Category: Word of the Year
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
Friday, Jan 24, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Books, Confessions, Exercise, Friends, Fun, Girl Runner, Good News, Lists, Music, Organizing, Peace, Prizes, Publishing, Spirit, Success, The Candy Conspiracy, Weather, Winter, Word of the Year, Writing |
My to-do list for the next hour—
roast a pumpkin
write a blog post
Soooooo… the Canada Reads adventure is over for Girl Runner. It was truly lovely while it lasted. Here are the books that were chosen for the 2025 shortlist. Check them out!
I had advance warning that I wasn’t on the shortlist (call it reading the tea leaves; nobody reached out to inform me otherwise, but there were logical signs).
Ergo, my plan for “surviving” yesterday’s announcement (and I do say that tongue-in-cheek!), was to throw myself with gusto into my usual Thursday routine. I walk with a friend at 6AM, head to a pilates class at 7AM, spend the day at work in the library, come home for a bit of a nap and some laundry, then return to the gym for the evening with my daughter who is also a gym rat. We do weights, spin, and blissful slow flow yoga to finish it off, then come home to eat a late supper and completely unwind. I love this routine. It’s the only evening I spend at the gym, and the physical exertion helps me grind out my emotions about the week, empties my mind, and takes me deeper into my body, which connects me to the world. I feel very alive and purposeful on Thursdays. So I wasn’t worried about the residual effects of announcement, in all honesty.
And then. My day took a turn. Literally.
Midway through our walk, my friend and I dashed across a busy street to beat the traffic, and I stepped in a pothole, turned my ankle, and heard a series of snaps and pops. Having turned my ankle before (playing soccer), I knew exactly what was going down. The walk home was painful and longer than we would have liked, but my friend entertained me with conversation and it felt okay to keep moving and putting some weight on that foot. At home, in the front hall, I briefly debated continuing to pilates class, as planned, and then a voice of reason spoke (strangely enough, it was my own voice, out loud), and I said, “What would I tell a good friend in this situation?” And I replied, “Do not go to pilates. Take off your boots and take care of yourself.”
So that’s what I did.
To summarize, that is how I spent yesterday. I took care of myself.
I booked off work, made an appointment to get the ankle checked, dressed in comfortable clothing, elevated the leg, iced the ankle, surrounded myself with reading material, snuggled with the dog, drank tea, did not do a scrap of laundry, and rested. A day on which I’d strategized to distract myself from potentially painful feelings became a day of reflection. And it was good. It was needed, I think.
For years, when I “failed” to achieve some goal, particularly related to writing, I’d be overwhelmed with shame, expressed like this: I’ve disappointed everyone. I’ve disappointed my publisher, my editor, my agent, my family, my friends, basically everyone who cares about me. Yesterday, this thought rose up, in ghostly form. You’re a disappointment. You’ve disappointed people [in this instance, by not making the shortlist of Canada Reads].
“That’s interesting,” I replied (out loud! As if talking to a friend!). “Tell me, assuming that’s true, what could you have done to avoid disappointing them?”
After a pause, during which I scrolled backward in time through all the choices that were mine to make regarding this particular “failure,” I said, “Not write the book?”
How funny that sounded.
“Maybe,” my wise interlocutor self said, “maybe you’re the one who is disappointed, not everyone else?”
Hmmm… And in that moment, I gave myself permission to feel disappointed.
Ahh. That’s what it feels like. It feels different from shame. It’s sadness, a big sigh, letting go of what could have been (the imagined version, of course, which is never the same as what is).
“What are you disappointed about?” my wise questioner asked.
And out poured my feelings of loss: I thought it would have been really fun … to get to experience new things, meet new people, have some interesting conversations, make new connections … add a little zing of adventure and the unknown into my comfortable routine.
“Yes. That sounds disappointing. It’s okay to be disappointed …. Did you know that?”
Maybe, in fact, I didn’t know that. Maybe this has been a valuable revelation.
It’s disappointing, but it’s not the end of the world, or the end of my career as a writer, of the end of anything, except this potential experience.
Relief and ease poured through me. I read the opening chapters of On Freedom by Timothy Snyder, learning about the German words for body: Leib and Körper, and feeling seen and known. (As I understand it, in Snyder’s reading, a Leib is a body that is alive, limited by mortality, yet free to choose; a Körper is a body that is dead, or seen and treated as an object by others or even by the self; there’s so much more to these ideas and as soon as Kevin got home from work, I peppered him with observations, which I tend to call “revelations!” As in, “I’m having a revelation!” Which happens far too often for them to qualify as such, see above; but that’s how I reslish seeing things—as constantly changeable and unfolding and re-forming and illuminating.) Anyway… I also napped for awhile. My ankle ached and turned purple.
By evening, I was restless.
Today, I woke wanting my ankle fully healed. Revelation: healing doesn’t happen overnight.
Slow down, dear friend. Take it one step at a time. Literally.
xo, Carrie
PS If all goes as planned, the roasted pumpkin will be turned into a peanut stew by suppertime.
Thursday, Jan 9, 2025 | Books, Girl Runner, Good News, Library, Publishing, Word of the Year, Writing |
Well, this happened!
I have no idea how it happened, though I’m inclined to think it was all Aganetha’s doing. Aganetha, you may be the lead character in a book called Girl Runner, but your youth is only a piece of your story. You are a woman who endures through all seasons, and who is still running even if only in your mind as your days near their end. You are a character who must have come from me, somewhere inside, or through me, as if channeled; however it happened, I learned from your experiences, your innocence, your fierce fight, your pride. And I learned from your existence in a book that changed my life.
A few days ago, I was contacted with a confidential and completely unexpected heads-up about this news, and I kept it close, almost like I used to keep my Easter candy, tucked away in the back of a drawer, to look with pleasure, but not to eat. I enjoyed, then as now, sensing the presence of a treat, knowing that it was there, and wanting to savour the experience.
Today, I spent my day in the library reading Owl Moon by Janet Yolen to classrooms of children, who seemed as enchanted by the poetic language and the night-time adventure as I was. And then I came home and shared this news. I felt, I feel, such delight. I’m thinking about Aganetha, and remembering the process of writing Girl Runner, and thinking about our great good fortune, me and Aganetha, together. A book that is ostensibly about a young woman, a girl, seems more and more to be about her older, aging self; about endurance, longevity, a spirit that moves and pushes continually onward, restlessly, and through pain, and awe, toward a sense of peace and purpose and belonging.
xo, Carrie
Read the story on the CBC here.
Friday, Jan 3, 2025 | Art, Big Thoughts, Chores, Confessions, Friends, Library, Lists, Word of the Year, Work, Writing |
Happy new year!
January 1, 2025 to do list
Yoga + meditation
journaling prompt + word of the year
walk with Nina
set up new laptop
I’ve been in a reflective, searching, yet celebratory mood. Starting on New Year’s Day, I’ve been doing Yoga with Adriene’s brand-new 7-day Prana series with Kevin before breakfast, after which we’re sitting in meditation for 10 minutes, focused on a short reading from Richard Wagamese’s Embers. After breakfast, I’ve been doing the Isolation Journals’ writing prompt (that one requires signing up and paying for Suleika Jaoud’s Substack newsletter, which I’ve been dipping in and out of for several years now). Such is the luxury of a full two weeks off!
I’ve been seeing friends, going to easier classes at the gym (yoga, pilates, and something called “total tone.”). For my 50th birthday, I gave myself a new laptop, which will make writing blog posts easier again (my old laptop, which I love dearly and have used for over a decade, has been struggling with updates, freezing, balking, lying down and refusing to get up again; it was time to stop asking her to climb mountains, or even to carry me on a flat path into town. I will put her out to pasture, with gratitude for all the books and art we made together).
I think that I’m struggling with writer’s block — that is my diagnosis. Oof. It makes me almost breathless to admit it out loud. It is a profound blockage and it is painful, manifesting in nausea, dread, anxiety that paralyzes my mind. I’ve tried shifting this block through a variety of means (including therapy). I’ve tried turning away from writing, declaring my writing-self toxic, comparing my relationship with writing to a dysfunctional or even an abusive relationship — all compelling and maybe necessary stories I’ve told myself. But not necessarily true or accurate. I’ve tried to bash my way through these blocks (they’re in the shape of books, by the way, unpublished manuscripts). I’ve tried ignoring them. I’ve tried re-envisioning my life without writing playing any part in it. None of this has shifted the dread. If anything, it seems to be intensifying, and my solution has been avoidance, an almost violent turning away.
Avoidance doesn’t work, you know it, I know it. If anything, it has amplifies, as the thing / sensation avoided seeps through the cracks into other parts of one’s life, or bubbles up in unpredictable and harmful ways.
So … and this is where all the reflecting and seeking comes in, I’d like to try something completely different. Something hopeful that does not ignore the problem, but names it — writer’s block — and also names the need to sit in the not-knowing. To sit in circle with what’s here, much of it beyond words.
In response to one of the Isolation Journals prompts, I wrote that I am afraid of becoming content, too content to want to create and make things; and that I want to be content. A circle that can’t be squared. On the first day of the new year, I chose my new word of the year, not long before my walk with Nina. I wrote down a few ideas — settle, free, ground … and then the word HUM arrived, without bidding or prior notice. HUM? I surrounded the word with associations, including “music” and “playful” and “hummingbird” and “energy around and within”. Nina gave me an association that popped into her mind: hum-drum. I found that ho-hum was there too. My initial response was, oh dear, not that! But I’ve been playing with hum-drum and ho-hum atop HUM, and I’m strangely, unexpectedly, contented by those words. Soothed.
Ho-hum is average, basic, dull; in my understanding of the state, so is contentment. Is that true?
When the kids were little, they would complain about being bored, and I’d wax on about “inner resources.” Find your inner resources, I’d tell them! I’ve been thinking about “glueing books back together,” which I often find myself despairing over, when bent to the task (it’s quite endless in the library — the glueing and taping and cleaning and shelving); a voice in my head says, this is my life? “Woe is me” thoughts. In these moments, I long for a bigger stage, for more authority, a bigger platform for my voice. And yet — what happens when I’m glueing books back together? My hands are busy and my mind is free to wander, daydream; the best kind of idleness. Off-line. Undistracted. Just me and my thoughts.
What if this work, menial and impossible ever to finish, is a gift? What if “glueing books back together” gives entry into a state that brings me into alignment with my inner life — nurturing and strengthening my inner resource through the practice of discipline, resistance to distraction, and attention to my own whirling, humming feelings and thoughts, sometimes uncomfortable, difficult to face.
Thoughts will come and thoughts will go. Flickers of dissatisfaction, of envy, and jealousy, yearning for a big stage and recognition; those thoughts grow in the garden of my mind, but in stillness and quiet, I know they aren’t me. My thoughts are not my reality. I don’t have to pick them up and carry them, or look through them at the world around me. I can observe their comings and goings as my hands do their tasks. And maybe in this ho-hum-ness, this hum-drum-ness, I’ll find a path back to peace with the not-knowing, again. Writing and revising require a person to exist in the not-knowing, to thrive there! Writer’s block is a state of intolerance for the not-knowing; a real terror arises. If I can practice being at peace with the not-knowing, maybe these books that I’ve written, that I love very much, won’t look like stones in my path, but like something else. Something I haven’t imagined or discovered yet.
xo, Carrie
Tuesday, Dec 31, 2024 | Big Thoughts, Good News, Kids, Source, Space, Spirit, Success, Word of the Year |
At the end of this year, I’ve been reflecting on what brings me pride, and somehow (though I can’t claim to know exactly how), this links up in my mind with the mantras or words of advice that have stuck with me. There’s “be here now,” a constant refrain that helps bring me into the moment when I’m floating away. But the most prominent is a new one, a mantra I’ve been telling myself for the better part of this year: buy bigger pants. Yup. That’s it. Those are my words of wisdom to share with you at the end of this particular year. Buy bigger pants.
What I mean by this is: accept yourself, wherever you’re at in this life. Don’t keep squeezing into the slightly too small pants just because they used to fit, or because you think they should fit, or because you keep telling yourself to fit into them again already! Perimenopause has changed my body, and at first this was quite alarming, but gradually, I’ve altered my inner dialogue to cherish and accept my body’s many strengths, not least of which is carrying me through this life.
This year, I bought bigger pants. And guess what—no one noticed. (At least as far as I know!) And I felt super comfortable in my bigger pants. Being comfortable in my body is a gift. It is the foundation of confidence, but also of enjoyment and pleasure. I did start going to the gym again, and I’ve done lots of weights and cardio in addition to pilates and yoga, and I’ve enjoyed doing this regular routine as a way to lift my spirits, or metabolize stale energy, or to change the channel in my mind, empty my mind through sweat and effort. But it has nothing to do with fitting back into my former pants. I would like to be a hearty older woman. Sturdy. I might not be able to accomplish that goal, but buying bigger pants has helped me visualize the possibility.
On this note, and another point of pride: one of my children recently told me that till they’d started living with roommates and cooking together, they’d had no idea that so many people worried about their weight, or wanted to lose weight, or had food habits that were dysfunctional or overly strict. That’s because this was not a conversation in our household. Dieting was not a thing. Fear of food, or having to sneak food, or being denied food, or having access to food controlled in any way—this was not a thing. We also have never had a scale in our bathroom. This was deliberate on my part. I wanted and hoped very much to break the generational cycle, which was specifically gendered—girls and women only—and hinged on weight loss. At a family reunion, in my own childhood / teenage-hood, to be told that you looked great was code for you look skinny. I spent my teen years and early twenties struggling with an eating disorder, tracking every calorie that went into my mouth, and, often, in a fit of terrible hunger, binging and purging. I would not wish this waste of time and energy on anyone. Especially my own children.
So there it is: my year in one proud phrase. Buy bigger pants.
Love yourself, love your body, inhabit it fully, care for your body, cherish how you show up in this world, and know that others respond not to the size of your pants, but to the energy and confidence and humour and presence that you radiate.
I do have a second mantra / refrain of the year: I love being with people. Why is this a revelation? I have four children! And yet it delights me to say it, as if reminding myself of a brand new discovery. Other people bring me to life, revive me to my better instincts, draw forth a sense of joy and calm and collaboration. I love that I can’t guess what someone else will ask of me, or need from me; I love the liminality of time spent in conversation or doing an activity together. I love the exchange of energy and mood, and the shifting tones of emotional colour and light, and the way that when you are with other people you are moving through space and through time together, finding your way together, whether this is acknowledged or submerged.
And that, my friends, is my year in “things I’m proud of.”
xo, Carrie
Friday, May 17, 2024 | Art, Big Thoughts, Family, Feminism, Fire, Library, Organizing, Peace, Reading, School, Space, Spring, Word of the Year, Work |
As much as I long to find just a little more rhythm to my writing life, damn but it’s taken the pressure off to work in a school library. Childhood is bursting with magic. To be with kids is to be in the presence of pure creativity. When I was a child, we would visit the Nashville public library for their puppet shows. I remember being utterly entranced by the puppets. How were they speaking? Who was making them move? They seemed real — in some fundamental way, they were real to my imagination.
Now, on a very small scale, I get to participate in magic-making with the children who come into my library — it’s homemade, it’s improvised, it’s nothing fancy, but even the smallest surprise is sufficient to spark delight, curiosity, questions. Children are not fussy; the youngest of them pay the closest attention to the tiniest details. If you’ve ever read a picture book to a group of kindergarteners, you’ve been blessed by the deepest attention you’ll ever hope to receive. “Oh, those aren’t raindrops, those are tadpoles!” “How did Curious George jump higher?” “Why did he let go of the balloons?”
On my story time bulletin board, I add characters or objects from books we’ve read. The seasons change. Nothing is static — things move around. Somehow, it’s more magical because it’s tactile. It isn’t digital. It isn’t online, or on a screen. It’s present with us, to be experienced and observed by all, as we gather in the same moment and place in time and space. We experience it collectively, from our different positions around the room, our different heights and ages. Like the magic of the puppet theatre, I don’t think this is repeatable, really, online. We don’t live solely in our minds; we live in our bodies, as sensory creatures.
In truth, however, my main job in the library is to maintain the collection — a tactile mode of interacting with this most beloved of mediums (beloved to me!): text and illustration bound up in pages. The sensation of handling books affects me similarly to doing a puzzle; it’s soothing and peaceful to create order.
As for the other hours in my days and weeks, I’m currently on a “spring burst.” I’m going to gym regularly to spin, sweat, lift weights, stretch, and take good care of this deep-into-midlife body (and mind). The X Page is entering its final month of preparation (!!): mark your calendars if you’re local. We’ll be performing this season’s stories on Sunday, June 16th at the Registry theatre in downtown Kitchener (more info coming soon). And my writing life is bursting with beautiful blooms too: seeing a dear friend’s book project come to fruition, editing stories, and dreaming up a new novel.
Come summer, I’ll have a two-month break from the library — writing sabbatical??? And time to repair, restore, relax, too. It’s been very non-stop. I keep thinking I’ll catch up, but there’s no up to be caught. The routine swings round and round.
My instinct is to maximize efficiency on tasks. But more and more, I’m focused on making space to maximize enjoyment, no matter the tasks. What do I love doing? Mostly, really simple things that are easy to call forth, that don’t require a lot of extra planning or resources. I love sweating and the rush of endorphins. I love meeting new people and diving in deep. I love collaborating, learning new skills, appreciating the strengths and techniques and wisdom that others bring. I love grappling with text, creating narrative sequences on both the macro and micro scale that maximize pleasure for an audience. I love eating supper with my family and hearing about their days. I love stopping to smell blossoms on trees. I love blasting songs on the radio when I’m driving alone. I love making magic — out-of-time experiences, opportunities for surprise — through the simplest means possible: a drawing, a story, a group exercise. I love taking care of people. I love cooking (but only when I’m not rushing). I love being outdoors, walking, biking, running. I love creating order out of chaos. I love living in my imagination, in my many imaginary worlds. I love to dream.
Nothing is ideal. I love that too, the reassurance of it. I mutter this phrase to myself a lot — “This is not ideal!” —- and not negatively, but encouragingly. I mean it as a form of freedom. Nothing about this is ideal. (And it does not need to be.) This thing you’re doing, this thing you’re creating, this solution, this story, this hard conversation — whatever it may be — you’re doing it to the best of your abilities; be reassured. There are many possibilities, many directions, many discoveries, of which you will try one and then another and another, testing things out forever and ever, amen.
xo, Carrie
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