Category: Manifest
Thursday, Feb 13, 2025 | Art, Big Thoughts, Library, Lists, Manifest, Meditation, Source, Space, Spirit, Winter, Word of the Year, Work, Writing, Yoga |
The creative life — what is it? Where does it live? How is it fed? These are my ever-questions, or, more accurately, fodder for ever-explorations and experiments. How does creativity squeeze itself into the gaps and cracks of every day existence; or is it so interwoven with every day existence as to be indistinguishable from it? Or are these formulations simply part of a greater whole? Creativity burrowing in gaps and cracks and spreading like moss or mold or weeds to inhabit the all of things.
There is no separation between my expressions of every day self and creative self. To exist in the world is to risk exposure, transformation. The risk of exposure is that it may harden me — the defended me — to rigidity or certainty, through fear. But the alternative seems riskier: without exposure to contradictory paths and ideas and ways of being, I become the most boring and limited version of myself, gazing into a self-reflecting mirror, defending what I see at the cost of real connection. To risk transformation is to risk becoming someone I won’t/don’t entirely recognize. But to try to stay the same is death, or zombie-hood, or cynicism, isn’t it?
I’m sorry, this is oddly theoretical. I wanted to write about practical steps, tasks, routines, choices. The actions that make possible the pursuit of beauty.
What if the purpose of life is to seek beauty?
Where do I find beauty? In order to seek it? And what do I do with it when I find it?
Beauty appears to me in so many forms, and in so many interactions. I know it by the delight it brings; or the tears. I know it by the way it changes time, softens and broadens it. Beauty is always available, and that is why every day existence is indistinguishable from the creative life, in my own experience. There are only a few rules (or considerations) to follow. Beauty happens in the living of it. It is naturally occurring and always present, but not always visible. It is easy to miss. Easiest to miss when distracted. Busy. Cut off from the world. The cellphone (standing in for our digital lives) has made it easier to miss altogether, or to confuse with a simulacrum. Beauty happens, too, in the mind that inhabits the body (not the mind that lives inside a screen). I’m not convinced that beauty happens here, on my blog, as I type these words, but this space allows me to reflect on its existence. I don’t know why I need to do this thing: this turning of one thing into another, this keeping of ideas and emotions inside the hard form of words.
But words — they’re not hard, not to me. They’re malleable and slippery and musical. They are the material of play — or one of the materials, and one of my most reliable. We dance together. Words dart under the surface and burst through it, carrying an image, a roar, a need.
To seek beauty, I …
practice moving my body in concert with my breath (yoga, meditation, gym-time)
invite play and spontaneity in every possible forum (bulletin board artwork, notebook scribbles, singing in the car)
surrender to the task at hand, no matter how menial (fixing books, cleaning the bathroom)
practice listening, tuck my phone out of sight and out of mind (coffee with my mom, walks with friends)
slow down, allow for space to open (speaking in front of a group, leading meetings)
practice humility by staying attuned to the needs of others (asking questions, looking into a child’s eyes)
fill my spaces with living beings (plants, children & their friends, dog, strangers, family, friends)
care for my body, challenge my mind, trust my heart, honour spirit (seeking a balance: to stretch & rest, write & read, socialize & connect, worship & reflect)
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
Wednesday, Dec 4, 2024 | Art, Drawing, Fire, Manifest, Play, Source |
Day 4 Prompt
Draw & write. Something you asked for and did not receive. (Do you still want it?)
Notes: pen & watercolour; songs: “Basement Apartment” by Sarah Harmer and “Atlantic,” by The Weather Station. The text reads a bit like a series of grievances, which was not where I’d originally imagined this going. But I got somewhere interesting. The final scrawl on the page reads: I asked to not have to ask — and that did not happen.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Nov 24, 2024 | Art, Drawing, Fun, Holidays, Manifest, Organizing, Play, Source, Space, Spirit, Stand, Writing |
To begin: a summarized version of this post. December 1 – December 24, I’m planning to share a simple daily draw/write prompt, and my response to it.
Let me know if you’d like to be involved!
What you’ll need: notebook, pen, 10 minutes/day.
Read on for the longer version…
When the kids were little, I purchased an advent calendar from Ten Thousand Villages that has small pockets in which to place treats, or,—as I decided, as an ambitious young(er) mom—delightful, seasonal activities to be shared as a family. Cookie baking, dinner by candlelight, delivery treats to friends, for example. Aspirational, to be sure, and suffice it say, the only activity that actually happened with consistency was “hot chocolate for breakfast.” I’m pretty sure I gave up at some point and put chocolate coins into the pockets. Much more popular.
But a few years ago, when all the kids were still living at home (pandemic; it was cozy), we co-created family activities for the calendar—and it was genuinely successful. It only worked because we were cooped up and looking to add variety and entertainment, even on the smallest of scales, to our dull days. We scribbled ideas onto scraps of paper, which were distributed into the pockets, and every day there came a new surprise. The kids had the best ideas, of course. One favourite was to wear someone else’s clothes for the day. Another was to buy ice cream to deliver to grandparents within walking distance. We may not have succeeded in doing every single activity, but we came close, and it was fun.
This year, I’ve refilled the pockets with scraps of paper. The kids who want advent calendars will be getting chocolate/candy versions instead (honestly, it’s what they want!).
This year’s calendar is for me, and for you, and for anyone who wants to join in and play along. Every scrap of paper has a draw/write prompt on it. Call it the “creative pause” version of an Advent calendar. All you’ll need is a notebook and a pen (add in some crayons if you want to make it extra exciting). My plan is for this to be interactive so you can share with me too.
In theory, I’ll post a daily prompt, and my response to the prompt, mostly likely on Instagram… every day from Dec. 1 – Dec. 24 (though I could post it here as well if anyone requests it in the comments).
In practice, I’ll do my very best to make it so!
The prompts are not related to Advent in any obvious way. These 24 days are merely an opportunity presented and (hopefully!) taken; I already have a calendar with pockets! It’s a busy season, and the light is diminishing. Let’s see if we can find 10 minutes a day to reflect, scribble, wander through the mind, and spark a small bright fire.
xo, Carrie
Saturday, Nov 2, 2024 | Big Thoughts, Blogging, Job, Library, Lists, Manifest, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit |
The problem with not having a ton of time to write is that my mind is like an over-stuffed inbox, and when I turn to this blog, I could race off in any one of a number of directions. But it’s important to pick one. That’s the essence of writing a post like this—or a story, a nicely fitted piece of business. Pick one thing to write about, Carrie, just one.
Okay, then. I want to write about children and dogs, and how both are so incredibly attuned to the world before them, and the living creatures in it, including the humans approaching and passing. Have you noticed? How a toddler in a stroller or infant strapped to a parent’s chest will meet your eye and take you in, while their rushing parent is too distracted to do the same? And likewise, a dog on a leash will veer toward the human coming toward it. I like this—I don’t mind a dog jumping on me and greeting me. But the human holding the leash usually pulls the dog away—onward they go.
Children and dogs possess a superpower—they are present. They are exactly where they are.
I see this in the library, especially with the younger students who notice every tiny detail that has changed. When I read to them, they are alert to repetition in illustrations and in language, they notice the character who says nothing but appears on every page. More generally, they soak up the atmosphere, the air of the place they are in. If something sad is happening, they know. If the energy is fraught and wonky, they respond to that.
I love this quality almost more than any other human quality—the ability to be present and tuned in. I cherish it. When I’m with children (and dogs!), I can enter into their state of being too, at least for that while. And it’s okay that I can’t stay there—I accept the imperative of being a mature responsible adult who has her lists of tasks and duties, her memories of what went wrong, and her plans to set things right. We grow up, and our minds fill up. Like our inboxes.
It is a relief to set everything down, to tap the keys and say, here I am, this is where I am. I choose this one thing. And that is why I love to write here, when a seam of time opens in the day, and I feel called to remember who I am. Or record who I am, more accurately.
And who I am, just now, is a woman most grateful to be in the presence of children regularly, and therefore to be present herself regularly. It’s salve for the soul. It’s healing. It reminds me that connection is our most powerful need, as human beings, and that when we connect in person, face to face, when our eyes meet, we see differently. We know differently. (Or, I do. I shouldn’t assume and speak so generally.) When I am in the presence of others, I understand the power of connection to bridge vast divides and sew up wounds and heal and care.
I have other thoughts on other subjects, but today, I choose children and dogs, and our eyes meeting in passing. Hello, living beings. You are wonderful and I love you.
xo, Carrie
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
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