Category: Space
Friday, Aug 26, 2022 | Adventure, Art, Book Review, Books, Dream, Fun, Holidays, Mothering, Parenting, Peace, Politics, Reading, Sleep, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, Swimming |
This is the lake into which I’ve dunked my full self every day for the past seven days. Some days it has been warm and sunny, even hot. Other days, like today, it is cool and windy, cloudy, rainy, almost cold.
Today, I went kayaking first, to warm up.
I never take my cellphone out kayaking (for obvious reasons), which means I’ve never gotten a photo of those rocks and trees visited only by water. I didn’t kayak the first few days here, because I was waiting to feel rested up and restless, and when that happened, it was bliss to be back out on the lake in the little blue kayak, wearing my baseball cap and favourite blue lifejacket.
I got a very large tattoo this summer (as well as a small one). When I catch a glimpse in the mirror, it gives me pleasure to think: this woman could be an aging rock star, or an aging artist! I still can’t give a particularly good reason for getting the very large tattoo, or even for the chosen image (an owl made of woven ribbons), other than I like it.
I like it. It makes me feel both more myself and more like a different, alternative self, living a much edgier, cooler, artistic life, that probably involves less cooking and cleaning, overall. Fewer challenging parenting decisions.
At the cottage, we mostly unplug and read. I’ve read all the August New Yorkers from cover to cover. I just finished my friend Emily Urquhart’s memoir, Beyond the Pale, which explores folklore and genetics. And I’m currently tearing through a novel called Nightbitch, by Rachel Yoder, a writer with whom I share Mennonite roots (she was raised in Ohio); the book seems to me to be an answer to the question: why is motherhood so confusing and impossible? Or, maybe it’s a theory of motherhood, or an abstract on how to respond to motherhood, including positing motherhood as intensely lived performance art. Whatever it is, it’s deeply weird, hilariously funny, and consoling. I keep reading lines out loud to anyone who will listen.
I recommend pairing Nightbitch with this New York Times opinion piece on the “mothering instinct.”
Bracing. Just like the cool lake water. Some summers I haven’t gone under the water even once. I used to swim no matter what, training and doing lengths back and forth in the deeper water, but after a near-drowning experience a few years ago, I’ve been cautious and nervous in the lake. This summer, I decided to try, at least, to walk in and go under, no matter the weather. I’m fascinated by people who’ve taken up immersing themselves in freezing cold water, hacking holes in icy lakes in the middle of winter. It seems to have become a popular thing during the pandemic. I don’t live close to a body of water that would qualify as a lake, but in truth, even if a handy icy lake existed nearby, I’m not sure I’d have the fortitude for it. My alter-ego with the owl tattoo totally would. But for now, I feel practically heroic for paddling around the shallows of this little bay on an overcast and cool day, limbs tingling and bright, and chasing it with a blissful hot shower, enjoyed outdoors under the pine trees.
Maybe this is where my owl tattoo self lives all the time. I love the sound of the lake water on the rocks at night. I love the isolation. Everything slows, here. My racing mind. Time. Longing. Experience. Expression. It feels like we could always be here, when we are here.
xo, Carrie
Tuesday, Jul 26, 2022 | Books, Dream, Family, Francie's Got A Gun, Friends, Fun, Good News, Manifest, Party, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Success, Word of the Year, Writing |
Today is the pub date for Francie’s Got a Gun. I’m so happy that I decided to hold the launch party on the same day. It feels festive and celebratory and just exactly what should be happening.
I decided to let myself sleep in a bit. Walk the dog around the block. Do some yoga. Breakfast. My youngest is volunteering at swim lessons, and we bike to the pool around noon. Stop for a butter tart on the way home.
There’s not much left for me to do.
Pick up our Tuesday CSA veggies on my bike. Maybe a small nap. Be sure to eat. Figure out what to wear, how dressed-up to be. What shoes to put on my feet. Earrings?
And then … just … show up!
And like Sunday’s X Page performance of “Voices,” I’m going to let it all roll, all the emotions, everything that’s happening, just jump into the flow and experience it. No worrying, no hurrying, no fear, no wishing to be in a different river. Just this one, where I am, letting it all happen as it happens.
My word for today is ENJOY.
xo, Carrie
PS I had a funny thought about what I wrote in my last post, remembering how I didn’t love who I was at times, when doing publicity for Girl Runner — that what needed to change was just one thing: to love who I was, and be kind; everything else falls into place when that happens.
Friday, Jul 22, 2022 | Big Thoughts, Confessions, Current events, Dream, Fire, Francie's Got A Gun, Friends, Fun, Girl Runner, Good News, Party, Peace, Publicity, Publishing, Source, Space, Spirit, Success, Writing |
Book launch is less than a week away. Pub date too. It’s a time of intense vulnerability woven together with this great desire to celebrate, and let go of. The ego is dancing for attention, wants to run the show, and I reflect on how to …
embrace gratitude
accept what’s happening, no matter what may come
gently, kindly, lovingly release expectations (internal / external)
Truth is, I’ve been attempting to prepare for this day for quite some time. I knew it would be hard, because it pushes a lot of my buttons. Fear of rejection; feelings of unworthiness; imposter syndrome; fear of things spiralling out of my control. I’m guessing this is a common experience for many (most?!) who present their work publicly. Something about being in the spotlight, even the idea of it, kind of messes with the head. I wanted to shift that experience, if possible, so I’ve been working toward the goals (above) through therapy, reflection, and by seeking role models and support.
Confession: at times, I didn’t love who I was when I was promoting Girl Runner. I felt as if all my weaknesses, my negative tendencies and patterns, some bottomless un-fillable attention-seeking void in my soul were being exposed; and that was probably true! In retrospect, I appreciate this as a necessary, if painful, growing experience. UGH. Why are there no shortcuts to growing and learning? (Parenting is a constant reminder that no matter how dearly we wish to spare those we love most from the pain of “learning the hard way” … that’s not how it goes.)
So what did I learn the hard way? I saw some things: those weaknesses, those tendencies and patterns, some ways I’m most likely to cause suffering in myself and in others. Seeing, knowing, is a door or a window. It’s an opening, an invitation to shift habits and behaviours, to live inside my body more fully. How can I change what I can’t see, or don’t want to acknowledge?
An opening, no matter how painful, is an opportunity to shift experiences in ways that may be small, yet profoundly affecting.
Last October, I wrote: What would happen if I gave up trying to control outcomes, trying to control how people feel about me, trying to reassure myself that I could figure out the perfect approach that would persuade everyone of my greatness?
I cringe to read that word “greatness.” ACK! It’s so embarrassing! But what I wrote was true and honest. The grinding self that has accomplished much is also a fearful, grasping self that doesn’t want to be good, but great; that sets standards that are impossible to meet; that engages in external comparisons, and feels envy, jealousy. If I pay attention to the ugliness — the shadow side of my self — what can I learn?
Here’s what I wrote next, last October: Now that I’ve recognized my need to control others, control outcomes, and seek external praise and acknowledgement, in the form of respect and admiration from others (and to be known as a helper! Altruistic! Giving! A good person! That’s been especially key to my sense of identity), can I change how I see myself, and operate from a different place of inspiration? Can I find meaning in something other external praise? Can I fill that hole that needs reassurance — you are good, you are worthy?
Can I become someone who knows more and more deeply that I am worthy, because everyone is?
I think knowing this would allow me to see others with greater compassion and clarity, to be less reactive, less judgemental, and less controlling.
Yes, Carrie of last October. YES! What a terrific goal. And what a bloody hard test it is and has been to love the self that is ugly and fearful and defensive. How incredibly hard to be kind to myself when I am disappointed in my responses to situations, when I’ve done wrong, especially painful and difficult when I’ve hurt someone else. It’s a stretch to say that in these moments I’m quick to give myself grace, kindness, compassion. But if I notice what’s happening, I try — that’s how I try to respond. It’s a practice that I’ll be practicing for the rest of my life.
Here’s how I’m practicing it right now.
The book launch is Tuesday. In the past few weeks, I’ve felt all of the following and more: vulnerable, exposed, silly, craven, mixed-up, excitable, restless, bubbling over, unable to write anything new or to focus beyond cleaning the house and cooking meals. In response, I say: Hey, you, human being, it’s okay to feel all of these things! And I also say: Look at all the ways you’re caring for yourself.
Maybe even further: Look at your delight in being human! In being vulnerable and ridiculous and comical and expressive, and giddy, and hopeful and needy! You are capable of seeing and appreciating all this imperfection as a potential gift! Look at you asking for help when you need it. Look at this kindness you’re offering yourself — imagine it spilling outward into every interaction you have, now and into the future.
Imagine that this kindness, this grace, this delight is what you are capable of offering to everyone around you.
Now that would be the gift. There’s the true goal I’m seeking, the goal of my chosen vocation.
Here’s what I’m learning. When I started on this path, wanting to be a writer, I thought the goal was to be the best writer I could possibly be — grind away, publish books. But maybe that’s itself a practice, a way of walking a path toward a different dream, one that I could not imagine or conceive of when I first knew that I wanted to be a writer. Something I’ve begun to glimpse is how much lightness there is on this path. Lightness and laughter, and love, which is mixed up with grief sometimes too. Look at us, being alive here together.
Where is this path leading? I don’t know. But it’s been a mind-bending, heart-opening adventure so far. Why not trust where it’s going? Reading that word “trust” invites breath deep into my lungs. AHHHHH.
Ahhh, amazing — I find myself, right now, looking forward to this launch party no matter what happens. I’ve given myself a real break all this week, to do the things that feed my spirit and body, that feel good. No expectations. How is that possible? It feels miraculous, and I’ll swim in it gratefully, for however long it lasts.
xo, Carrie
Wednesday, Jul 20, 2022 | Adventure, Art, Dream, Fire, Friends, Fun, Lists, Manifest, Play, Source, Space, Spirit, Success |
- barefoot in grass
- climbing a tree
- riding a horse
- playing piano (and singing)
- running (when nothing hurts)
- dance!!!
- writing retreat (organized by me)
- fancy meal out with drinks and appetizers and coffee and dessert
- road trip
- live music, concerts
- getting dressed up
- a massage
- exploring on my bicycle
- standing around a campfire
- camping with friends
- sibs nights
- star-gazing
- floating in a lake (preferably warm)
- seeing the ocean again
- Omega getaway (preferably Lynda Barry)
- acting, performing, being onstage
- throwing a party
- writing things I find funny and energizing
- one-on-one conversations with friends
- sabbatical in beach town, anywhere
- cooking what I want to eat
- being impulsive
- yoga outside (or anywhere, daily)
- going to the movies
- drawing (cartoons or otherwise)
- trying new things
- date night with Kevin
- a good night’s sleep (sleep sabbatical)
- surprising friends with small gifts
- planning events
- making TikTok videos for my own amusement
- tattoos
- driving late at night, listening to the radio
- playing games with family
- walking to city cafe for a treat
- memorizing a poem
- talking with my kids
- backyard drinks with friends
- dreaming, brainstorming, envisioning, imagining
- going with the flow
- reading for fun
- achievable adventures (like going to Nina’s farm / train to Toronto)
- shooting the shit
- inviting people in, keeping a welcoming house
- being entertained by podcasts, shows, music
I did it! I finished making my list of 50 fun things! (Although it’s the kind of list that should be infinitely added to, right?) Most of the things on my list are within reach, or pleasant just to dream about. It’s also a list of things I want to do more of, or as often as possible, like a map, or a way to stay oriented to what matters, which is really personal and would be different for everyone. (51. making lists of fun things). With thanks to my friend Marnie for the inspiration.
What’s on your list?
xo, Carrie
Friday, Jun 17, 2022 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Books, Confessions, Dream, Francie's Got A Gun, Manifest, Money, Organizing, Peace, Play, Publishing, Reading, Source, Space, Spirit, Success, Word of the Year, Writing |
I’m in between, right now.
In between tasks, in between seasons. Maybe it’s always this way? Maybe I’m always in liminal space, in flux, free-floating. I do set goals and meet them. But I also set daily practices, which don’t necessarily develop into full-fledged goals other than hoping to experience discoveries that slowly accrue and weave themselves into my way of being in the world.
I don’t set a goal unless I believe it’s something I have the will, time, energy, drive and desire to accomplish. A practice is lighter: it’s exploration, experiment, play; it’s something that draws my interest, that feeds my body, soothes my mind.
Writing can be either, for me: goal or practice; and these get tangled up and confused.
I set goals for my writing; but it’s really more fundamentally a basic practice, a constant companion and comfort. I’ve earned money from my writing; but in a nonsensical way, or impractically, unpredictable and sometimes completely disconnected from time and effort expended. Writing has opened other doors — to teaching and participating as an artist in the community, for example; but I don’t come to writing from a logical place, nor as a transaction. I don’t often exchange my writing for a tangible reward; mostly, I can’t, even if I wanted to. Anyway, that’s not how a practice works —
And I know that’s what my writing actually is.
It’s a practice. It’s not a vocation, it’s not a career, it’s not a way to get ahead or succeed, it’s not a means to an end. It’s how I function in the world, it’s kept me whole, it gives me clarity and release and it helps me — especially fiction — to organize my panicked, irrational, awestruck, mysterious, and otherwise unknown and unseen underworld.
The practice of writing radiates back so many life-giving things. Friendship. Connection. Challenge. Adventure. Doors open and doors close. Writing continues the conversation.
Like how … I needed to write this, this morning.
How it’s helped me refocus on what matters; on the real goal that pulls me onward. That goal is to connect. It’s not my word of the year (that’s “feel”), but the principle of connection is guiding most every decision that I make right now, as a parent, a friend, a community member. It helps me make moral choices, too. When I boil down what I believe and what guides my every action, it’s to build, strengthen, and maintain connections. The starting place is to feel — connecting to others is rooted in connecting to self, by knowing what’s inside of me, what I truly want to do.
Feel = Connect = Enjoy
Maybe that’s true? It feels true.
I started this post by writing: I’m in between, right now.
I meant: I don’t know what to do next. My big project for these past many years, my overwhelming goal, has been to publish another novel. It’s coming soon. I don’t really have much left to do, to prepare. It’s out of my hands now.
It’s not that I’m not writing fiction. I am, in volume and with great enjoyment. Yet, I don’t seem to have that combo right now of will, drive, energy and desire, or not directed toward the goal of publishing another novel. I’m not even sure anymore that it’s a healthy goal to take on; to be frank with you, the publishing part of the equation was, is, and will always be out of my hands. And that’s scary, honestly. What am I doing, trying to forge a career on such unstable earth? That’s a question asked by fear. I ask it, because I am that person, I have such fear. But I’m also a person with a practice. A career is a thing outside myself; a practice dwells within.
The practice asks: What’s drawing your attention? The practices reminds me: Follow the energy, write toward that. Trust this time, be in between. Feel, connect. Feel, connect. Be where you are. What’s enjoyable, here, right now? (Oh, so much! Plenty! Enough, and more! Maybe I’ll write about that next time?)
xo, Carrie
Monday, May 16, 2022 | Art, Confessions, Feminism, Fire, Laundry, Party, Space, The X Page, Writing |
This tangential post is brought to you by an x page exercise, written during last week’s workshop (week 2 of 12), in the company of other women, in response to the prompt word: PARTY. It must have tapped some essential emotion, because I came home and kept writing till it felt done. I’d like to call this fiction, but maybe more accurately it’s a version of poetry, instead. (Where were you at age 20, and what were you doing, and hoping, and dreaming of?)
Phil’s $1.50 drinks
I am at Phil’s, an underground bar where the pipes overhead are wrapped in asbestos and the drinks are $1.50 on Wednesdays, but they must really water them down because I need to drink at least four to feel anywhere near tipsy. I’ve invited everyone I can think of, I’ve telephoned, left messages all over town. Friends are here, some have come, but no one is happy. The bar is too empty, the friends have no money either. Wet salt patches melt from our boots on the floor.
I had forgotten, or wanted to forget, why I used to love this place—because I’d come here during the day when I was a first year student, with a friend, Rich. (Now I’m in third year.) I had a car and he did not, even though I was no more than 17 or 18, and he was 21 or so. I would pick him up in my red Honda Civic, and I’d do my laundry (maybe he would too, but I don’t remember that now), and we’d sit by the pool tables and play cards in the middle of the day, drinking coffee. Gin rummy was our favourite game. It felt like we were the only people there and maybe we were. The good feeling I had on those afternoons seems irreplaceable, now. A feeling of possibility, excitement, tenderness, desire, amiable companionship. Rich was funny and he made me laugh, he never made me feel like I was wrong to be a goofy silly earnest person.
I’d forgotten all of this till exactly now, and now the friends I’m with don’t satisfy me—we’re too much the same in our longings and dissatisfaction—I want different, other, more, but Rich doesn’t live here anymore, and anyway, he never loved me like I loved him, if obsession counts as love, which I seem to think it does. What do I know about it? About love? I’ve mixed it all up with other things. Obsession feels like I think love should—dangerous, exciting.
I’m 20 now and feel so old when I look in the mirror. I finish my diluted drink and go to the gross damp women’s washroom, where one time I saw the lead singer of the Cowboy Junkies washing her hands, and I stand in front of the mirror and check my own eyes—not drunk enough, not interesting enough (as if these were the same thing). I see fine wrinkles around my eyes—could it be? “I’m getting so old!” I go back out and shout to my friends over the music. But they are too. We are so old! And we maybe hardly know each other really at all, we’re just proximate to each other, accidentally revolving around each other. We are so lost. Lonely. Alone.
In this mood, I take my misery to the little raised dance floor, even though no one is dancing, and I dance holding onto a fresh drink, gin and tonic in a flimsy plastic cup with a slice of lime floating in the bubbly mixture. I’ll promise anyone anything to get them to join me at this party that is not a real party. I’ll promise, but I won’t follow through. I can’t drink enough to get myself drunk, so I throw it down on the dance floor, metaphorically, to make myself feel something, anything, in my lungs. I’m smoking, at that time. You can smoke, at that time, indoors. Soon, this will end too, like everything else. I can see all of us dispersing, shot wide into the rest of our lives, fanning out in different directions, toward the parts of our other selves that are drawing us like magnets, while we, we, we, a mere two decades into inhabiting our bodies, prepare to part from whatever this era is, a time of loss, and exploration, poverty, and unrecognized riches.
My coat is ugly and it slips to the floor and gets stepped on, spilled on, but I’ll have to wear it home at the end of the night. I’ve spent my money on drinks, tomorrow I will eat a packet of Mr Noodles and lie on my mattress on the floor of the basement apartment I share with my brother (it will flood come spring), and I’ll read all of Pride and Prejudice, cover to cover, just for fun, laughing and crying and yearning and dreaming. I haven’t met the man who will become my husband yet. I don’t have an email account. I can’t imagine a cellphone and we have no tv. I have my books, a telephone with an answering machine, and enough money in savings to get myself partway to drunk on Wednesdays at Phil’s (I’ll buy cigarettes but can’t afford cheese; I have these priorities).
But every night, even on this night, after brushing my teeth and before going to bed, I sit at my desk and write poetry. I write about the things that happen to me, and the things that I wish would happen to me, and the language, words, images entrance me, as if they were magical forms, and I were a witch casting spells on myself, I were a person from another time come to bring myself back to earth, inside my body, filling all of it with the silly goofy earnestness that is actually my version of joy (though I don’t know it yet), whispering you are enough, you are sufficient, you are alive, you are not alone.
You are a whole person, or you will be; no—you are, you already are.
xo, Carrie
Page 5 of 15« First«...34567...10...»Last » 