Category: Confessions
Friday, Jan 24, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Books, Confessions, Exercise, Friends, Fun, Girl Runner, Good News, Lists, Music, Organizing, Peace, Prizes, Publishing, Spirit, Success, The Candy Conspiracy, Weather, Winter, Word of the Year, Writing |

My to-do list for the next hour—
roast a pumpkin
write a blog post
Soooooo… the Canada Reads adventure is over for Girl Runner. It was truly lovely while it lasted. Here are the books that were chosen for the 2025 shortlist. Check them out!
I had advance warning that I wasn’t on the shortlist (call it reading the tea leaves; nobody reached out to inform me otherwise, but there were logical signs).
Ergo, my plan for “surviving” yesterday’s announcement (and I do say that tongue-in-cheek!), was to throw myself with gusto into my usual Thursday routine. I walk with a friend at 6AM, head to a pilates class at 7AM, spend the day at work in the library, come home for a bit of a nap and some laundry, then return to the gym for the evening with my daughter who is also a gym rat. We do weights, spin, and blissful slow flow yoga to finish it off, then come home to eat a late supper and completely unwind. I love this routine. It’s the only evening I spend at the gym, and the physical exertion helps me grind out my emotions about the week, empties my mind, and takes me deeper into my body, which connects me to the world. I feel very alive and purposeful on Thursdays. So I wasn’t worried about the residual effects of announcement, in all honesty.
And then. My day took a turn. Literally.
Midway through our walk, my friend and I dashed across a busy street to beat the traffic, and I stepped in a pothole, turned my ankle, and heard a series of snaps and pops. Having turned my ankle before (playing soccer), I knew exactly what was going down. The walk home was painful and longer than we would have liked, but my friend entertained me with conversation and it felt okay to keep moving and putting some weight on that foot. At home, in the front hall, I briefly debated continuing to pilates class, as planned, and then a voice of reason spoke (strangely enough, it was my own voice, out loud), and I said, “What would I tell a good friend in this situation?” And I replied, “Do not go to pilates. Take off your boots and take care of yourself.”
So that’s what I did.
To summarize, that is how I spent yesterday. I took care of myself.
I booked off work, made an appointment to get the ankle checked, dressed in comfortable clothing, elevated the leg, iced the ankle, surrounded myself with reading material, snuggled with the dog, drank tea, did not do a scrap of laundry, and rested. A day on which I’d strategized to distract myself from potentially painful feelings became a day of reflection. And it was good. It was needed, I think.
For years, when I “failed” to achieve some goal, particularly related to writing, I’d be overwhelmed with shame, expressed like this: I’ve disappointed everyone. I’ve disappointed my publisher, my editor, my agent, my family, my friends, basically everyone who cares about me. Yesterday, this thought rose up, in ghostly form. You’re a disappointment. You’ve disappointed people [in this instance, by not making the shortlist of Canada Reads].
“That’s interesting,” I replied (out loud! As if talking to a friend!). “Tell me, assuming that’s true, what could you have done to avoid disappointing them?”
After a pause, during which I scrolled backward in time through all the choices that were mine to make regarding this particular “failure,” I said, “Not write the book?”
How funny that sounded.
“Maybe,” my wise interlocutor self said, “maybe you’re the one who is disappointed, not everyone else?”
Hmmm… And in that moment, I gave myself permission to feel disappointed.
Ahh. That’s what it feels like. It feels different from shame. It’s sadness, a big sigh, letting go of what could have been (the imagined version, of course, which is never the same as what is).
“What are you disappointed about?” my wise questioner asked.
And out poured my feelings of loss: I thought it would have been really fun … to get to experience new things, meet new people, have some interesting conversations, make new connections … add a little zing of adventure and the unknown into my comfortable routine.
“Yes. That sounds disappointing. It’s okay to be disappointed …. Did you know that?”
Maybe, in fact, I didn’t know that. Maybe this has been a valuable revelation.
It’s disappointing, but it’s not the end of the world, or the end of my career as a writer, of the end of anything, except this potential experience.
Relief and ease poured through me. I read the opening chapters of On Freedom by Timothy Snyder, learning about the German words for body: Leib and Körper, and feeling seen and known. (As I understand it, in Snyder’s reading, a Leib is a body that is alive, limited by mortality, yet free to choose; a Körper is a body that is dead, or seen and treated as an object by others or even by the self; there’s so much more to these ideas and as soon as Kevin got home from work, I peppered him with observations, which I tend to call “revelations!” As in, “I’m having a revelation!” Which happens far too often for them to qualify as such, see above; but that’s how I reslish seeing things—as constantly changeable and unfolding and re-forming and illuminating.) Anyway… I also napped for awhile. My ankle ached and turned purple.
By evening, I was restless.
Today, I woke wanting my ankle fully healed. Revelation: healing doesn’t happen overnight.
Slow down, dear friend. Take it one step at a time. Literally.
xo, Carrie
PS If all goes as planned, the roasted pumpkin will be turned into a peanut stew by suppertime.
Friday, Jan 3, 2025 | Art, Big Thoughts, Chores, Confessions, Friends, Library, Lists, Word of the Year, Work, Writing |

Happy new year!
January 1, 2025 to do list
Yoga + meditation
journaling prompt + word of the year
walk with Nina
set up new laptop
I’ve been in a reflective, searching, yet celebratory mood. Starting on New Year’s Day, I’ve been doing Yoga with Adriene’s brand-new 7-day Prana series with Kevin before breakfast, after which we’re sitting in meditation for 10 minutes, focused on a short reading from Richard Wagamese’s Embers. After breakfast, I’ve been doing the Isolation Journals’ writing prompt (that one requires signing up and paying for Suleika Jaoud’s Substack newsletter, which I’ve been dipping in and out of for several years now). Such is the luxury of a full two weeks off!
I’ve been seeing friends, going to easier classes at the gym (yoga, pilates, and something called “total tone.”). For my 50th birthday, I gave myself a new laptop, which will make writing blog posts easier again (my old laptop, which I love dearly and have used for over a decade, has been struggling with updates, freezing, balking, lying down and refusing to get up again; it was time to stop asking her to climb mountains, or even to carry me on a flat path into town. I will put her out to pasture, with gratitude for all the books and art we made together).
I think that I’m struggling with writer’s block — that is my diagnosis. Oof. It makes me almost breathless to admit it out loud. It is a profound blockage and it is painful, manifesting in nausea, dread, anxiety that paralyzes my mind. I’ve tried shifting this block through a variety of means (including therapy). I’ve tried turning away from writing, declaring my writing-self toxic, comparing my relationship with writing to a dysfunctional or even an abusive relationship — all compelling and maybe necessary stories I’ve told myself. But not necessarily true or accurate. I’ve tried to bash my way through these blocks (they’re in the shape of books, by the way, unpublished manuscripts). I’ve tried ignoring them. I’ve tried re-envisioning my life without writing playing any part in it. None of this has shifted the dread. If anything, it seems to be intensifying, and my solution has been avoidance, an almost violent turning away.
Avoidance doesn’t work, you know it, I know it. If anything, it has amplifies, as the thing / sensation avoided seeps through the cracks into other parts of one’s life, or bubbles up in unpredictable and harmful ways.
So … and this is where all the reflecting and seeking comes in, I’d like to try something completely different. Something hopeful that does not ignore the problem, but names it — writer’s block — and also names the need to sit in the not-knowing. To sit in circle with what’s here, much of it beyond words.
In response to one of the Isolation Journals prompts, I wrote that I am afraid of becoming content, too content to want to create and make things; and that I want to be content. A circle that can’t be squared. On the first day of the new year, I chose my new word of the year, not long before my walk with Nina. I wrote down a few ideas — settle, free, ground … and then the word HUM arrived, without bidding or prior notice. HUM? I surrounded the word with associations, including “music” and “playful” and “hummingbird” and “energy around and within”. Nina gave me an association that popped into her mind: hum-drum. I found that ho-hum was there too. My initial response was, oh dear, not that! But I’ve been playing with hum-drum and ho-hum atop HUM, and I’m strangely, unexpectedly, contented by those words. Soothed.
Ho-hum is average, basic, dull; in my understanding of the state, so is contentment. Is that true?
When the kids were little, they would complain about being bored, and I’d wax on about “inner resources.” Find your inner resources, I’d tell them! I’ve been thinking about “glueing books back together,” which I often find myself despairing over, when bent to the task (it’s quite endless in the library — the glueing and taping and cleaning and shelving); a voice in my head says, this is my life? “Woe is me” thoughts. In these moments, I long for a bigger stage, for more authority, a bigger platform for my voice. And yet — what happens when I’m glueing books back together? My hands are busy and my mind is free to wander, daydream; the best kind of idleness. Off-line. Undistracted. Just me and my thoughts.
What if this work, menial and impossible ever to finish, is a gift? What if “glueing books back together” gives entry into a state that brings me into alignment with my inner life — nurturing and strengthening my inner resource through the practice of discipline, resistance to distraction, and attention to my own whirling, humming feelings and thoughts, sometimes uncomfortable, difficult to face.
Thoughts will come and thoughts will go. Flickers of dissatisfaction, of envy, and jealousy, yearning for a big stage and recognition; those thoughts grow in the garden of my mind, but in stillness and quiet, I know they aren’t me. My thoughts are not my reality. I don’t have to pick them up and carry them, or look through them at the world around me. I can observe their comings and goings as my hands do their tasks. And maybe in this ho-hum-ness, this hum-drum-ness, I’ll find a path back to peace with the not-knowing, again. Writing and revising require a person to exist in the not-knowing, to thrive there! Writer’s block is a state of intolerance for the not-knowing; a real terror arises. If I can practice being at peace with the not-knowing, maybe these books that I’ve written, that I love very much, won’t look like stones in my path, but like something else. Something I haven’t imagined or discovered yet.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Dec 8, 2024 | Art, Confessions, Drawing, Friends, Manifest, Reading, Source, Space, Writing |

Day 8 Prompt
Draw an object from nature. Describe what it’s telling you?
Notes: This plant in my office, a succulent, reminds me of a plant at my brother and sister-in-law’s farmhouse, where I’ve gotten to go and write sometimes with my writing group. This plant reminds me of friendship and mutual support, and laughter, and how meaningful it feels to pause and breathe and listen to each other’s stories. Meaningful, too, to feel cared for and cherished and seen. I judge myself harshly and crave recognition (not all the time, but these temptations slip into my mind, these habits and patterns of thinking are hard to break). I long to be loved for my imperfect self and I long to be my best self as often as possible. Some days, this feels harder than others. But here is this plant. I’ve over-watered it and let it dry out way too much, and nevertheless it rewards my imperfect attention by continuing to exist. I am reassured by its presence on my desk.

xo, Carrie
Tuesday, Jul 16, 2024 | Confessions, Current events, Interviews, Peace, Play, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, Writing |

Who were you, just over four years? Who were you, before the pandemic (those blank months/years of stasis we none of wish to recall and scarcely can)? This morning, I found some writing and drawing published on my blog from March 2020, immediately after we were sent home to wait out the pandemic. Immediately after everything stopped.
I had been running so hard, working so hard, treading water but barely. Coping, but worn thin.
And suddenly all of my responsibilities, save for the ones contained and held inside my house, were suspended. I was no longer a soccer coach. I was not leading a storytelling workshop. I wasn’t driving children to lessons and practices, nor was I going to the gym in the early morning to work out.
I was home with my family, cooking, baking, cleaning and disinfecting, mainlining the news, but also—I remember this—writing. Writing was my solace and comfort, my escape.
And reading over these reflections now, in my post-pandemic, post-artist life, I find a welcome rebuttal to my current strain of cynicism and doubt regarding the usefulness of writing. Personal passion project, I wrote of my devotion to fictional characters in my previous post here (just yesterday), as if in scorn. Without irony, this morning, I chose to pick up a pen and draw and write, in the lined pages of my notebook: “Now, I enter my listening era. I seem to have the lost the desire to watch fireflies in the back yard and make meaning of them—or to describe their pop of light, brief luminescence, in other terms. I watch them. My heart slows.”
In other words, I wrote about those fireflies.

Maybe I don’t always need writing (watching the fireflies last night, I didn’t think that I did), or maybe I won’t need it in every era of my life, but by God, writing has been a balm. Let me pledge to honour my impulse to write, when it arrives, which it will, which is does.
Here are some beautiful words I found in that post from March 21, 2020.
“The sound of my pen scratching—too fast, sloppily—across the page. I’ve only just noticed that I grip it as near to the tip, the nib, as is possible. I only just see it—my pen—as an instrument that I am playing, an extension of my body encircled by five tips of fingers and thumb, each with a half-moon circle of curved, opaque nail. There are no straight lines on my hand. The pen is straight and hard and useful to me, it is made for this task and nothing more; but I am made for bending, praying, curling, holding, I am made for giving way. I am made for praise. For contorting myself anew.
I am made for change and ever-change, evermore, now, as before.”
I am made for praise.
I am made for contorting myself anew.
I am not the same person that I was four years ago: I’d just won a major grant in support of writing Francie’s Got a Gun; I had confidence in my writing that seems to have diminished; I can recognize this change, but not fully explain it. I suspect that without the pandemic to interrupt my whirlwind of activities, I would have rolled onward. It would not have occurred to me to get a job in an elementary school.
I don’t want to lose touch with that self who wrote those words: I am made for praise.
Because we all are, aren’t we? And there are many ways to offer praise. Sitting in the near-dark watching the fireflies, just watching, sometimes that’s fully enough. And sometimes it’s not—and that’s when the impulse to write, to record, to transform, to imbue, to capture, to contort, to burnish, to imagine pushes its way to the surface and I pick up a pen, this instrument, and let my hand play music that seems to come directly from the universe; a universal impulse to make and re-make anew.
xo, Carrie
PS My career—such as it is!—is featured in a post today on Conrad Grebel University College’s website (where I lived during my first year as undergrad), one of 60 alumni featured in honour of Grebel’s 60th anniversary.
Friday, Mar 8, 2024 | Big Thoughts, Confessions, Feminism, Meditation, Mothering, Parenting, Peace, Sleep, Source, Spirit, Stand |

Walking home from yoga this morning, I was thinking about my body. I’ve been thinking about my body a lot lately, too often negatively. There is a script from deep in my past, fostered by messages absorbed throughout a lifetime, that says: control your body or you’re worthless. It’s fat-phobic, yes, but it shames on multiple levels, given how little a person controls how she is seen and perceived in this world; given how little she controls the effects of hormonal swings, physical ailments and illness, and the general fragility and fungibility of the human body.
Walking home, someone (a man) started shouting out of the window of his vehicle—I didn’t think he was shouting at me, but it reminded me of being shouted at as a younger woman, even as a young teenager. Words that treated my body as an object, not part of a whole person, and words that told me that attention was to be valued, and also, paradoxically, feared. I remember the relief of suddenly (it seemed to happen quite suddenly) being “too old” to attract the attention of men shouting from car windows. But I wonder whether wanting to be invisible is ultimately damaging to the spirit too. Why should I want to hide myself away, as if in shame of being in this body, here and now?
I do not want this script rolling inside my head, telling me to be ashamed of my body, while also telling me that I need to work harder to change it, somehow. It’s a script that will never be satisfied with my body, no matter its shape, strength, and power. One of my parenting goals has been to break the multi-generational narrative that something is wrong with our bodies—I’ve wanted my children to be free from that internal/eternal script, or at least not to receive it from me. But they might receive it from me, by proxy, if I am speaking it to myself. To break the chain, I need to break it wholly. Or I want to!
Can I change the voice in my head?
Last night after obsessing over a photo of myself as radiantly happy and yet objectively (wait—subjectively??) unflattering, I decided to start an experiment. Every time I notice the voice in my head saying something cruel or self-deprecating or dissatisfied or despairing about my body, I will counter with the words, “I love you, body.” Spoken out loud (or whispered): voiced. The magic will be in the noticing—using the moment, when deep subconscious self-loathing rises to the surface, to turn instead toward love. When I hear that voice, I will be reminded that it is not my voice, and that it has no power that love cannot shift.
I love, respect, and admire people who live in bodies that are all shapes and sizes, and I believe them to be amazing, wonderful, interesting human beings with wisdom and insight; their bodies carry their spirits and personalities and that’s what comes through when I’m with other people, known or yet-to-be-known to me. I want to love, respect and admire my own body in the same way: as a vessel that’s carried me nearly five decades, that’s adapted to enormous changes, like adolescence and pregnancy and peri-menopause, and that radiates with my spirit.
So, to summarize, here’s my plan: Whenever that voice speaks in my head, I will counter with “I love you, body.” I will shout it or whisper it, say it seriously or half in jest, believing the words or not believing them; I will say these words no matter what. I will also seek to give my body what it enjoys—like riding my bike to work, and stretching in yoga, walking, getting enough rest and sleep, eating tasty food, laughing, rubbing minty lotion into my feet, wearing clothes that flatter my shape and feel comfortable, and etc. Whatever I can think of that my body will enjoy, I will try to do.
Walking home this morning, I asked myself: have I been able to shift in-born beliefs or deeply grooved habits? Do I think differently now, have I been able to affect change within myself? And while it feels like discovery is more accurately re-discovery, circular rather than linear, yes, there have been significant changes to my thinking patterns. Most feel too private to discuss here, in a public forum, but suffice it to say, some of my fears have softened or even melted away, and my ambitions have shifted significantly too.
So, body, I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll keep saying it till it’s the new script, the ongoing and true story.
xo, Carrie
Saturday, Feb 24, 2024 | Art, Big Thoughts, Confessions, Family, Feminism, Friends, Fun, Meditation, Organizing, Parenting, Peace, Publishing, Sleep, Space, Spirit, Success, Weekend, Winter, Writing |

Life feels softer, fuller, rounder. Sometimes this feels just right—for my age, my ambitions. Sometimes my eyes ache behind my glasses. I am softer, fuller, rounder. I don’t like this so much. It’s partly body dysmorphia and partly not—I am larger than I used to be, objectively speaking. I have had to upsize my pants. There are days when I don’t even go for a walk, because I can’t squeeze it in, let alone one of those hard runs I used to rely on to keep me sane, and fit, and possibly also fitting in those pants of the past. My body has fluctuated and changed over these nearly five full decades on planet earth. Pregnancies will change a person’s body. And endurance training. But so will mid-life hormones, and aging, and a myriad of other factors that are beyond my control. Out of control is what I feel sometimes, when squeezing into my upsized pants. Yet, since when am I in control?
Control is an illusion, a fable told to comfort myself—that I am choosing for my body to be the way that it is, at any given stage in my life and development. Our bodies, ourselves—caught in time, turning and turning.
But my head, my outlook, my mind—softer, fuller, rounder? Yes. And how do I feel about that? I don’t entirely know. I’ve had practice accepting change, loosening my hold on expectations, letting go, you might say, or holding lightly (parenting gives a person practice; being a writer, too). But practice doesn’t necessarily ease the challenge, in real life situations. It is easier to breathe when there’s breathing room. It is easier to accept what’s happening when it’s pleasant or hoped for.
I try to go into new situations without writing the script beforehand; but how does that fit with my love of plotting and planning and dreaming big? Maybe it’s both/and, not either/or.
Which brings me around to the softness in the structure of my life right now, its curves and rounded edges. There is time for all things, but not all at once. This new year, I’ve completed two workshops in conflict management, and I’m considering working toward certification as a mediator. But I don’t know where it might lead, in truth, nor how these skills might be applied. At the library, I pad around in my “librarian sandals,” and enjoy creating moments of surprise and delight and welcome for the students (and maybe for the teachers too, at least some of them!). I’m building relationships there; but also trying to apply boundaries, and keep the job easy and light, as it should be. I’m on board for another season of the X Page workshop, starting very soon; I’ll be an editor and lead some of the writing exercises, but others are taking on the more substantial leadership roles; I felt a lightness at our recent planning meeting. This has given me room to take on more of a leadership role at my church, which is small and relies on volunteers; this Sunday I’ll be preaching—a new genre for me. It took me weeks to write a 15-minute sermon, but I enjoyed the layers of exploration that came from a close reading of text.
Where in this is my fiction writing? Still very present; just not occupying my mind as an identity that I should be fulfilling at all times, lest it slip from my grip. Hold lightly. I’m approaching writing no differently from these other facets of commitment, responsibility—I want to enjoy myself while doing all these things, even committee meetings! And the quickest path to enjoyment (in my experience) is full immersion.
Dive in.
Basically, I put my phone away. Often it is out of sight, especially when I’m in a meeting or at work or writing. That limits distractions. Any task on which I’m fully focused is a task I’ll genuinely enjoy, or find interesting in some way—my brain is hungry for the details, for sensory information, for connection. Often, this actually feels like I’m leaning back in a comfy chair, taking everything in, hyper-aware of the nuances, the emotional tones; or my mind in its relaxation will see big-picture structures as clearly as if they were architectural drawings.

I love structure so much. Design. Sequence. Noticing how these things work in practice, or do not work, and investigating changes to systems. I like figuring out the pacing and rhythm; how these ephemeral/practical/felt structures support the why of what is being made—its desired outcome—whether it’s a worship service, or a novel; there’s not a single or “right” answer, of course, which is what makes it so fascinating. Endlessly fascinating.
How does writing fit into the systems and structures of my life? Like any task, I need to make room for it, make practical plans, and I need to seize the moments. Occasionally, I’ve been able to write with focus after work, or into the evening, but that requires a) being well-rested, b) someone else cooking supper, c) no evening meetings or obligations. It’s rare. So mostly, I’m setting aside chunks of time—like last weekend at the farm with my writing friends. Nothing on the schedule except writing, eating, talking, sharing our writing. I love when we read to each other in the evenings. Our times together are so cozy, so warm and peaceful; conducive to writing, but also to fostering a relaxed state of mind in which creativity thrives. I might not get to do this very often, but it’s a wonderful state in which to write. As proof, each of us has finished at least one major book-length project during our several years of writing together that we’ve either published, or will be publishing soon. Amazing!
Blogging, when it happens, fits into the in-between times. Like this post, written almost entirely on a Friday afternoon, sitting overlooking an indoor soccer field, feet up, travel mug of tea nearby, and my laptop open; but finished the following afternoon, because the previous sentence is where my writing stopped, when I turned to chat with a parent—a dad who was open to talking soccer with a woman, which is not, I must tell you, always the case. So I relished the opening, and went with it.
xo, Carrie
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