Category: Manifest

May reflections

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May Reflections

  1. What felt good this month? Honestly, writing felt good. Specifically fiction. I was able to sink even more deeply into the new routine and spend many hours each week day working on the 16th century novel. It felt easy, purposeful, and like I was entering my own personal escape pod. I can tell it is a balm for my spirit, so much so, that it’s really all I want to do, with little breaks for sitting in the sunshine watching wildlife in the backyard. It felt good, also, to ask my family to do a bit more cooking. And it felt good to refrigerate the sourdough starter during the heat wave and take a break from baking bread every. single. day.
  2. What did you struggle with? The news. The grim evidence of neglect, inequality, injustice, always present but gruesomely exposed by the pandemic. I know it’s unhealthy to crawl into bed and scroll through that newsfeed of horror, finger-pointing, invective and cruelty in search of the occasional lively bit of joy (like Sarah Cooper!); but I still haven’t removed Twitter from my phone. On a small scale, I struggled with the growing sense that I’m becoming more socially awkward and introverted, to the point that small talk feels almost painful. I haven’t been to a store, or any public and enclosed space, really, since mid-March, and I’ve only driven once since March 13. Once! I’m not struggling with that, rather I’m struggling to imagine returning to a time when I wanted to go out and do things. My social skills are on the decline. I’m becoming attached to my bubble!
  3. Where are you now compared to the beginning of the month? This is hard to assess. It’s ever more clear that the re-opening process will be slow, at times painful, and that no one really knows what they’re doing or where exactly we’re going. I’m less hopeful than I was a month ago, maybe because the unrest convulsing our neighbours to the south would suggest that they are on a desperate, chaotic, increasingly violent trajectory. And we live next-door. How can there be healing in the absence of justice? This may be a fire that burns out quickly, or it may be a hinge for transformation; or it may end in tragedy. But there is a void in leadership, the emperor most certainly has no clothes, and what frightens me is that tragedies seem to happen in slow motion, but also with a sense of doomed inevitability. I hope I’m wrong. Despite all of this, or maybe because of it, I’m feeling ever more centred in and committed to my discipline as a writer. There are questions that can only be answered through art, which opens us to deeper questions, to pause, to empathy, to challenge, to greater attention.
  4. How did you take care of yourself? I talked out loud about things that were bothering me, including confessing my own shortcomings. I tried to do so in a way that was honest but also compassionate. I helped organize some fun family events, to give us things to look forward to this past month: fake prom, birthday celebrations, special meals. I asked for help when I needed it. Also: exercise, sweat, braids, incense, turmeric tea, weekly sibs night, Dead to Me, podcasts, sitting outside in the sun, and joining my church’s congregational prayer on Sunday mornings, online via Zoom.
  5. What would you most like to remember? The quiet of our bubble. The calmness of our house. All four kids in the kitchen, talking and laughing. Running club. The fuzz of green turning to blossoms, to full-fledged leaves. Discovering that our back yard is a nature preserve of bird song and busy creatures. I will remember us sitting around the table in the evenings, lingering over supper. I will be so happy that we had this extra time together.
  6. What do you need to let go of? Wow. I’ve sat here a long time trying to sort this out in my mind. My gut response is: “I need to let go of worrying that I /we will be changed for the worse by this.” That confuses me. But it also makes a lot of sense. (related: see my answer to #3) I see the pandemic / lockdown as a stripping away of many things, as a great silence and pause. But what roars up when the silence ends? I don’t know. I worry. I think I need to let go of certainty. I need to accept the discomfort that attends this fragile human state of being. I need to let go of “before.” On a personal level, this pause is a chance to notice where the current is pulling me. I’d like to let myself be pulled. And let myself go there, even if it challenges my value system and notions of worth. But — I don’t want to let go of my responsibility to others, nor be lulled into inaction, safe in my bubble. (Damn, this is a convoluted answer to what should be a simple question….)

xo, Carrie

PS What do you need to let go of?

#fakeprom2020

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We all need things to look forward to. Things to plan for. Events that lift us out of our ordinary lives and routines.

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Enter #fakeprom2020.

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Our house, on Friday evening, was transformed into an event venue for our family’s Fake Prom 2020: Starry Night.

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The party was magnificently planned by our younger daughter, who is a natural boss, with an eye for detail. Everyone was given a job. I was the DJ, Kevin was the bartender, our eldest did the menu planning and food prep, and the other two assisted with cleaning and decorating.

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We were to appear at the venue, at 7PM, dressed to the nines. Furniture had been moved. Photos were taken.

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Eating, drinking, dancing and lounging followed, supplemented by several rounds of back yard volleyball. The first round, I wore my jean jacket due to pure vanity (45-year-olds can still be vain), but for the second midnight round, I was in my actual winter coat! Kevin burned some stuff in our old fire pit. We attempted to see where the ball was going. Hilarity ensued.

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DJ Carrots and Beats had everyone jumping with some dance classics, and relaxing at the after-party with a more mellow vibe. Canadian Trivia was featured at the after-party. I tossed in a late-night load of laundry. Ate a big bowl of late-night pasta salad.

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The only melancholy note was the recognition that this would have been a really kick-ass party to host for friends. We miss you friends!

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The next day, we all slept in and lazed around. There were snow squalls, so it was kind of the perfect day for that. (Side note: Are we in Narnia? Is it still March?)

Tell me, friends, what are you planning and looking forward to right now? Ideas to share?

xo, Carrie

Introducing The X Page stories, online

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Starting today, new stories from the 2020 X Page Workshop are being published daily by The New Quarterly. Below, is our theatre director’s introduction to the online series.

Today’s story, which would have been the opening performance onstage, is called “Pant Rant.” I remember hearing the first draft of “Pant Rant” being read during a small-group workshop and being totally blown away; afterward, we all sat in silence, rocked by the rhythm and depth of the raw words. “Pant Rant” is a gritty, rich and poetical examination of mental toughness in defiance of persistent indignities endured for the sake of survival. At least, that’s how I read it. I wish you could hear Xiao tell her story in her own voice; instead, it’s her gift to us on the page. I find this story especially resonant as I think about the people who are working in dangerous conditions, physically and emotionally, in places like meat-packing plants and long-term care homes, performing difficult tasks that the rest of us prefer not to think much about.

You can read “Pant Rant” here.

I look forward to highlighting more stories in the days and weeks to come.

Thank you for reading, and for your support of The X Page project.

xo, Carrie

 

The DJ and the chaperone

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A friend said she’s noticed she’s not feeling so anxious anymore. I think this is true. We’ve travelled into the boring part of this experience. The part where we still don’t know what exactly will happen, or when; but the novelty, such as it was, is gone. And a dullness, a bleh feeling prevails.

But.

Hey!

I’m continue to enjoy at-home yoga, riding the spin bike, baking bread (it’s so easy), and gathering to eat supper together every night. The things I look forward to in a day are pretty basic: food, food, food; sometimes I even look forward to cooking the food.

I’m writing (fiction) quite a lot. That’s lovely.

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I try to get outside for a walk every day. It’s validating (as a parent) to see the kids develop their own routines and healthy survival strategies. Jogging. Homework. Baking. Quiet time. Naps. I try to lie on the couch with a book a few times a week.

There is very little to report.

Nevertheless, at supper, I like to go around the table and find out what everyone did that day. I spend large chunks of my day in my office, so even though we’re all together under the same roof, I’ve missed things. I like how leisurely it feels, chatting around the table at suppertime. We’ve nowhere special to get to. After supper, the kids do the dishes and Kevin and I walk the dog around the block. And it isn’t hard to find ourselves saying: well, this part is pretty nice.

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The kids don’t like when I report what would have been happening on any given day. So I’ve stopped. What’s the point of being sad about something that isn’t going to happen? Anyway, we’ve given ourselves a few things to look forward to in May. 1. My mom’s birthday: we’ve got plans to bake a cake. 2. Prom. We are doing prom, just us; everyone has a role, and mine is DJ!! The theme is “Starry Night.” The chaperone (Kevin) is going to have to keep a sharp eye on Kevin — if anyone’s going to spike the punch, it’s him. 3. Our eldest’s birthday. It’s a big one (19), so we’ve got plans to turn our living-room into a nightclub.

However, we aren’t making any such plans for June. According to one teenager, it’s too depressing to think of still being stuck with one’s family in June. Basically, we get through this one day at a time.

Like we always have, except now we know it for sure.

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In summation: less anxiety; more boredom; even more bread. The days, they blur. Drifting awake this morning, I thought it was Sunday. Definitely not Saturday, I told myself, Sunday.

Friends, it’s Tuesday.

xo, Carrie

One thing I will do

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This photo is unrelated to the post, but features, once again, our dog Rose wearing glasses. You can thank me in the comments.

Begin.

I’m trying to live in the here and now. Today, this moment; not tomorrow, not next week, definitely not next month. It isn’t too difficult, most of the time, to release the planning part of my brain from its obligations. It clears a lot of space, frankly.

But there are moments when I flash to fantasizing about tangible things I will do, when … well, when we can do these things again. I’m not talking about making plans to go to particular places or to do big things.

Hugs.

I’m talking about hugs.

I’ve been thinking about how much I want to hug people again. My mom. My dad. My siblings. My friends.

I close my eyes and I imagine pulling someone close, just for a moment, and not being afraid that I will harm them or they will harm me. How easy it is to say I love you, or thank you, or it’s going to be okay when you’re holding someone close, for that brief moment in time.

There are other things I miss too. All in the same category. I imagine myself doing these things. Clinking drinks in a bar, unafraid. Relaxing in someone else’s home, unafraid. Throwing a party, unafraid. Watching a movie in the theatre, unafraid. High-fiving my soccer team, unafraid.

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No one can predict how this will change us, individually, collectively. But we are already changed in countless small ways, at least temporarily. We adapt so quickly; this is our strength, our resilience, yes, but what is lost along the way? For a deeper dive into this subject, I found this article in The New York Times thought-provoking (quoted below, but I recommend you read the whole thing):

“Research on the effects of epidemics and sieges, along with the emerging body of knowledge about the coronavirus, hint at what the coming months may look like.

“Our ability to focus, to feel comfortable around others, even to think more than a few days into the future, may diminish — with lasting consequences. But we may also feel the tug of a survival instinct that can activate during periods of widespread peril: a desire to cope by looking out for one’s neighbors.”

I try not to dwell on what cannot be, right now.

I welcome and appreciate connection with neighbours, family, friends by other means.

But sometimes I am flooded with longing for this most simple connection. A hug.

xo, Carrie

Recipe for a writing life

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This, I promise myself, shall be a quick post, written in haste while the bread for our supper bakes.

Yes, I’m onto the sourdough trend, like everyone else on Instagram; and I’m rather chuffed to say I developed my starter from scratch during the early days of this lockdown when it seemed like there was almost nothing to do except huddle-on-sofa-scrolling-the-news and make-your-own-sourdough-from-scratch, and so I did both.

But anyway. We’re past that point at our house, now. I think it’s week 5? We’re into the rhythm of being with each other all the time; and hardly with anyone else. The kids, by some strange miracle, recently started a running club, plus they cleaned the basement, like really cleaned it, like three days’ worth of organizing, purging, rearranging, and decision-making, in order to make a rec room haven. Impressive!

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And, at last (and so far!), this has been a good writing week for me, which is more than I can say for all the other weeks. Today, for example, I spent an hour and a half drawing ideas for my 16th century novel. It was an odd way to start my writing day, and not in the least what I’d planned or intended, but it helped. It lit a flame. After lunch, I worked on a chapter from another project. And that’s been the day. What more do I need? It was ever so satisfying. Tangible, calm, simple.

Sit down, do it.

Hey, just realized my recipe for a writing day is kind of like my recipe for sourdough! You mix up a starter. It spend days on the counter. You feed it: flour and water. It ferments and bubbles. When it’s ready, you fold part of it into a bowl with more flour and water. You bake it. You serve it. And you feed the part you didn’t use, so you can use it tomorrow. You do this over and over again. Every day. It’s repetitive. It requires only a few ingredients. Every loaf is a bit different. But every loaf draws on the same bubbling, fermenting starter, and so it’s also of the original source — like every story I write draws on the same bubbling fermenting starter of my mind, and I have to keep feeding it, and I have to keep using it, and it’s exactly that simple. (Oh, and during those times when you can’t use it, you can put your starter in the fridge for awhile and it will wait till you’re ready again.)

Feed it, use it. Feed it, use it. Feed it, use it.

Recipe for a writing life.

xo, Carrie

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PS Here’s today’s loaf, fresh out of the oven! And my post just done! Did you know that if you put your ear close to the bread when it’s fresh out of the oven, you can hear it “singing”? It pops and crackles.

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