Category: Summer

A funny thing happened

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A funny thing happened yesterday morning. I started reading old blog posts, from 2009/2010, and F and CJ sat down and read along with me. They loved the photos, but they also loved the snippets of dialogue and descriptions of our daily life — adventures in which they played starring roles as 1 and 4 years olds. We were in stitches laughing and remembering. I mean, I’d almost forgotten about our “cooking with kids” experiment, and how we would hold family meetings using a “talking crayon.”

I’d forgotten, too, how openly I wrote about my own writing struggles. This was a quiet and difficult time in my writing career. I was three years away from publishing The Juliet Stories, and five years from having published Hair Hat, at the time, my only book. Yet I shared when I finished a new draft of a manuscript — even though the manuscript would ultimately be sent back to the drawing board by my kind agent. I shared when I felt aimless and unsure. I shared the small joys, too. I didn’t seem afraid to let others see me fail.

I’m much more afraid now, I understand. 

Why haven’t I shared my ups and downs since publishing Girl Runner? Why hold my cards so close to my chest? I would like to be as brave as my former self. I would like to tell you when I’m excited about a new manuscript, even though it may never be published.

I am excited about a new manuscript, even though it may never be published. It sprung from out of an abandoned idea, and tapped me on the shoulder, and I worked on it in a torrent of concentrated obsession for the past number of months, in locations that seem woven right into the book, in my mind: beside several different soccer fields, sitting in my little white car, or the camping chair I keep in the trunk, or at a windblown picnic table, and in a cool calm classroom in New York State that allowed me to find an ending. I wrote some of the book by hand. I drew cartoons of the main characters. I drew sequences and storyboarded scenes. It was fun. It was super-fun.
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And I want to share that with you, whether or not the manuscript is ultimately destined to be published. Because it’s part of the story.

Because the writing felt like play. Because I’ve had a sense of well-being as I’ve worked on this manuscript, and that is a good, good thing. Because I’ve had a sense of spaciousness, of enough, but not too much, these past few months.

Now to go walk the dogs around the block with my Fooey and CJ, who have grown to the enormous ages of 11 and 8. Wow. I love that I can learn from my former self. I love that my kids have this virtual scrapbook to flip through, if and when they’re interested. And I’m glad, glad, glad it’s still summer.

xo, Carrie

PS Home again. CJ led us in an around-the block heptathlon. He got gold, Fooey got silver, Suzi took bronze. DJ didn’t appear to have Olympic ambitions, and I blame my sandals for my poor showing. That, and the late-afternoon inertia. We were having a grand old time right up until CJ stepped in dog poo (not ours) on the sidewalk, which Fooey found disproportionately amusing, which in turn put CJ into an even worse mood. “This is just a bad day,” he said, although he did take my hand as I tried to cheer him up, to no avail. By the time we reached our back yard, he was so mad that he took off his hat and kicked it into a small tree. The hat-kicking had a salubrious effect on his system. He and Fooey are friends again, and they are playing at the dining-room table with a craft kit dug up from heaven-knows-where that can be used to make miniature cakes and pastries, and probably, also, a major mess. What is this stuff? “It smells terrible,” says CJ. “Don’t worry,” says Fooey. “We’re using it all up.”

The Back Yard Olympics

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This is what happens when the kids don’t have school and the parents lecture them sternly about taking initiative, while also banning them from the use of video gaming devices between the hours of 9AM – 4PM …

Introducing the Back Yard Olympics!

This is multi-day event, involving all six family members (dogs not included), with sports like Badminton Whack-It (pictured above), Racewalking, Tug-of-War, Header Wars, Basement Juggling, and today’s final event, Tricycle Time Trials. We’re just suiting up for the Tricycle Time Trials, and all I can say is, why don’t we take this one all the way around the block?
20160824_154935.jpgI’m back. We should definitely not, no never, take the Tricycle Time Trials all the way around the block. First of all, in tricycle terms, all the way around the block is basically a marathon. Second of all, refer to the photo evidence, below. Best kept to the back yard. xo, Carrie
20160824_154627.jpg20160824_154427.jpg20160824_154810.jpg20160824_155117.jpg20160824_155322.jpg*I got silver in the time trial. Not that I’m bragging or anything, okay, yes, I am bragging. I’m exactly this cool. Now you know.

Fifteen minute post

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Fifteen minute post on a Tuesday morning, when I’ve just woken my children who were still asleep at 10AM (even the 8-year-old). The cicadas are whining. The day promises to once again be very hot. Another soccer game tonight, out of town. There is a tent set up in our back yard (that same tent!), where children spent Sunday night on a sleepover birthday party adventure. My office has been cleaned and the desk rejigged to make room for drawing (see above). I’ve worked hard since I got home from the writing workshop, but I’ve also felt relaxed, almost mellow, almost almost laid-back. August is a melancholy month. If only it could last longer, a person wishes, as she puts off thinking about the month that follows August, and its scramble to create routine and get back to business. What’s the rush to get back to business? Couldn’t this be business? But a person can’t be in two places at the same time. This peacefulness comes from a different vibe, a different pace. It doesn’t mean we’re doing nothing. It means what we’re doing isn’t always what we have to be doing. Instead, we have more leeway — more time — to do what we please. So much depends on time.

Such as … the invention of a homemade drama camp, in which AppleApple led and directed a small group of neighbourhood kids in a low-key, vivid performance of Roald Dahl’s The Enormous Crocodile.

Such as … Albus, age 15, cooking suppers for an entire week, a project that included menu planning, grocery shopping, cooking, and at least a bit of cleanup. The finale was scalloped potatoes with ham.

Such as … a sleepover camping backyard birthday party.

Such as … everyone helping out with housecleaning chores, because everyone is around to help out.

Such as … watching much of a six-hour Olympic bicycle race on a lazy, otherwise uneventful Saturday.

Such as … emptying over 6,000 unread/unopened messages from my email inbox. I’m down to a very manageable 19 unread/unopened messages.

Such as … well, my fifteen minutes is up. My one-day-removed-from-being-the-birthday-girl child is here and hopeful that I will make her breakfast. And you know, I will make her breakfast even though she’s old enough to make her own, because this is the kind of small, easy gesture she appreciates. And I’ve got time.

xo, Carrie

Thank you, Lynda Barry, bless you, Lynda Barry

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How to sum up an experience like Omega, you ask, sitting in your office, once again, with a dog curled alertly at your feet? A child has just rushed in to tell you that she has gotten to 7 juggles (of the soccer ball, with her feet) in the “summer juggling camp” organized by your husband, to keep your children active and entertained, while you were away. 

You were way for six days, but it could have been months. It could have been that you fell down into a different world, unrelated to your own, as vivid, as real, but somehow without connection to your own. You crossed a drawbridge that let itself down, into a small, contained universe which you inhabited almost like you’d become a child again.
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You drew pictures. You wrote by hand. You went to class. You ate meals provided for you, and you compliantly accepted the food that appeared, eating something called “chickpea scramble” for breakfast every morning, almost obediently. You napped on pillows under a table with your fellow classmates. In the evening before bed, you went to tuck shop and bought a snack. You swam in a swampy seaweed infested lake. You laughed till you cried with your friend. You had a camp name. You were, in fact, a child at camp, again.

There were marvellously awful moments, such as when you struggled in full-on sun, sweat pouring off you, to erect an enormous, ridiculous tent, while the campers nearby reminisced about recently hiking the Appalachian Trail, popping up their compact tents in mere minutes. You almost cried, running in the heat to seek out duct tape—for the love of God, duct tape!—to repair your ridiculous and broken tent. And then you slept in luxury on a queen-size mattress, inflated with a motorized roaring machine that irritated those hardier neighbours who had recently hiked the Appalachian Trail.

There was the morning you rose at 4AM to attend a two and a half hour kundalini yoga class, that consisted largely of sitting cross-legged whilst chanting under the instruction of a tone-deaf guru.

There was the heat, the thunder storm, and the morning you had to take the rain-soaked tent down and pack up in the mud, only to be confronted by a breakfast of turmeric-soaked lentils immediately afterward.

But this was bliss.
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It was blissful to spend hours every day writing and drawing. You didn’t know you could draw. You didn’t know you had characters inside of you, their faces waiting to be seen, their hidden emotions so certain on the page, present in a few quick lines you’d sketched there. After class, you would find your way back to the classroom to work—writing and drawing, drawing and writing. Determined as a child. Delighted as a child. You would want to thank this genius teacher, whose genius is her delight in the process, and her generosity. There was no waste in Lynda Barry’s class. Time was honoured. It was honoured with work, and it was honoured with rest, and it was honoured with delight in what you were all making, individually and together.

You went on this adventure, and you came home again.

But you’re still there, you think. Half of you is still there, safe and bewildered and surprised and elated.
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Thank you, Lynda Barry.

xo, Carrie

Welcome to my office

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20160721_115700.jpg“I don’t see why you have an office, Mom, when you’re so happy writing in the car.”

My laptop was the best investment I’ve made, writing-wise. It comes with me to the pool, to the backyard, to the couch, to various soccer fields, to parking lots, and of course, to my pocket-sized car, aka the Chub-Chub.

I spent this past week driving my eldest daughter to a soccer camp about an hour away. That meant I had to stay for the day, which, trust me, was all part of my master plan. In this way, I carved out a writing week (or four days), mostly spent sitting in the back seat of the Chub-Chub. I napped there. I ate snacks there. I read stories there. And I wrote there. Next week, I’m off to a writing workshop in New York State, where I will be an anonymous participant: camping with a friend in our family’s enormous ten; eating vegetarian meals; doing yoga at dawn (if the mood strikes); and writing, of course.
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On Sunday, I put that tent together all by myself. I was perhaps unreasonably proud of the accomplishment, as you can see from my body language, above. I’m not mechanically minded and this is the sort of endeavour I happily off-load onto to Kevin, but I did it with a little help from a YouTube video (an elderly couple lifting up a tent that vaguely resembled ours), and a lot of thinking, and some jumping and throwing (the tent is very tall and I am not, and getting the fly on is really a two-person job). It took over an hour, I will confess. In the end, I observed that seeing behind the scenes to the mechanics of production does not inspire confidence. I preferred not knowing that this airy structure over my head was made merely of thin rods and poles stuck through nylon sleeves. There is knowing, and there is knowing. There is knowing in a theoretical, yes, dear, way. And there is knowing in a visceral, I hammered those stakes myself way. And the thunderstorm that threatened the afternoon seemed much more threatening when I’d built the damn tent myself, and knew its materials intimately.

To be responsible is to be forced to confront vulnerability. That is my observation about growing up, generally. The older I get, the more fragile the structures around me seem. The more tenuous. The more invented, in a way. What I mean is that the security of everything I hold precious and dear, even my beliefs, is supported by a certain level of cognitive dissonance, but also by the suspension of disbelief. To dig in, to help build, to get my hands dirty, to make or unmake, is, for me, to witness the complexity and arbitrariness of experience, of life itself, against which there can be no absolute assurances of safety and security.

All of this from putting up a tent in our back yard.

And, also, from sitting with my laptop and thinking and thinking and thinking.

xo, Carrie

PS Yes, I have my voice back. It is weak and a bit raspy and rough, but it exists, and I am once again in the world, where it is so much easier to participate with working vocal chords.

The gift of rest

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Friday, noon. I sit in perfection on the deck of a cottage overlooking a calm lake, pines and birch and cedar moving in a light breeze, the sound of children playing on the rocks below, wading in the shallows. An iridescent dragonfly flutters up and away. The sun is hot. I am wearing a swim suit underneath a brown faded sundress, and a half-drunk cup of coffee is at my elbow.

It feels like this could last forever.

Of course, it can’t and won’t. But there are times when a moment gives the illusion of settling and holding and the mind and body relax so completely that there is no thinking about later, tomorrow, work, duty, responsibility. Ambition vanishes too.

Because what am I part of if not something much greater than my mere human ambition can imagine?

I want for all the gift of rest, respite, dignity, play. At a moment like this, I can imagine no greater gift than somehow creating space for rest and respite, for all who live on this earth. Yet instead we seem most adept at inventing barriers, walls, borders, crises, battles, weapons, dogma that excludes, ideologies of fear and control. There is too much to grieve. I become overwhelmed. I grow weary and distracted. I can’t think clearly.

I sit and watch the lake water move in patterns of eternal symmetry.

Perhaps, I think, my mind is being cleared. Perhaps I will return home less weary, more aware of what matters to me, which patterns I wish to nurture, and which I wish to discard, in order to be a participant in a world where all of these gifts may be shared.

Relief. Simple pleasure. Ease. Rest. Hope.

xo, Carrie

PS I reviewed Lawrence Hill’s new novel, The Illegal, for The Globe and Mail, and it’s online now, and will appear in tomorrow’s paper. The book is a fast-paced, prescient read on a subject that could not be more timely — the movement of people across borders.

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