self-pity wasn’t a reliable source of information; it rarely is). I could just go for a walk.
And I wanted to. I wanted to be outside, to see the trees and feel the sun’s heat on my hair, and hear the insects humming.
I wonder: without that flash of envy, would I have known that this was what I wanted?
Of course, it wasn’t simply about wanting to go for a walk. I wanted what she’d represented to me, what I’d projected onto her. In her ease, she looked free to me, content, autonomous, capable of giving herself time to enjoy this beautiful day. I wanted those things, and driving away from work, those things seemed inaccessible. But maybe those things were inaccessible precisely because I had not even known that I’d wanted them.
I was like a sleepwalker and envy was a jolt, a pinch, a pain, a mirror.
This seems a little messed up, now that I write it out. I’m sure there are other ways to identify my wants and needs, but the truth is that I don’t always know what I want or need. I often have no idea. My responsibilities as a mother are changing and I have more time, and I will fill that time mindlessly if I don’t know what I want. I am attempting to wake up in the middle of my life and in the process not become an asshole or a raging void or a restless narcissist or a frightened recluse. So I’m open to taking whatever prompts arrive.
I went for that walk. I walked and walked and walked — alone, for about an hour. My senses opened, my body relaxed, my mind softened. I had to remind myself continuously that everything was okay. It was okay to keep walking. You don’t have to be anywhere. You can walk a little further. It’s okay. No one needs you right now. You are free to do this. But those cues only deepened my contentment, because my inner voice was reassuring and kind, which is also what I want. I want an inner voice that gives me permission to enjoy my life.
On the way back, I said to myself, you should do this more often. But that didn’t sound reassuring or kind. A should do is not the same thing as a want to do. So I began to list alternative prompts. What do you want? What do you long for? What do you yearn to do? (These made me laugh, actually, they sounded more earnest than I was feeling.) What do you wish to do? What would you like to do?
Ah. What would you like to do?
That question sounds like an invitation to my ear. What would you like to do? I’m asking it now. I was asking it as I stared into space about half an hour ago. I picked up the travel mug of leftover coffee from work and came into my office, I sat down in my great aunt Alice’s tiny rocking chair, I opened this app and I began to write.
And now, I ask it again. What would you like to do? And will you do it? Will you tell yourself it is okay to do it?
xo, Carrie
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