Category: Big Thoughts
Tuesday, Jul 12, 2016 | Big Thoughts, Peace, Politics, Sick, Soccer, Travel |
I have no voice.
After writing my previous post, I promptly got sick and spent most of last week shivering on the couch, feverish and dizzy. I dragged myself off the couch to coach a soccer game on Tuesday evening, heavily dosed with Tylenol. I’d recovered enough by Friday to embark on our trip to Kingston, with a detour to Sauble Beach to pick up CJ at camp. Kevin and I drove separately; he spent the weekend with AppleApple’s team, and I spent the weekend with Fooey’s team — same tournament, two different teams. Thankfully, we played at the same field, so we could spend Saturday near each other. The boys stayed with their grandma. It felt like we were all dispersed. One of my happiest moments of the weekend was during game two, when I looked across the field and saw a whole bunch of redheads watching from the sidelines: it is the only time everyone has come to see Fooey’s and my team play. Everyone got to see AppleApple play the following afternoon, when her team made it to the semi-finals.
Coaching was fun. I still had a voice, and I was feeling much better. The girls started the day slowly, but played a solid second game, and by game three they were firing on all cylinders. It was exciting to see the team play up to their potential. They played like I’ve imagined they could, with intensity and togetherness, and skill. It was thrilling.
We ended the day with a swim and a pizza party, and some late night goofing around at the hotel.
I woke up on Sunday with laryngitis. I could still speak raspily enough to be understood. But after another long day that included a family brunch, supervising five children (we had an extra child on the trip with us), three more soccer games, dinner out at a pub to watch the Euro Cup final (photo above), and a five hour drive home (many pee stops), my voice was done.
I woke up yesterday with nothing. A whisper.
I picked up the dogs from the kennel using this whisper. The women at the kennel whispered back. I saw friends at CJ’s swim lessons and explained my voicelessness in a whisper. My friends whispered back. The woman at the pharmacy whispered back. The chiropractor whispered back. My kids whispered back. With help from a whiteboard and a whistle, I coached a practice yesterday evening with my whisper. The girls huddled up to listen to instructions. “Why are we all whispering?” one asked, and I told them how everyone had whispered to me all day long, and they thought it was really funny. Tonight I will attempt to coach a game with only this whisper available to me.
I shouldn’t even be whispering, as it’s hard on the voice and will slow recovery.
Oh, how I miss my voice. I miss its command. I miss its humour. I miss its participation and connection. But there’s voicelessness and there’s voicelessness. Mine is temporary.
I want to comment on the way the world is blowing up all over the place. No justice, no peace. That’s the phrase that keeps running through my head. No justice, no peace! But what else have I got to say? I don’t always need to speak. Sometimes, like now, I just need to listen. I don’t know what it’s like to be black. I don’t know what it’s like to be a police officer. I don’t know what it’s like to own a gun, or to live in a country where gun ownership is so prevalent. I don’t know what it’s like to live in poverty. I don’t know what it’s like to live in a war zone, or to lose my home to war. I keep reading articles, watching videos, trying to understand, trying to imagine.
I’m listening.
What I’ve been reading
- My Four Months as a Private Prison Guard: A Mother Jones Investigation, by Shane Bauer (July/August, 2016). Long form piece, difficult to read, about the hell on earth of the for-profit American prison system, both for prisoners and for those hired to guard them.
- An American Void, by Stephanie McCrummen (Washington Post, Sept. 12, 2015) Another long form piece, also difficult to read, about the man who killed black worshippers in a Charleston church last year. It’s a window into poverty and disconnection.
- Making a Killing, by Evan Osnos (The New Yorker, June 27, 2016) An article on the reframing of the gun industry from selling guns for hunting to selling guns for “self-protection,” all in the name of profit.
- full transcript of Obama’s speech in Dallas (added July 13, 2016) This speech left me weeping. Then I went and read some of the ugly commentary critiquing it, and I felt more hopeless than ever. The president is saying what needs to be said: that Black Lives Matter is not a movement based on paranoia but on real experience, and also that police officers are asked to contain all the evils caused by systemic poverty, lack of jobs, and a starved public education system. That we are imperfect in our humanity. But I disagree with him on one point, and that is when he says that “In the end, it’s not about forging policies that work …” Yes, it bloody well is! Go on and forge consensus and fight cynicism, by all means, but policies force necessary change. There’s no other way — precisely because we are utterly imperfect in our humanity.
- Remembering Sandra Bland’s Death in the Place I Call Home, by Karen Good Marable (The New Yorker, July 13, 2016.)
What I’ve been watching (too many to list, so here are just a few)
xo, Carrie
Monday, Jul 4, 2016 | Big Thoughts, Spirit, Work, Writing |
I miss you, blog. I do. But I’m pouring all of my writing time—and there is never quite enough—into writing of another sort, just now, so I have little left for you. I have the feeling you are durable enough to manage any absence. I also have the feeling that you are a metaphor for how to manage a packed life: in order to do what you must do, in addition to what you want to do, you have to choose what not to do, too. You have to prioritize.
Magical thinking is not so magical, as it turns out. It doesn’t work, for one thing. And for another, it tricks the mind into believing that the perfect circumstances may arise, just around the corner, perhaps tomorrow, when you will accomplish that thing (whatever it may be) that you’ve been meaning to do, intending to do, nay, longing to do. Magical thinking can magically think you right out of ever doing that thing.
Time can be expansive, it can open up most generously and patiently; but not always, not infinitely, not forever. Our time here is brief and it is precious.
I’m choosing less blogging. More writing. I’m choosing less email. More writing. I’m choosing more running. Less beer. I’m choosing more playing. Less cooking. I’m choosing more love. Less worrying. I’m choosing today. Not tomorrow.
xo, Carrie
Tuesday, Jun 14, 2016 | Big Thoughts, Family, Fun, Lists, Running, Spirit |
I had a small panic attack on Sunday evening, while doing the chalkboard schedule, which details the next three weeks of our lives. It takes us to the end of school, summer holidays, Canada Day weekend, and there is SO MUCH HAPPENING between now and then. AppleApple led me through the mindfulness meditation she does before bed, and that was quite helpful, actually. Except I need to keep doing it every time I look at the calendar.
We’re into the month of lasts and celebrations. Last violin lesson, last piano lessons. Track meets and field trips. Graduations and exams. Parties, too. To complicate this particular week, I’m also driving to Toronto on Friday to speak on a panel at the Canadian Writers’ Summit on “the shadow side of success.”
I’m not complaining about the content of June; just the pace.
I’ve been walking the dogs most mornings. I take them on a fairly long, leisurely route, even if I might have other things that need doing. We pass by many beautiful gardens. I stop and smell the peonies. I really do. I was inspired by something I saw a few weeks ago, on one of my short but very happy early morning solo runs through the park. I saw a young woman, also out for a run, who had stopped by the creek and was simply standing, watching the water. She was in the moment.
And now she’s planted in my mind, where I see her standing and quietly watching the water. The moments are here, they are everywhere.
My moments so far today include biking through the park to the track with Kevin to watch our younger “girl runner” run in several races. Yesterday, I loved watching the same girl play at her first violin recital, still wearing soccer pants, after we’d raced from the field to the music studio. Every day I get to do so many things that I love doing, with people I love, admire, and enjoy.
This is it! This is life! There is too much hatred, too much grief, too much fear, too much to grieve and mourn and rage against in this world. The least and the most I can do is one and same: be open to what surrounds me, and know that this is enough.
xo, Carrie
Monday, Jun 6, 2016 | Big Thoughts, Spirit |
I’m late to the self-help genre, but something told me to pick up Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly when I was in a bookstore last weekend, and I’ve been amusing/annoying my family with my enthusiastic monologues on shame, vulnerability, and especially the word ENOUGH. One of the issues I have with self-help books in general is the difficulty of putting into practice or embedding into the mind the great ideas that you read or discover.
Ergo, ENOUGH.
A key word that I think I can remember. I am enough. But also, I’ve had enough. It’s the latter I wrestle with most: the concept of setting boundaries, of not numbing the mind and emotions with busyness, but instead recognizing when something is not working and therefore making a change—not to change one’s own habits in order to take on more and accommodate more, merely to cope, but to change the boundaries, to change what one will accept, and state it clearly. How powerful!
I am enough. I’ve had enough. (How to feel enough?)
“If the opposite of scarcity is enough, then practicing gratitude is how we acknowledge that there’s enough, that we’re enough.” – Brene Brown
I am grateful for all of the soccer, sun, friendly faces and family time of which I partook this past weekend. And I am grateful for choosing to relax and read a book yesterday evening instead of vacuuming, once we got home again.
xo, Carrie
Friday, May 27, 2016 | Big Thoughts, Family, Fun, Kids, Sleep, Soccer, Spirit |
I just woke out of a stuporous nap. Not the best state in which to blog, but I’ve been wanting to blog all week and haven’t had time. So why not now, on this sweltering Friday afternoon in May, with the sounds of construction heavy all around the house, and nothing particular calling me.
Tuesday evening found me driving to Guelph to coach a soccer game, minus the daughter who is on the team; she had a dance class, the last one before the dress rehearsal, so she couldn’t miss it; Grandma drove her there, as Kevin was coaching both boys, back-to-back. It was a beautiful evening for a soccer game, warm and bright. I was proud of our team. I drove home listening to pop music, wishing Fooey had been with me. There’s a new song on the radio with the lyrics, “I’ve got guns in my head / Spirits in my head.” I heard it twice that evening, both directions. I really liked it. It took me back to Nicaragua, for some reason — childhood Nicaragua. In cleats and soccer shorts, I stopped for groceries. The cashier called me “Miss,” rather than “Ma’am.” It was night-time, completely dark, when I staggered through the door carrying all the basics that had been missing from our fridge and cupboards.
On Wednesday, I set my alarm and woke up early to walk the dogs, because Kevin had an early appointment, but it turned out he had time to come for the dog walk too. It was a beautiful morning. We walked around our neighbourhood together, admiring the gardens. We each took one dog. Mine pooped twice, so he won.
You are doing your best. That seems to be the only message that I’m currently capable of sending to myself.
At Tuesday’s soccer game, one of the players came up to me at halftime, quite keyed up. She’d played a couple of excellent shifts back to back, I thought, but she said, “I have to do better! I can play better than that!” Quite surprised, I replied, “I thought you played great! You were even in a new position for that last shift, and you looked really strong out there.” “No,” she said firmly, resolutely, “I can play better.” “Alright,” I said, “I believe you.” And wouldn’t you know, she went out and played even better in the second half to the game.
And I wonder: what was this child modelling to me? She wasn’t down on herself. She was determined, full of belief in what she had to offer.
Am I telling myself the opposite when I say: You are doing your best? Is this the best I can do? Is this the positive message that I mean it to be when my best is often so exhausted, so depleted, so flat and dull? Maybe I should be saying, Hey, coach, I can do better! I know it!
What would better look like? I’m pouring myself in, I’m pouring myself out. Some situations are pure triage. Sometimes I’m stealing an hour in a parked car beside a soccer field, escaping through imagination and words. Always, I’m sinking in to wherever I’m at, even if that means drifting into a stuporous nap in the middle of a hot day.
A single day can hold so much; a single hour; even a moment; here and gone.
Yesterday, she won the 1500 metres at the county meet with a gutsy long sprint to the finish.
Yesterday, the nice woman at the pharmacy seemed truly happy to do her makeup and hair on my behalf. This is not my wheelhouse.
Yesterday, she was ready for dress rehearsal. Whose child is this?
Yesterday, I managed a pain-free 10km early morning run, spent most of the day at a track meet cheering on my girl runner, dashed home in time to pick up the dancer from school early in order to get her hair and makeup done at the drugstore uptown, texted a supper idea to Kevin (hot dogs; not exactly brilliant, but it was something), picked up the kid who had scootered from school to a friend’s house, drove the runner to a babysitting gig, ate a veggie dog, changed into soccer gear, drove the dancer to her dress rehearsal, found another kind mother to look after her there, and headed to the soccer field for practice (once again, minus the child who is on this team).
It was another beautiful evening to be outside. Here I was, on a grassy field under a blue sky, directing drills, shouting encouragement, answering questions and listening to observations, playing. I thought about nothing else. The girls were having fun. I was having fun! This is what I mean about the hours of each day and how much they can hold: how I am submerged, yes, but I am not drowning. What would it mean to be better? Maybe it would mean only to pause to say thanks, to say yes to more early morning dog walks, to be witness to, to sing along to a new song on the radio even when the windows are down, to hold neither too tightly nor let go too easily. To continue to do my best.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, May 22, 2016 | Big Thoughts, Confessions, Exercise, Spring |
These blossoms have already bloomed and fallen off the little apple tree in our back yard. I can’t keep up, that is what I’m trying to say. Today, I went for a run at noon and the word relentless came into my mind. I don’t like that word, I thought, running on, enjoying the run, because it was pain-free. Okay, then, what about the word relent, I thought, and no that word did not suit what I was doing, nor what I wanted to do: continue.
On Wednesday night I visited a book club. I visited the book club after a day that included an early morning walk with the dogs; biking to see this daughter at her school track meet; biking to the university library to work between races; biking home for lunch; driving back for the final race of the afternoon in order to take this daughter to piano lessons; driving to pick up youngest and bring him to piano lessons; home in time to eat and quickly clean up from supper; driving this daughter to soccer practice. By the time we were home again, it was almost 8:30. And then I went to the book club. I did not leave until I’d made sure this daughter was collapsing in her bed rather than on the couch. I texted Kevin, who was at a soccer game with another child, to please check in on the kids when he got home. And then I spent an hour at a book club, a warm, friendly, thoughtful, generous group of women. It was 10 when I got home. Tea, snack, finish cleaning up, last load of laundry, bed. I can’t tell you which of these activities I chose to do because I wanted to, and which I felt responsible for doing and therefore simply did.
Up again at 6AM to run with a friend.
Relentless. Relent?
It is puzzling. What is it that I want to be doing? I have no idea. I’m so busy doing things that I don’t really have the need to ask that question.
Last weekend, I was here, on Lake Huron, spending one night at a cottage with girlfriends. Same weekend: I led a writing workshop at a nature centre; and got home from the cottage in time to see my thirteen-year-old in a performance of Macbeth (her second production of said play this spring).
Relentless? Relent? At some point, during longer solo runs, a mantra will enter my head in rhythm with my stride. Here was today’s: Powerful strong. Whispering light. A reminder to keep my stride both strong and light.
Relentless/relent. Dig in. Lightly. Continue.
xo, Carrie
