Day after birthday
This past year, I wrote a private daily meditation, semi-focused on my word of the year, which was success. In fact, my meditations were probably only on the subject of success maybe 1/25th of the time, and they certainly weren’t written daily, but they were nevertheless a satisfying outlet for the thoughts that needed time to mellow, or the stories that didn’t belong here on the blog.
I’m considering doing something similar this coming year, but writing instead a daily poem. I used to do this when I was a teen and into my early twenties. I wrote poems almost every night before bed, few of them publishable, and that wasn’t the point–the point was to put shape to the unspoken, to play with language, to settle my mind, to practice and learn and pour my day out.
Today, I gave it a shot. I haven’t picked a word of the year yet, so filed it inside this past year’s scrapheap of meditations. Writing in poem-form felt easy and free: free-er somehow than writing in prose. Maybe I was tapping into a stream of curiosity and playfulness that’s running underground at all times.
Here’s an attempt, though I won’t elevate to Poetry. It’s more properly named a meditation, a scrap of wondering.
Want
A man with sunken cheeks and lanky pale hair Walks—strides Across an empty lot, up a short ugly shaved hill and into traffic Carrying what looks like a tent, bagged, by the handles That man has had a heap of troubles in his life, I say We wait at the stoplight and watch him in the rearview mirror cut through the line of cars behind us He isn’t wearing any gloves! I mourn But you say, He could get gloves if he wanted them Could he? Where would he get them from? They give them out at the shelters, you say, and you are probably right If he’s not wearing gloves, it must be because he doesn’t want to be wearing gloves, give him that at the least, give him agency Why would he not want to wear gloves? Why would he want to stride through live traffic carrying a tent, sheltered by a lightweight beige jacket with a broken zipper, his hair flowing down his back, his face falling in on itself, tanned and rough and toothless What love and care has he known and who offered—offers—it to him and is it too late, far too late, to— But I don’t know what it is too late for I don’t know what could change the course of a life rivering chilled through traffic, only that it isn’t as small as a pair of gloves Only that he comes across safe to the other side of the street and keeps on walking Only that I want to apologize for the warmth inside this car, this car itself, its vanity plates, the loved child in the seat behind strapped in safely and saying, Who, Mom, who are you talking about?Day before birthday (big one)
Knitting project # 1.
Make, make, make.
Receipt of knitting project # 1, on Christmas morning.
Give, give, give.
Receipt of knitting project # 2, on Christmas morning.
Dear Blog,
Tis the season to fall out of routine and into sloth, indulgence, mirth, and despair, seemingly overnight. The highs are high and the lows are low. I did not follow my own advice from holidays past, and suffered as a result. Eating, drinking, socializing, lying around in pajamas. It sounds so peaceful, so relaxing. And then the house is a disaster, and somehow I, too, am a disaster: pimpled, lank-haired, moody, tired yet restless. (Basically I turn into a teenager again, albeit a teenager capable of cooking up a turkey dinner for twelve.)
This morning I got up earlyish and met a friend for a walk/bitch session, then went to a yoga class, and therefore all is rosy again.
I can even face, with some measure of equanimity, the fact that today is my last day in my fourth decade of life. Which is a fancy way of saying that I turn forty tomorrow. I don’t feel old enough to be turning forty, but the calendar disagrees. When I turned thirty, I didn’t mind it at all. I was preoccupied, newly pregnant with my third child, and thrilled about that. I enter this new decade with less of a sense of purpose and occupation. Maybe that’s not true. But maybe it is. A decade ago, I was hip-deep in the care of small children and had published my first book. The path ahead looked clear and certain.
The path ahead looks less clear, less certain right now. I admit that freely, even though it unnerves me, a bit. It unnerves me not to know, exactly, what it is I intend to do or accomplish. It unnerves me to be out here looking around with a sense of freedom, wonder, and possibility. It unnerves me, but of course it also thrills me, intrigues me. I think my viewpoint for this coming decade is going to be broader, wider. I won’t be looking down into the faces of tiny, needy creatures looking up, with arms raised. We can talk about so many things, as a family, that we couldn’t a decade ago. We can consider, debate, plan, set goals. I can set individual goals, apart from them. They can set individual goals, apart from us. Or we can set goals together.
I figure I spent the first decade of life mastering the basics: to stand, to walk, to run, to talk, to read, to write, to get along with others.
I spent the second decade of life experimenting: with identity, with relationships, with my own morals and values and sense of self, with education. (I messed up a lot during this decade, for which I forgive myself; and expect the same from my own kids–the messing up, that is. It’s the only way to learn. I’m still doing it.)
I spent the third decade of life framing in my version of adulthood: continuing education, working toward a career, getting married, parenthood.
I spent the fourth decade of life shifting focus and experimenting with identity once again, as the children grew and I began to claim space and time for myself. Sometimes I think the best parts of my day are made up of hobbies, all of which began in the past decade: writing this blog, exercising, taking photos. I feel like I should call them something more profound than hobbies, but I don’t know what. They aren’t money-earning activities. Yet I value them more than almost anything else I do, for the stability and sanity they provide, which colours every other aspect of my daily life.
The fifth decade is a mystery. I want to imagine it as a really exciting decade, with momentum, experience, and confidence underpinning my efforts.
Here’s hoping. And here goes…
xo, Carrie
Plan for today
Kevin and I are constantly fiddling with rules and limits around electronic devices. It’s a subject for a whole separate blog post, and after fighting with the kids all day yesterday about this very topic, I don’t want to rehash it today. Let’s just say, that creative movie-making moment, which I chronicled here yesterday morning, ended at 11AM on the dot, when the kids felt entitled to turn their attention to their glowing screens.
My biggest wish for my kids is that they’re capable of entertaining themselves, setting personal goals, and working on projects — I don’t care whether the projects are practical or just for fun, whether they’re done alone or collectively, I just want my kids to look for ways to entertain themselves rather than be entertained. (Knit! Craft! Run around the block! Jump on the trampoline! Play the recorder! Invite a friend over! Learn how to code! Etc.)
Here’s what I came up with yesterday: a list! (You know how I love lists!) Kevin is encouraging the kids to write down a daily plan with daily goals, large or small, and I’ve devised these questions to frame that planning. Also, I’m using this myself. And it’s a good tool for reflection and conversation, at the end of a day.
Today, what am I going to …
〉 Make
〉 Do
〉 Practice
〉 Read
〉 Think about
Who am I going to spend time with?
〉 Friends
〉 Family
〉 Other
What am I doing for …
〉 Fun
〉 Rest
〉 Must-do
〉 Money
〉 Exercise
And that’s it! Of course, categories can overlap, and you needn’t necessarily fill in goals for each category every day. Anything you notice missing or would add yourself? Let me know, please.
xo, Carrie
PS The women at 4Mothers asked me to reflect on my 2014 word of the year, and the blog post is up today. (My word was “success.” And no, I haven’t picked a new word yet. Have you?)
The invention of a winter solstice celebration
Yesterday our family celebrated the winter solstice. My made-up ritual went like this:
〉 bake brownies with Fooey
〉 tell everyone we would eat brownies as part of an after-supper solstice celebration
〉 then tell everyone they would have to recite a poem at said celebration
〉 light all available candles and arrange on dining-room table
〉 turn off all other lights
〉 gather (that took awhile)
〉 enjoy the scene
〉 recitation by CJ: presentation in French, which he wrote and performed at school, on his stuffed tiger
〉 reading by Fooey: a dramatic performance of excerpts from Geronimo Stilton
〉 recitation by AppleApple: a dramatic performance of “The raven himself is hoarse,” Lady Macbeth soliloquy
〉 reading by Albus: from Diary of a Wimpy Kid
〉 recitation by me: of “First Fig” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
〉 reading by Kevin: poem from Ken Babstock’s collection Mean
〉 (with occasional interruptions: moans from CJ, who is suffering a terrible toothache that comes and goes, and will be investigated further by a dentist this afternoon)
〉 the eating of the brownies (probably not helpful to the toothache…)
I know our solstice celebration was just hacked together, like a fort made of blankets or a book made of folded-up construction paper. But it was a really fun thing to do. (Fun = entertaining, creatively delightful, collective and personal.) Even though I love the winter solstice because it means the light is coming back, gathering in the early dark made me appreciate the early dark, too. It lowers around us and encloses us, safe inside our house, and, if all is well, it brings a stronger sense of warmth and togetherness. All is well. It’s never far from my mind how fortunate, how easily disrupted, “normal” is.
Today: kids enjoying first official day of no school. They are currently — all of them — barricaded in an upstairs bedroom, dressed in costumes, making a movie using our little digital camera based on a book everyone finds funny: “Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores.”
Which leaves me free to write this blog post, process photos, and start wrapping presents. Before dentist-time.
xo, Carrie
Blessed
Seen: park bench, Vancouver
I spent part of this morning at a friend’s annual solstice breakfast, a neighbourhood gathering of women friends, many of us known to each other for a decade or more, and I think the feeling around the table this morning was gratitude for the deepening of friendships over time, and the welcoming of new friendships, too.
Kevin and I landed by chance in this neighbourhood eleven years ago; we knew one couple who lived nearby (she was there this morning too). I wouldn’t have even known what to hope for at the time, much less could I have imagined how the move would shape our lives–our daily lives and our lives as they’ve unfolded and continue to unfold through all of the stages and seasons. My own childhood was very different from the childhood I’ve chosen to give to my own kids. There are upsides and downsides to both. I moved often as a kid, changed schools often, had to make new friends, find ways to fit in, and say goodbye, often. I remember relishing the adventures. It was sometimes hard to be the outsider, but I also became almost effortlessly adaptable, a natural observer and mimic; and also effortlessly open to adventure, my mind full of possibilities and dreams, open to new places, cultures, languages. It was a lucky childhood for a writer, and perhaps it made me into one. My own children know what I didn’t know, and what I sometimes longed for — friendships predating memory, continuity of ritual and landscape and seasons, the stability of rootedness.
I didn’t know what moving to this neighbourhood would give me. But maybe I intuited the possibilities. It is so good to be a part of a community. We went around the table this morning, each naming what we were grateful for. I felt grateful that friends continue to invite and include me, even though I’ve been missing-in-action so much of this year, often too tired or simply not present, not available to come and share the friendship. I recognize how important presence is to friendship. I’m so grateful to be invited to the table.
This may sound ever so slightly off-topic, but bear with me. There are times when I’m overwhelmed by fear or sadness. And I ask, in those moments, what comforts me? The answer is friendship. Even if I don’t always choose to reach out, I know in my bones that help and support would flood in my direction if I were to call out in need, just as I would offer the same. To be part of a community is to know, to trust, I’m not alone. We’re not alone.
I can’t think of a greater comfort.
I hope for you the same.
xo, Carrie
PS My two-word letter to my younger self is up on the 4Mothers blog today. An interesting and challenging exercise, if you want to try it too.