Category: Spring
Wednesday, May 13, 2026 | Art, Confessions, Morning, Poetry, Spring |
What if I told you that I was writing poetry again?
Poems have emerged in bursts at particular times in my life. Feast or famine. I began writing poetry in my teens (as many do!), when my emotional life was overwhelming and huge with feelings. Poems gave me a voice for this underlying darkness and fear amidst disruption and change. I was also quite bored and restless. I wrote poetry in the margins while taking notes during many a class, through all my degrees. In my last year of undergrad, I wrote with extremely disciplined pleasure and relief almost every night before bed, in a stream of consciousness style that doubled as a journal. These poems were typed onto my primitive laptop with my eyes closed, and kept in files on discs now defunct. A few poems were published during this period.
Then I got a job and got married. My attention for poetry drifted. I was writing short stories, and novels (or attempting to).
I was in my late twenties, with two small children, when the poems returned. I told myself it was because there wasn’t time for much else. Maybe that was true, though maybe, too, the poetry paired with my boredom and restlessness, the tedium and repetition of pregnancies, nursing, the care of infants and toddlers, the minutiae of preoccupations. But my aspirations had changed from my teenaged years. I’d published a book of short stories. I wanted to publish more—why not a collection of poems? Over several years, I added and subtracted from a motherhood-themed manuscript, landing on the title “Famous Love Story.” While a few individual poems were published, the manuscript never found a home, which at that time I believed was an indication of failure. (As if seeking images, playing with language, searching for meaning, could ever be a failure!) But. That was where I was. I wanted, in my thirties, to find expression for my ambitions, I wanted to accomplish things, publicly, as a writer. I returned to stories and novels. I didn’t write poems for many years (except when responding to prompts along with my students, during the decade that I taught creative writing—late thirties through most of my forties.)
Now, I am in my early fifties. Has poetry returned to me? It is quite a thrill, and I haven’t wanted to jinx it or break the spell—but these past few months, I’ve found myself writing poems, almost daily. It’s a quiet time, dormant, a late spring, and maybe I am again restless and a bit bored and filled with big feelings. News will come and time will shift the ground beneath my feet, but the now is what’s holding me, occupying my attention, and maybe that explains the appearance of poetry, again. The more I write, the more I loosen the rules for myself, invite what’s underneath to spill forth and speak for itself without guessing at or trying to control what it’s here to say. I write by hand in my notebook, using a prompt (often dreamed up on the spot), and afterward, after the free flow, I try to discover a shape or thematic thread in the words and phrases, like gleaning oats or holding out a divining stick.
Anyway … here’s today’s prompt—What if I told you?—and one of the poems that followed.
xo, Carrie
What if i told you?
What if i told you that this morning, when i was walking to the gym, i was hoping that the blossoms had not been blown off the crabapple tree in last night’s storm?
What if i told you that the sky was bright, between bouts of rain, shiny like polished pewter, and i happened to arrive at the intersection just before the train glided past on its quiet path and i waited to cross, knowing i was late, and still when i reached the crabapple tree, still with blossoms intact and deep pink and fragrant on the wind, i slowed and stopped beneath its canopy?
What if i told you that it was like i knew when i looked down to the wet grass there would be a particular small bloom on a stem, broken from its branch—just one—and i would bend to pick it up and breathe it in, as if unhurried, as if i had all the time, all the time?
What if i told you that i carried the bloom by its broken stem across the street, against the light, past the closed storefronts, and into the gym, and placed it on the laces of my running shoes, set with all the other pairs of shoes on the rack, to keep?
What if i told you that by the time i’d walked upstairs to my class i’d forgotten about it?
What if i told you that when i returned, awake and damp with sweat and endorphins, i both saw and remembered the bloom in the same moment, there on my laces, like a gift, a gesture, an honour, and i held it in my fingers with soft pride and delight, hoping others would see its delicate pink petals, and share in this accidental delight too?
What if i told you it was raining again, and cold, and that the wind came at me with such force that as i approached the tree again its fragrance rushed to me, and though the sidewalk was covered in individual petals, and though I looked in the grass, there were no more fallen blossoms on snapped twigs to be seen, just this one that i held to my nose to breathe its smell over and over till i couldn’t distinguish its scent?
What if i told you that i adore you?
What if i told you that my heart has spent its love on blossoms and that i wait each spring for this exact moment of brief dark pink bloom, so that when it comes i might be prepared to stand beneath its beauty?
What if i told you that all the months in between that fill a year are themselves quite marvelous or could be, yet this one tree is what i wait for, this one tree is itself my memory and all that i could ever hold, or bear to hold, or wish to hold, of my love for you?
What if i told you, what would it change?
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
Friday, May 9, 2025 | Art, Big Thoughts, Confessions, Job, Meditation, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Spring, Word of the Year, Work, Writing |
I am in another world, other reality, a different place in my mind, life, body. But where? I’ve disconnected from the version of writer I believe I was — before — before
— before I’d released my idea of what I’d need from writing, what I’d expect, what I’d value, what I’d receive from writing.
In truth, I need little from my writing; or — nothing? None of the things I thought I’d wanted.
This is my third spring working my job-job. I’ve approached it as a practice, as training, and as an antidote to my writing career’s boundary-less culture of under-compensated demands, spoken and unspoken, external and internalized. Before — I strived to meet those demands, spoken and unspoken; before — I tried to make a home for myself in a writing-adjacent career; bitterness ensued. And the bitter taste was justified, painful though that is to acknowledge; a person should not be required to work without security or for free just because she loves what she does. That’s not service, that’s exploitation.
I’ll still publish, and I still participate; but on terms that feel sustainable for me, and that grow rather than shrink my heart and capacity.
The job-job grows my heart, and my capacity.
The job-job offers me a clear role, agreed-upon terms and responsibilities, expected hours, and fair compensation. Also: security (as long as our school board doesn’t eliminate library staff … but that’s another story and in any case, it’s not the specifics that matters; the job-job is a practice, not an identity).
The job-job has trained me, continues to train me, for this mid-life, squashed and squeezed time that I’m occupying — this time of devotion. Devotion to tasks, to responsibilities, to community well-being, to small gestures of kindness. Devotion to the practice of gentleness. To the practice of seeing others, recognizing, easing the way for others to move more freely and joyfully and openly, appreciated and known. Devotion to the practice of invisible labour. It is this training that teaches me: I have enough, I am enough.
I tape and glue and clean and relabel. This is my training. I stand at the counter and listen, I respond with kind regard. All life deserves respect and dignity. This is my training.
I am the least interesting part of my writing life. The writing itself, whatever gift there is in it, flows through me. I am a channel.
I am content to be — A mirror — A kind ear — Invisible, or partially seen, or seen only in reflection.
I am content to write what I want to write and share stories and ask questions and to sit in silence. I am more than content, I am fulfilled beyond words to accept this mission of kind regard. What do I train for, if not this? This sense of being present. Able. Having the capacity to serve. Not to be in servitude to, but to serve.
Practicing. To be kind, secure; flowing, humming, through.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Mar 16, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Good News, Holidays, Peace, Reading, Source, Space, Spirit, Spring, Writing, Yoga |
Note: This post was written several days ago. I kept my laptop off wifi in order to avoid distraction, so I’m posting it only now that I’m home again.
I’ve spent almost seven full days at the farm (my brother and sister-in-law’s, with all thanks to them for their generosity). These seven days have been a true retreat, for mind and body and spirit and emotions. I was close to breaking that last week of work before March break, ground down by responsibilities and duties and commitments, all of which I love and have chosen freely (nearly all!); but which require a volume of attention that even great discipline and desire cannot meet.
I came to the farm to write.
I came with a bit of a plan: a novel manuscript to revise, with, most blessedly, the support of a new editor and publisher (the deal has not been inked, so I will touch wood and wait to share more news till it’s official).
I also came to the farm depleted. Knowing I was depleted and exhausted and strained.
I came to the farm wanting to play. I didn’t come to “work” on my book, I came to play with the material. And this book—my 16th century book, as I often call it—has so much material to play with. The language, the weather, the rhyming, the smells, the herbs, the meat, the smoke, the streets running with raw sewage, the animals, the screw press, the tenements, the lanes and alleyways, the river, the relationships, the sacred and the profane, art and authorship and anonymity.
A person can’t play if she’s depleted, exhausted, strained.
Such weariness bleeds through the body, and numbs the senses. There’s a flatness, tears leak through, but feel obscure or obscuring, a disconnected release. In the week or so before coming to the farm, I’d noticed myself withdrawing, even from friends, as I put my head down and completed the basics (which include routines I consider to be healthy and caring, like starting the day with exercise and meditation, preparing good lunches to eat at work, and spending time with my family).
I gave myself permission, when I arrived at the farm on Saturday, early afternoon, to slow down.
And that has been at the crux of my reflections, here at the farm.
I noticed that it was difficult to slow down. I noticed that I wanted to fill the quiet with noise: podcasts, radio, YouTube. More than that, I wanted to be entertained. In stillness, in quiet, alone, I felt starved for some interruption that would distract me.
I noticed these needs and desires. I questioned them. There were times when I let myself be distracted. But I also encouraged myself to try going without the noise, even just for a few minutes. The minutes inevitably stretched. Gently, forgiving myself when I reached for my cellphone, I eased myself over the threshold into the quiet, again and again.
This morning, my last morning here at the farm for awhile, I did yoga (my cellphone open, Yoga with Adriene guiding me through day 4 of her recent Prana series). As I do every morning, I followed my breath. I paired breath to movement. I noticed how much attention I could give to different parts of myself—my feet, my shoulders, my pelvis. Deep in this attention, my mind accepted the quiet. It always does.
For my meditation, I read a long chapter in Braiding Sweetgrass (the young adult version). It was like this chapter had heard me praying to slow down. The chapter is called “Allegiance to Gratitude,” and Robin Wall Kimmerer (and Monique Gray Smith, who adapted this version), and the illustrations of Nicole Neidhardt come together to illuminate the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address. The author(s) ask us to consider what it means to start each morning with gratitude—with a ritual of thanksgiving for the land, each other, and all of creation. The ritual is slow. It takes the time that it takes. It is also punctuated with the refrain, Now our minds are one. “Imagine,” the author(s) write, “being raised in a culture in which gratitude is the first priority.”
Imagine.
Let me begin and end with gratitude.
I am thankful for my brother and sister-in-law who open this farmhouse to me, and who restored it with such care, and who continue to care for this peaceful, cozy, calming, healing place. I am thankful for a family-sized lasagna that fed me almost the entire week. I am thankful for this table at which I’ve sat to eat and to read and to write. My eating and reading chair is to my right. I’m sitting now in the writing chair. Both face the same window, with plants on the sill, and flies buzzing in the sunshine. I am thankful for fresh air and a gravel road on which to walk, to clear my mind. I am thankful for winding down time in the warm living-room, with a puzzle and a deliciously silly Canadian TV show (Pretty Hard Cases; CBC, season 3 available on YouTube). I am grateful for sleep and rest.
I played a lot this week. I accomplished what I’d set out to do. The novel will take more time, more play, more squishing and shaping of its materials.
I’m preparing to pack up and return home, where I’ll again have too much to do—so much of which I love and cherish and don’t want to set down. Can I stretch time? Or slow it? Can I slow time for others, with whom I share space? What allows me to slow my mind, to listen deeply, to attend with love, and to resist distraction?
Begin with gratitude. Return to gratitude. Cherish and take responsibility for my gifts. Ask: I am grateful for____? Is ___ grateful for me in return? And if not, how can I balance that relationship, so that it becomes mutual?
When I love my writing, and bring to it my attention, with appreciation for its delights, I sense it loving me in return, and filling me with joy. And that is what I want to share—deep abiding thanks for imagination, story, the healing properties of narrative and image, and the visceral sensual pleasure of language itself.
xo, Carrie
Monday, Jul 15, 2024 | Adventure, Art, Family, Fire, Friends, Fun, Peace, Source, Space, Spirit, Spring, Summer, Yoga |
In April, I embarked on a “spring burst”, aka return to the gym, with the initial intention of spending a month trying out spin and weights classes, in an effort to boost my cardio and strength.
I was a runner for many years. But it’s high-impact, and I am a woman well into middle age, and no amount of yoga seemed to help with the pain that would flare while running, even relatively short distances. It’s hard to stop doing something you love, and there is no replacement for the runner’s high, or being outside on a misty morning before the world has woken up. But. I’m trying to listen to my body and be softer with myself, so I let the running go (mostly). As of this spring, I’d been doing yoga twice a day for at least a year, and meditation regularly, and an occasional weights class with friends. Sometimes I’d bike to work. But suffice it to say, there came a moment in my weights-class-with-friends when I was gasping for air, my heart racing, and the thought arose: gee, I could really use some more cardio in my life.
Ergo: Carrie’s spring burst.
The first spin class damn near killed me, mostly because I go hard, no matter the challenge. I almost fell off my bike. I was light-headed, panting, dripping sweat, and not even close to keeping up with the instructor’s choreo directions. Yes, I go to a gym where the spin classes have choreo; and yes, this adds a certain soupçon of danger and thrill to each sweaty, fast-paced, rhythmically pumped up class—but that’s why I return, to be frank: to be challenged, mentally and physically, to occasionally reach a goal I’ve set or smile at myself while trying. I also look forward to the moment in each class where my worries vanish into the effort, and my mind goes quiet.
My spring burst has stretched into a summer of strength, or maybe a summer of sweat (haven’t come up with a title yet).
I’ve tried every available class, from weights to power to pilates to yoga to the hilarious humiliation of a what seemed like an aerobics class to boxing. As mentioned, I throw myself in deep, and am therefore currently in gym rat mode. It’s not that other things aren’t happening, social and emotional. But this is the place I’m returning to, as a form of a vacation, to give my mind rest, and to enjoy my body. Weight training is apparently critical during the peri-menopause / menopause era; and that’s me. Age happens, and with age, limitations; yet my body and mind can adapt and learn new things.
Summer loving. Bougie gym summer.
We aren’t travelling very far this summer. The kids are all living at home. The schools are closed, so I don’t have a job in the library for nine or ten weeks (haven’t done the math). I’m trying to revise a book manuscript, but honestly, if I do so, it will only be because it makes sense for my mental health, and not any other reason. The costs of artistic ambition seem altogether too steep; and this is not a new Alice-Munro-revelations-thought for me either, though has probably been somewhat cemented by that. I’ve long wondered and worried about the wisdom (for myself personally) of pouring so much energy and time and attention into what amounts to a series of personal passion projects—at times I would feel possessed, as if I was trying to cure an obsession or compulsion with novel-writing. And maybe it did help, for awhile—I have no regrets. I’m proud of my accomplishments. And—and! I hope for something quite different: a humble legacy of love and care, for strong and lasting connections and relationships, built on trust and kindness and open doors.
That’s my aim. That’s my over-arching goal.
What I’m finding is that if I prioritize connections, serving and feeding relationships, including paying attention to the the feelings and sensations in my own body, I can’t go wrong. The discomfort and disorientation of being disconnected, not in a right relationship, is a powerful cue for change. This might mean entering into difficult conversations. This might mean being open to hearing hard truths. This might mean hearing “no,” when I’d prefer to hear “yes!” It might mean shifting direction, allowing my priorities to shift too. Whatever possibilities lie before me, I hope to choose connection.
Summer delight. Summer solace. Summer song.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, May 26, 2024 | Art, Big Thoughts, Family, Fire, Job, Lists, Parenting, Peace, Play, Sleep, Source, Space, Spirit, Spring, Success, Work, Writing |
If all your dreams came true, what that look like, can you even imagine it? I recently had fun ruminating on this question with one of my children, hearing what their dreams would be. They wanted to do more things; I was thinking about doing fewer…. Because if all my dreams came true, I’d need several extra lives.
This is a perennial issue for me. Come to think of it, it’s how I approach a buffet — I spoon a little bit from every tray onto my plate till its overflowing and incoherent, as a meal. And that’s how my life feels, sometimes, too. Incoherent, as a life. I get it on a micro level — I’m going to taste all the things! Yay! — but on a macro level, it’s exhausting. So many things to taste.
Projects have coherence (and I love them for it!).
But life doesn’t, really. Life is a series of overlapping layers that can’t be peeled apart. I’m playing all these roles, different roles in different locations and spaces and relationships; but am I not always myself? To be sure, it’s a changing self. Hopefully a learning self. Why then, do I need to learn the same lessons over and over?
What values shape my dreams and goals, and my beliefs and choices?
Maybe I don’t even recognize these values as my own, much of the time. Maybe these are beliefs that run through my DNA or that I’ve accumulated through being a human in the world. Here’s a theory, or framework, I’m considering: that there are (at least) three pools of values from which I draw, and they don’t necessarily agree or support each other (or my decision-making).
One pool is represented by my Grandma Doris, and her lifelong belief that a person’s purpose is to serve, no matter who they are, or what their skills and gifts may be. She served the church, and God; and I might have warped this value into a more secular iteration, but there’s a big part of me that believes whatever I do must be in service to something larger than myself — serving the well-being of others, preferably humbly, quietly, and invisibly, in order to strengthen the community.
A second pool of values is represented by the somewhat amorphous but powerful North American cultural fever-dream of self-reliance, earning a living, and being rewarded monetarily for one’s labours. Though I’m less attached to this pool of values, it’s a bit inescapable — also inescapable (at least so far) is my fear of being unable to earn money, of not being qualified or capable of earning a living. It’s the fear of being unable to provide for my family and for myself. Come to think of it, this is more of a DNA-level value system too. Our beliefs about abundance and scarcity (represented through money) are passed down generationally. In any case, I harbour a fear-filled desire for security and independence. (Note: a life of service does not provide either security or independence, so this value is in direct conflict with the previous one; and also with the next.)
Which brings me to the third pool of values: my devotion to and trust in art and the arts. My relationship to this one is super-complicated by my fidelity to those other values, above. I’m filled with shame at my own attempts at art-making. I know that sounds terrible, and maybe judgemental. It doesn’t apply, however, to anyone else’s art-making; just my own. I value and admire those who devote themselves to a life of artistic pursuit. I envy them too. (Maybe I envy anyone who gives themselves unabashed permission to devote themselves to their art.) Truth is, I’m probably also romanticizing this life in a way that is childish because it is child-like—because it’s a value rooted in my own childhood, when I devoured books and had the nascent notion that I would be a writer too. I believed, as a child, that being a writer would mean, well, writing and writing and writing—I imagined that devotion would lead to reward, and that reward would simply be to become very fluent in the art of making beautiful things. Beautiful books, I guess.
In some strange way, I think the imagery has remained in my mind’s eye, stubbornly unchanged. I admired (and continue to admire) the element of the mystical, in any artistic pursuit. How it couldn’t really be explained to anyone else. It would be a calling. The thought of questioning it as a calling didn’t even occur to me, as a young person. Yet I’ve spent the bulk of my adult life questioning it as a calling. That’s been the ratty old tired old thread that’s woven its grey little self through my life as a writer—a question of faith, maybe. A lack of faith?
Or, a question of where I should be placing my faith, and what values to trust, and on which to build the foundation for this incoherent slurry of experiences I call life? Do I place my trust in serving a higher purpose, like God, or a church, or community well-being? Or do I place my trust in the ethics of earning a living, being independent, and not being a burden to anyone else? Or do I place my trust in devotion to the utter mystery of trying to shape beauty from fragments of experience?
Can and do these values fit together? The joy in building community connections with the necessity of earning a living with the inexplicable need (compulsion?) to make things up, to live these other lives through invention, imagination—imagery.
How does it all fit together?
In practical terms?
In the choices I’m making and the things I’m doing (and not doing)?
My obligations and my joys are mingled: the activities that I long to balance, the people I want to nurture and not to neglect, the beauty I seek to perform and hold in my hands. If I try to untangle the threads, or even to count all the points of connection to others and to the world—which are my labour and my love—I am overwhelmed.
Yet, it does make sense, too. I just take one step and another. I text one friend and another. I cook one meal and another. I read one book and another. I write one sentence and another. I hang one item of laundry on the line and another.
I’m seeking coherence to this grand brief project called life.
I may not achieve it.
But I hope at the end of it, my mind will remember and relive on repeat not fear, despair, shame, but goodness and love and a great deal of laughter.
xo, Carrie
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