Category: Family
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
Monday, Apr 27, 2026 | Art, Big Thoughts, Family, Manifest, Organizing, Spirit, Spring |
What have I have up to? There’s been some waiting, there’s been some doing, there’s been some not-doing, there’s been enough disciplined activity to justify small treats given to myself (take-out coffee, meeting friends for breakfast).
BEGIN is temporarily quiet. I am planning to read the manuscript out loud in June, as my editor has recommend, to listen for clashes, awkwardnesses, redundancies, overuse of favourite words, etc.
Meanwhile, I am writing essays and poems, personal essays paired with poems, a project that came and found me, not the other way around, so I’m honouring this unexpected discovery with my attention. I visited a writing group earlier this month week, and on Saturday I’m visiting a book club. In May, I plan to travel to Chicago with one of my children who is presenting an academic paper and speaking on a panel (at a Medieval Studies conference). Also in May, I plan to complete certification in Conflict Management and Mediation. What will I do with this certification, how might it be applied? Good question. Are you looking for a coach in your creative life? Maybe something like that. In other news, though it feels tentative, like it could be taken away by impossible-to-square circumstances, I’m starting an MA in Theology, Spiritual Care and Psychotherapy this fall. (My second attempt to do this degree; when I tried in 2018, life got the better of me, and I dropped out before classes had even begun.)
Meanwhile, I am thinking about being this age, and being this person who genuinely enjoys looking after other people. The caregiver role has at times subsumed my identify. During early motherhood, it was (almost) all I wanted to do. (The ambition and discipline to write was threaded in there too.) Now my care turns in the other direction, toward my elders, and again, I recognize that my identity could be subsumed. In recent months, it has felt like I’m sleepwalking, accumulating responsibilities without noticing, till suddenly I’m so tired and sad it feels impossible to continue. This is true. Not all the time, but at least some of the time. I recognize the warning signs. I don’t want to discover myself having sleep-walked into numbness, or resentment, drained of my spark, estranged from my self.
So I’m trying to make a few changes, make decisions that are choices rather than things that just happen, as if I were a passive observer in my own life. Which I’m not. Isn’t it funny, though, how our minds can set traps for us? My own traps usually relate to control, to wanting to be in charge or in the know, when I could just … just … let go, let be. Am I doing this because I want to, or because I believe I should? That’s a good question to ask when I’m stuck in a trap of my own making. What’s this feeling? I sometimes ask too. Where are you feeling it? What’s happened recently that might have knocked up against a tender spot, a fear, a pain that wants to be noticed?
Am I doing this because I want to?
How do you know what you want, really? This question is a challenge, I hardly know how to reply. I like making others happy. I value and prioritize relationships. I know this requires thought and planning, attention, time, energy, and also enough self-awareness to respect my own needs. I need solitary time, rest, intense physical exertion. (But is a need the same as a want?) I could, I can, set aside my own needs for someone else’s. That could, that can, be what I actually really want. How am I to know for sure? It pains me to see people I love struggling or suffering, it cheers me to ease their burdens, if I can.
There are too many layers here to sort into a coherent blog post. Ergo, essays and poems.
Here’s today’s “circle poem.”
Steal your own wealth
Sunshine here across the page
The shadow does not look the same
What put that shame into you, where did it come from?
We lived there.
It passed down through us like light
but poisoned, saying, you are bad
Child in the world
Obvious wound, evidence
Hide or pretend, cover yourself
All these coverings
When everyone, most everyone, yearns
Imagine turning
What would that say?
Shine this quiet light on it.
Heal.
xo, Carrie
Monday, Jan 19, 2026 | Art, Confessions, Current events, Family, Meditation, Morning, Source, Spirit, Word of the Year |
Day 19 prompt – listening to what the body has to say
Hello Body, I am listening.
Carrie, I need you to know exactly how tired I am — no, not exactly, that is a term you would to measure something that wafts and flows and defies the work of measurement. I am tired. I keep drifting, sliding sideways into sleep but you don’t seem to notice or read this as a warning. You think — oh, body just needs more stimulation. My God, I am so stimulated that I only relax when — no, I do not relax, I fall, I slip, I slide. And furthermore, I am not “I” the way you see seem to think of it, or us. I am we, multiple, flowing, shifting, changing.
So yes, hard to read.
But we send out signals, like falling asleep sitting upright as soon as the mind eases its grip on us. We do what we can to support you (you?), we will hone our muscles and suffer and quake and we can endure a great deal of pain in support of your causes and whims —no, that’s too harsh.
We are doing our best to please you (you?), to relieve you (you?). Can you relieve us? Feed us. You seek to control us, deny us, mete out pleasure in tiny doses lest we become overwhelmed and greedy, and sink into — what? Bliss? A morass of nothingness?
Let’s be friends. We like to breathe and sweat. We like ever so much to stretch and breathe too. But we are tired, tired, tired. Give us leave to change. Will you let us age and spread? Will you let us fail you and not call it failure? Can we be kind across all spectrums of experience and sensation?
Things change, no matter how hard you push to hold on.
I can give you (you?) pleasure and rest. Trust what’s rising. The body knows how little time it has, how precious and advancing the hours. But also how much time too — the body is not begging for accomplishment. The body will luxuriate in sensation, give us leave to show you how beautiful you are in this world of beauty and loss.
Body, I am, Body, we belong to, we know, we are made of beautiful loss.
xo, Carrie
PS I’m in the middle of a 30-day series of journaling prompts from Suleika Jaouad. This was today’s outpouring. I’m also using my reorganized studio space for a daily drawing ritual, which includes a very quick sketch capturing one moment and one phrase from the day; a word for the day (usually taken from my daily journaling); and a sketch using a photo from today’s newspaper, in pen and coloured with water colour markers. It’s been a tough start to the new year on many levels and from many angles, and this studio, completely reorganized during the final days of 2025, has been my bliss, renewal, and recovery.
Tuesday, Dec 16, 2025 | Art, Exercise, Family, Friends, Laundry, Meditation, Peace, Siblings, Sick, Sleep, Source, Space, Spirit, Writing |
I’ve been drawing with my left hand. It feels like I’m asking an oracle to give insight into the hidden parts of myself, but really, it’s just my left hand, moving the pen with greater concentration and focus, and less pressure to make something “good.”
Renewal—of curiosity, of interest, of discipline—this is the working-at-home challenge. How to remove the self-induced barriers and step into liminality, slow time, enter the flow.
I think that entering into liminal space relies on a combination of factors, and it’s helpful to have different tools and tricks and modes of operation on hand, for when one method of entry loses its freshness. One habit that’s stuck for me: I sit for ten minutes, eyes closed, doing a body scan meditation, checking in with the state of my energy.
This is not a waste of time. More likely, I’ll waste my own time if I skip it.
My ability to sit in stillness and focus (aka writing) is directly related to my body’s capacity, and its connection with my mind. What’s the rush? I ask myself a lot. Usually, my restlessness is unrelated to an actual need to get somewhere else, let alone in a hurry; my restlessness is causing the sensation of needing to rush, not my reality.
I like to draw and paint after this meditation, because it’s really fun and freeing; after drawing, I write by hand in my notebook. And then I open my laptop and move onto whatever fiction-writing tasks / goals / priorities I’ve set for today. The writing itself is methodical—or my approach is; not that different from glueing spines and taping torn pages, except the landscape I’m exploring is more varied, and I’m more skilled at using the tools of grammar and structure and form than of tape and glue.
Outside the warm walls of my writing space, Life is bearing down on me and my siblings, and my own family and our extended family. It’s a familiar story to those of us in the middle of our lives—those of us who still have parents are seeing our roles flip into caregivers; and some of us have already said goodbye, and no longer have parents to care for. I’m still learning balance, if there is such a thing to learn. I go to the gym as often as possible to burn off the sadness (sometimes it’s rage).
I try to eat sensibly, get at least seven hours of sleep at night, and drink alcohol next to never. When do I let down my hair and kick up my feet and have fun? I haven’t cracked that code. Or maybe I find my release at spin class, and my friendships one-on-one. Spiritual care matters to me too, whether I’m involved in planning worship services at church, or seeking connection for my own spirit with the light that shines in and through all beings.
When in doubt, I do laundry. It’s soothing to work through the simple steps of that process.
Renewal comes in many forms. All ideas welcome.
xo, Carrie
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
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“Flow is an antidote to transactional reality.” – Dave Evans, on Hidden Brain with Shankar Vedantam 
“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)
“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
