First day
I’ve spent the afternoon by the fire reading Meet the Austins, by Madeleine L’Engle, likely for the tenth-or-so time. I hadn’t meant to spend the afternoon reading, but my nine-year-old asked for a book recommendation, and I came back to her with this one and Harriet the Spy, and she chose Harriet the Spy, so I picked up Meet the Austins. I knew I wouldn’t be able to read just a page or two. Sometimes it’s hard to pick up a book because I know how consuming it will be.
But there is nothing to do today, on January 1st. It is one of the quietest days in our whole year. We had a fun celebration last night, a houseful of friends and their kids, music-playing and games and good food and drink, up past the midnight hour, and today is for doing absolutely nothing other than what we want to do.
For me, that’s been lying in pyjamas reading a book and sipping cups of tea.
What I love about reading, and what is so unique about the experience, is that it opens the mind in a particularly vivid way. It elevates my thinking, even while I’m doing it. I can feel my mind opening on a number of different levels as I read a story. I’m empathizing with characters, experiencing an emotional response to their situations, I’m analyzing the structure and style of the text itself, I’m aware of what’s going on around me in the real world, and I’m thinking bigger braver thoughts about my own life and intentions and work. I’m considering why I write, and what I want to write, and why I tell stories, and what stories I want to tell. I’m thinking about the writer herself, Madeleine L’Engle, whose stories I’ve been reading for probably thirty years, and about what I know of her life and career. I’m doing this almost all at once, it seems. And all of this activity enlivens me, even while I’m lying in pyjamas by the fire, at ease, comfortable, relaxed.
And then I come here to this screen, and I write about it. What a fortunate life this is.
Madeleine L’Engle wrote mainly for children and young adults. Her books are full of philosophical questions, moral conundrums, acts of anger, compassion, and forgiveness, quotations from other work (Einstein and Thomas Browne, in this book), engagement with other forms of art. They feel to me like spiritual works. Oh, to write like Madeleine L’Engle. And maybe to live like her — or like her characters, in their rambling houses full of purpose and energy and music and good food and friendship and chores and order amidst the noisy chaos. (Maybe this is what I’ve based my ideal family on, all these years, without even realizing it…)
xo, Carrie
Goodnight, and welcome
Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. —Leonard Cohen
Goodnight, year past. Welcome, another circle of seasons. All I want to say is: keep letting the light in, no matter where it’s coming from. But also, let the light out, let the light shine through. It’s in you.
xo, Carrie
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?)