Category: Dream
Saturday, Aug 23, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Backyard, Birthdays, Books, Chores, Dream, Driving, Exercise, Family, Friends, Fun, Holidays, House, Job, Mothering, Peace, Photos, Reading, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, Writing, Yoga |
Back yard, new “room,” eldest used this a lot to hang out with friends. Eldest is moving to Montreal in less than a week to start an MA at Concordia (in English Lit!).
We made the annual trip to the farm, a bit later than usual, because a) I got sick as soon as school ended and b) the youngest had a soccer tournament. So this marks mid-July. No homework was burned, but we had a lot of fun playing Dutch Blitz around the kitchen table. We filled the bedrooms and a tent. It was ridiculously hot.
Our first week at the cottage. I’d gotten a reasonable amount of writing / editing done during the week between farm and cottage, so I didn’t put pressure on myself to do a lot of “work.”
We hosted guests — family — and we squeezed a lot of people into what amounts to 3 bedrooms and a bunkie. Still very hot. Ideal for kayaking and swimming. I got some good thinking done while out on the lake. Returned home inspired and with a map for finishing the final third of Begin.
Immediately upon returning home from the cottage, I did a mountain of laundry and didn’t unpack my bag. Took off solo to stay at a friend’s cottage for a few nights. She made me dinner, and I spent an entire day (and evening) writing. Made enormous progress. Ate really good vegan meals. Soaked in Lake Huron. Forgot to take photos. I woke early on the final morning and sat in bed reading Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres till it was time to sort myself and head home. Lots of reading this summer. Reading upon waking is such a summer luxury … could be a Saturday luxury too, now that I think of it. What translates from summer to fall?
This will seem like a minor accomplishment, but I am very proud of the fact that I cleaned the front porch. It was a boiling hot day and I scrubbed green mold till it was (mostly) gone. In the proud-of-it category, I also helped my mom with her move home after months at a rehab hospital, and took my dad to a bunch of medical appointments, and got my youngest up to camp for a counsellor-in-training program, and went to the dentist. I did not get a new job (despite some efforts in that direction; as I approach a return to the library this Monday, I’m feeling like all has turned out as it should).
Got my youngest back to camp for a week of practicum. Saw a lot of rural Ontario from inside an air-conditioned vehicle this summer.
My second youngest celebrated a big birthday, several times over. There was the ice cream sandwich celebration. There was also the family dinner out celebration and the made-her-own-birthday cake celebration, and probably a few more I’ve forgotten. She will be living at home this fall, going into her third year of university. We’ll have a small cohort of the two youngest kids and the middle-aged dog, and hopefully a lot of their friends will drop in and hang out and stay for supper (my favourite favourite thing about being a parent is feeding a bunch of young people a spontaneous meal; literally nothing can make me happier).
Eldest moved a bunch of stuff to Montreal with his girlfriend. Luckily she has a vehicle. He will be taking his bike to Montreal, but won’t have a car of his own.
Second eldest will have a vehicle – our little “chub-chub.” They’ve just moved (in the opposite direction and across a national border) to start a PhD in Medieval Studies at Notre Dame. South Bend, Indiana does not have the same public transit infrastructure as Montreal.
Somehow, despite birthday dinners and moving and appointments, I got myself back to the farm with my friend Tasneem for a few days to finish the novel revision. Mission accomplished, and in good company. We even went to Lake Huron for an evening swim. It was very hot.
Last week before work, back at the cottage with a slightly different configuration. A bit of hosting, multiple hot dog meals, my dad tagged along for the whole week. In my favourite chair in the back bedroom, I finished-finished Begin, going through every word with a fine-toothed comb, and when that was done, I sent it to my editor. Good job, sailor Carrie.
Oh summer. I’ve soaked in the lake every day that I possibly can. I’ve journaled, and done art therapy, and eaten some fantastic peaches and tomato sandwiches. I’ve done yoga on the dock, spin classes, weight classes, pilates, and walked with friends. I haven’t water coloured as much as I’d hoped, but perhaps that will start again this fall, when I have a small and captive but appreciative audience of kindergarteners, and a bulletin board to decorate.
My library hours this fall will give me an extra two hours each afternoon to write, and I aim to do so. It’s been delightful this summer to find strategies for writing and surviving the writing (it’s physical, my body gets incredibly restless sitting for hours, and my mind writhes with discomfort to be in-between and in-the-unknown; what I relearned this summer is that it’s all okay, so long as I release that energy in positive ways, and trust the process.)
My favourite interchange this summer came when I was helping my mom up our front steps. She said, “You are so strong!” and my second eldest exclaimed, “Yes, isn’t she?” I felt seen and honoured, as I am this very moment in time; and that will change, but for now, I am filled with gratitude for the strength, physical, mental, spiritual, that helps me steady myself, and even sometimes, because I’m so very very fortunate, those around me. What privilege. What a luxury.
The sun does its work, even in the hallway of a school. This was the bulletin board outside the library when I’d taken everything off from the past school year. What will replace it this coming school year? It’s just one of the little things I’m excited to discover, and looking forward to this fall. Let the brainstorming begin.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Jun 15, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Books, Confessions, Current events, Dream, Family, Friends, Fun, Good News, Job, Library, Lynda Barry, Peace, Play, Publishing, Reading, Sleep, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, The X Page, Word of the Year, Writing |
When and how to begin with BEGIN?
BEGIN is the title of my next novel. I can’t even write that sentence without attempting to delete or amend it. BEGIN is the title of the novel I’m writing. But even that sentence requires amendment. It is the title of the novel I was writing (last touched in March), and will be writing again—though I haven’t dared open the manuscript for months. I can’t let myself visit the pleasure of it in the tiny jags of time available, just right now.
I will begin writing BEGIN again this summer. Soon.
My library job ends in two weeks.
As does my time-limited stint as “producer” (hapless producer, one feels at times) of the X Page Storytelling Workshop, season 6. Season 6???! Tickets for the performance are available here—it’s called “The truth is …” and it’s playing one night only at the Registry theatre in downtown Kitchener, Wed, June 25th, 7PM. Please come for stories, for the stories are life-giving.
Look for me when school’s out in two weeks. I’ll be running out the doors with the kids, slipping off my sandals, standing in the grass, and maybe then, maybe then, my writing of BEGIN will begin again.
How will I parcel out my time? What do I need to write this book?
I have a publisher—Simon & Schuster Canada. (Yes, it’s official.)
More importantly, I have an editor—the brilliant poet and novelist, Katherena Vermette.
I have a pub date—fall 2027 (though those are always tentative).
I need a few intangibles, if I’m honest.
Health, sleep, sweat, rest. Dedicated time. Ear plugs?
Relaxation, intensity, hunger, delight.
Belief. Trust. Confidence—that too, especially that. You know this, don’t you, fellow writing friends? Maybe to that, I need, too, companionship that’s quiet and reassuring, and that would like to join in collective writing and drawing exercises after breakfast, before the work of the day begins …
I imagine for myself a near-hermit’s devotion to the hours, immersion in the subject, the playful giddiness that takes over when I’m making something that feels new or powerful or unexpected, that surprises me with some unearthed truth.
I can’t wait to begin.
Because I hope, I hope to finish what I’ve started. I hope to make good on what I find in the digging.
xo, Carrie
PS If you know of places to rent/borrow/sneak into that would make for good writing intensive spaces, please let me know!
PPS The image at the top was spotted in Chicago, which I visited a few weeks ago with one of my kids, who was presenting at their first academic conference.
Friday, Jun 21, 2024 | Art, Big Thoughts, Dream, Feminism, Fire, Friends, Fun, Good News, Job, Lynda Barry, Manifest, Organizing, Source, Space, Spirit, Stand, Success, Work, Writing |
The X Page performance, season 5, was this past Sunday: “We Belong.” Season 5 proved to be the luxury version of the workshop, with excellent snacks and food, great sound, professional lighting, and a real stage. It was also a delight to behold—the stories came into focus, and the performers were, each one, spotlit and magical as they offered their generous gifts to the audience (a full house!).
For me, this project is about the process. At times, it’s messy, it’s a big commitment, it’s demanding and occasionally frustrating, not to mention that it’s also an over-the-top ask: to write an original story, memorize it, take it into your being, and perform it on stage in front of a live audience. Many of the women complete this remarkable task in their second or even third language.
As with any intense project, the end, when it comes, feels abrupt. All this effort and excitement, nerves and energy, ramping up considerably as the date of the performance comes closer and closer—and suddenly, arrives. And then time flies. The production is over almost as soon as it’s begun.
One of the women said, as she was leaving the theatre, “No one told me about this part—the part where it ends.”
It’s true. It does end. There will be a cast picnic, and of course, everyone is welcome to join our online writing club that meets monthly to do a Lynda Barry exercise and read our freshly discovered stories to each other.
But yes, the process, this specific process, meeting this specific goal, with this specific team, and these specific individuals—that does end. A chapter closes.
Just like my peonies have bloomed and are now wilting in the heat. I bend down to breathe in their scent every time I pass by, but they are going, going, nearly gone.
What I wonder is—how will each of us be changed by our experience? (Not by the peony sniffing, although I’m sure that has an effect too! I mean by being part of the X Page workshop.)
I believe that I am changed in ways both subtle and profound.
In the hours after the performance, I became aware of an unfamiliar feeling in my body—fulfillment. I felt fulfilled. The feeling lingered, and it remains. I felt, I feel, like I’d done what I was called to do, done it well and to the best of my abilities, forgiving myself along the way for missteps, open to learning from everyone I met, and committed fully to the process and these people, individually and as a whole. I did not (do not?) feel anxious about what might come next. I felt, instead, sufficient. Fed, serene, blessed, grateful.
I was (am?) affirmed as a communicator—verbally and emotionally, as much as through the written word. I was (am!) proud to have been a part of such a special and unique project. It helped (helps) me to see that while writing has been a large piece of my identity, it is not my whole self, nor need it be. It may, instead, be a pathway or a door opening into a different way of being in the world, rich with overlapping communities, strong relationships, communal experiences, and my own personal values lived out in full.
What a gift. What generosity pouring from all to all. What enormous goodwill and care. Imagine a world where all would be encouraged and rewarded and admired for approaching each other with grace, with understanding. Imagine a world where we’d have the support and time and energy and emotional bandwidth to care for each other’s voices and stories as much as we do inside this welcoming x page space—I do. I imagine it. I want to practice living in that space, of grace, as often as I can.
I wonder what will unfold for everyone involved in this project. I wonder what threads they will take with them, what emotions and sensations will remain in their bodies long afterward, and what they’ll want, how they’ll be changed, as they step back into their lives, seeing themselves just a little bit differently, now.
xo, Carrie
Friday, Apr 19, 2024 | Adventure, Art, Dream, Feminism, Fire, Friends, Fun, Job, Library, Lynda Barry, Manifest, Meditation, Organizing, Parenting, Play, Source, Space, Spirit, Spring, Success, The X Page, Work, Writing |
I post a lot about the solitary writing life, but when surveying the overall trajectory of my hours and days, I see far more connection and overlap with the lives of others, doing and seeking out and creating and organizing activities that are meant to be shared collectively. I need alone time, surely. It’s also practical to avoid interruption when working deeply, whether it’s writing scenes in a novel, reading a book, or organizing a library space. But mostly, I’m actually with people. Not alone. (It helps to have 4 children, 4 siblings, a close set of families, to work in an elementary school where 250 kids troop through my library each week, a church community, an open-door/open-kitchen policy for our kids’ friends, and etc.)
A goal I often consider, when organizing group projects, is how to keep the experience / activities sustainable. It takes energy to make things happen. Pouring out creative energy to serve others’ creativity can be equal parts exhilarating and exhausting — I love it, I absolutely love it, and I need more sleep when in the midst of it. So I savour it when it’s happening, and know how special the moment is.
I try to be thoughtful when committing to projects; I’m willing to test the waters and step back or rejig if it isn’t working (especially if it doesn’t feel sustainable). Projects with endurance are most often structurally cohesive, clear in their goals, and invitational to community-building. Sometimes, I can even think about my novel projects like this—or at least the structures I’ve built around my writing in order to make it sustainable and enduring. Looked at in this way, it’s not just about what I’m writing or about practicing the craft of writing—it’s about the relationships developed and strengthened and linked by writing; but made deeper by other experiences together too.
The X Page workshop is rolling, now in its fifth season: what a gift. I would describe the structure as highly collaborative, creative, spacious. During a recent workshop session, I felt transported to a more generous vision of relationships, and brought into intimacy with people who, though not strangers, were not known to me or to each other (many of them) just a few weeks ago. Magic. Human-made, transformative energized magic. Under the expert direction of our performance coach (who works with MT Space Theatre company), we watched and took part in the “sculpting” of a story. It came to life before our eyes. Or—it was already alive, but with each telling, each gesture played with, the story deepened before our eyes, layered with emotional weight, but also lightness. I felt transformed by the beautiful gift of the collective. Collective experience, collective effort, collective appreciation. And individual bravery, risk-taking.
Arriving at this moment was not an easy or instant process. It has taken time, preparation, flexibility, expertise and creativity, trial and error, the generosity of many many leaders and participants and peers and mentors, over many years. Impossible to calculate the effort, and as impossible to measure the reward in terms useful for things like grant proposals. In those moments, watching this story form and deepen and bloom this week, I felt so gratified. I felt like this was the point of everything I’ve ever done. It was the very opposite of being alone. Or solitary.
It was special.
I also see that a moment like this is ephemeral. Art, experienced. Community, experienced. The creative life: blooming, brief, precious. I savoured it. I savour it.
xo, Carrie
Friday, Feb 2, 2024 | Big Thoughts, Death, Dream, Family, Friends, Fun, Library, Manifest, Organizing, Publishing, Source, Spirit, Stand, Word of the Year, Work, Writing |
My Grandma, who died in October, gave me a wonderful gift—a project whose resonances continue to unfold. Over many months (years, actually), she gave me her story. She thought it might make good material for a novel, and we had a lot of fun together, exploring, talking through ideas, and trying to dig down into what it meant to write fiction using biography.
But.
I’m coming around to believing that what Grandma was trying to teach me, or tell me, was something maybe greater, definitely more subtle. Yes, there was the gift of her story; and there was the gift of trust—that told me implicitly that she believed I could make something of the material. But through the time we spent together, in our roles—me as listener, she as storyteller—she offered something different, too, valuable and profound. I did not see it at the time. I was focused on trying to map out her story, to imagine it into a fictional form, to gather imagery, to play with structure, and to dig into what mattered to her.
So many wonderful clues.
So many wonderful conversations on Zoom.
The novel exists now. It has been deemed by an important editor to be “too quiet.” But I don’t want to dwell on failure, or rejection, because I don’t see this project in those terms, or even on a particular timeline of known outcome or goal.
Grandma gave me her story and her trust, and I believe she trusted me to find the gold at the centre of our conversations—the conversations themselves.
Grandma reminded me that other people are the gold in my life. She reminded me of the gifts within that I had been overlooking—the capacity to listen deeply, for example. The capacity to give my time and attention to others. To create welcoming spaces. To invite response. The joy in that exchange.
My writing life has represented a longing for meaning and purpose. I wanted it to be a calling, I think—a universal longing, no doubt. Meaning and purpose is an answer to pain of all kinds: loneliness, fear, stasis. Grandma reminded me, over and over, in words and in deeds, that meaning and purpose isn’t found in rumination, but in participation. What I learned during our conversations was to notice my own desire, perhaps a very primal need, to share time with others.
My writing life alone has not been the answer to this longing for meaning and purpose. This has been hard for me to accept, or even to see.
Grandma’s mantra, her life’s focus, was helping others—she advised me pretty constantly to practice this too. When in doubt, when down and out, do something for someone else. Take your mind off your own troubles and busy yourself trying to ease someone else’s. This could hold negative connotations: distracting oneself or meddling or avoiding personal reflection. But I don’t think the one cancels out the other. In fact, deeper personal reflection is facilitated within relationships. And reflection deepens the capacity to walk with others in times of need.
And there is need! People have cares and troubles!
And we all, each one of us, have valuable gifts to share.
I believe that Grandma was trying to teach me this: find ways to share your life and share your gifts. The act of sharing helps you see that you do have gifts to share that are appreciated (and maybe not the ones you’d thought), and this lifts you into an ease within your own bones and bdy that others experience in your presence—a state of welcoming.
When I spent those mornings “interviewing” Grandma, I was learning how to listen deeply, with honour and care—and her appreciation fed me, in return. Ultimately, our interactions nudged me to get out of my own head, and go exploring in the world.
Would I be working in a school library if I hadn’t spent that time with Grandma? Something about our conversations, and her example, gave me permission to not be so precious about my writing life. What was I trying to protect, by wrapping my hands around its specialness? Writing is a durable craft to be held lightly. So many of the things I told myself about my writing wasn’t true: that it required sacrifice, that if I wasn’t doing it every day, I wasn’t a writer, that I would squander my purpose if I did not bow down before this apparent gift that I had been given.
It wasn’t writing I was (have been, am) wrapping my hands around. It was (has been, is) ego, fragile and important, surely, but painfully self-involved, performative.
I’m settling into a new perspective on projects themselves, a delightful sense of give and trust to the time they take in their unfolding. I love a project, it must be said. I love a goal; but the path to discovery is not direct. I’m aware, now more than ever, of the gentle unfurling of projects, letting them become inside my mind before I attempt to bring them forward—or just the pieces or parts that come to the fore, and mix with available materials and the response of others. I relish responses. In this way, a project becomes, it lives. This is the opposite of creating in a panic, or with anxiety, or focused on outcome—a project can be like a magnet, pulling in ideas. A project is of its moment, too, its time, its place, its surroundings, dependent on its context and relationships. A project is responsive.
It is not a lonely undertaking. Grandma knew that, surely.
Oh beautiful improvisation. Beautiful congregation.
xo, Carrie
Saturday, Jan 27, 2024 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Dream, Family, Library, Manifest, Meditation, Music, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Word of the Year |
What’s on my mind?
Being able to read, being able to write; the gift and the struggle.
With my word for this year, CONTRAST, I am exploring the balance—what my life needs, what elements it contains to support my overarching goals and themes—
“Please prepare me to be a sanctuary”
“What if the purpose of life is to seek beauty?”
“Discipline feeds curiosity”
“Everyone deserves to be known, cherished, lifted up”
“You belong here”
“How can I create spaces of welcome?”
“Follow the energy”
“Listen to your body”
“Hold lightly…”
—my life itself is like a structure being built as I live it, like a story whose ending isn’t known, nor even its middle or beginning. In flux. I live like my body is an experiment, my mind a mystery to be explored, my relationships threads that weave together, fray, are repaired.
When I think of noticing CONTRAST, I think of playing with balance. I remember a set of questions that I taped to the fridge years ago, with hopes that everyone in the family might reference them—questions that asked: what have you done today?—for yourself, for someone else, for play, for friendship, for rest, for exercise, what have you learned, what have you made…? It was a way to try to consciously notice life’s balance, within the structure of a day—an arbitrary measure of time, but easiest to grasp. Big picture is impressionistic—what has this year held? Or even this month? A day has items in it. Moments that can be recalled and noted, written down, like the notes to a simple melody. What melody have I composed today? What line of song have I built from my hours, today?
I love my job at the library because on those days it is easy to do things for others. But my fridge list of hoped-for balance items is perhaps too long to be ticked every day. When I choose to do something (like work in the library), I choose implicitly not to do other things. My energy is limited. My time is limited.
The idea of a Sabbath day—day of rest. Day of nature, connecting with loved ones, reflection, salve for the soul. Every day I want to build these notes of Sabbath into my melody. I am a soul and a body. Am I living inside my soul, too? I work toward this discovery. What happens when I follow my breath, pay attention to an automatic and unnoticed function or sensation, like the ambient sounds around me, like the patterns and colours and contrasts observed on a quiet walk, or the sensations that are ever-present inside my body, on my skin? Like the breath, of course, where meditation might begin, over and over again. Paying attention brings me into a different relationship with time. I relax. I am calmer, soothed by the ever-rhythm of the universe. I can carry this “neutral” mind back into the world. I know it exists and that I have access to it, even in times of stress, or under duress. There is peace in the underlying rhythms and patterns of the world surrounding me—within me. Knowing this, I come closer to trust.
To trust that my life is a form of art or meditation, a series of creative acts, my life is expansive, it is being built and newly built within the structure of these universal patterns and rhythms—the song being sung within and beyond my self. The song that is time itself, that belongs to the patience of eternity.
xo, Carrie
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