Peace on the path
I’m trying again. This is the photo I wanted to show you in my previous post, and I’ve figured out how to share it with you!
It has been a crushingly busy week and a half, and a delightfully busy weekend; and today, Thanksgiving Monday in Canada, I give thanks for a day of rest and recovery. I am not on-call for anything or anyone in particular.
Yesterday, I led worship at my church — a service that fed me and that was what I wished for, for my own agonized mind and weary body. It was a gift to myself (and I hope to those in attendance too). It was an invitation to be moved and held by the beauty of poetry, by song, by harmony, by grounding and resting and allowing yourself to be fed. I biked to the service, too, on trails that run through parks and behind industrial areas and through neighbourhood back yards. This gave me time to prepare and soak myself in nature. My art therapist recently observed that water often appears in my sketches, symbolizing comfort, peace, ease, release, renewal, even creativity. She suggested I visit bodies of water when I’m feeling stressed or down, and at first I couldn’t think of any bodies of water worth visiting — nothing I could really immerse myself in completely. But then I realized that I don’t need a lake or an ocean. Even a small stream running through a concrete viaduct speaks to me. It reminds me of my childhood self. When I stand beside a stream, no matter how small, I feel like I’ve come across a secret world, somewhere special, magical, otherworldly.
So yesterday, when I got to the stream that runs through the concrete viaduct, I stopped, even though I was running a little bit late, and said, Carrie, take a breath, here. Look. Enjoy. Let yourself feel how special this moment is, for you.
I opened this new blogging template to try again because I want to write about how I’m caring for myself in the midst of a time when I’m being called on to be a caregiver — a new and intense and somewhat relentless level of caregiving that has no particular end in sight.
I hear myself saying, out loud, “Great job, Carrie!” The voice is my own, but my brain interprets it as a general voice of omniscient kindness. “You can do this, Carrie. Take a deep breath.” “Hang in there. This is hard and you are doing it!” “You seem stressed out, Carrie, can you uncross your legs and sit more comfortably? Ground your feet? Breathe, just breathe.”
I hear myself telling others that they are doing a great job. Thanking them for their efforts and care. Really noticing and appreciating the efforts and care of others.
I see myself pausing to enjoy a moment: to scratch the dog’s belly and snuggle her, to take a photo of a beautiful sight, to stop and look at the light hitting the leaves, to savour what’s happening, to meet people’s eyes on the trail, smile, say good morning, savouring the reward and good feeling of a connection being offered in return.
Laughter, stories, listening. Giving myself some slack. Lowering the bar. Asking for what I need instead of stewing resentfully in silence, waiting for someone to notice or read my mind.
Clearly saying what I want or need: “No thanks, I don’t need help in the kitchen. I’m really enjoying this meditative time alone chopping the veggies and turning them into delicious food. It’s very therapeutic for me. Thank you for offering to help.”
Being honest: “Hey, I’m feeling really down right now. It’s not you, it’s me. I just need a little time on my own.” “I don’t have the energy to cook dinner tonight, could you help with that, please?”
On Friday, late afternoon, totally depleted, I instinctively went to the piano and began to play. I started by sight-reading classical music and eventually moved to inventions by ear. I played for at least an hour. It felt like I was literally healing my own brain with rhythm and patterns and tonal sounds. I was repaired. I was no longer depleted. I was ready to welcome guests.
Clarity. Connection. Kindness. Wholeness. Humour. Pause, release, rest. Breath. Empathy too. Everyone is acting out of their own powerful stories, known to them or not. I am not responsible for their stories, but I can be understanding and empathetic. And I can take responsibility for my own — observe my own patterns, do the work to excavate my limiting stories and reframe them, rewire the patterns in my own brain in order to better serve myself and those around me.
It takes time, patience, repetition, and an understanding that there is no end point, no goal of perfection, just pleasure in the process, joy in the journey, peace on the path.
xo, Carrie
Everything is different now
Everything is different now.
There will be many readers who understand what it’s like to be a person in the middle. Sandwiched in between. Caregiver to generations on either side. It is just the way that it is. There are seasons in our lives. I think this is a new season. I haven’t wrapped my head around the implications. I’m too tired to do that.
It’s okay. This is not a post of complaint. It is a statement of where I’m at. A crisis happens. We take it one day at a time, maybe one breath at a time.
Everything is different now.
These are the gifts that I’m pouring into the things that are calling me, and have called me, in my life so far:
I know I can be kind, competent, fierce, intelligent, organized, dogged, practical, concise, loyal, clear, ethical, insightful, efficient, brave, calm, self-aware, disciplined, knowledgeable, pleasant, confident, assured, dignified, fun and funny.
(I can also be a whole list of other things too, including impatient, self-pitying, exhausted, discouraged, and irritable; but these don’t manifest as gifts quite so often.)
I’ll post again if/when I have the energy to figure out this new blog template (WordPress has done an update and everything looks different, and I can’t figure out how to add in the beautiful fall photos of the leaves in the park that I was planning to use to illustrate this post.)
Or maybe I will start a fresh new blog from scratch, which almost seems like the easier choice right now. Any suggestions for free and easy-to-use blog/web design platforms?
xo, Carrie
You know it’s not the same
A friend has offered to redesign the banner on my website to remove the title “Obscure CanLit Mama,” which no longer fits so well. On a hot August morning in 2008, I titled the blog on a whim, and began sending out posts to the universe. My youngest was newborn. He’s now in high school. In those early days, I wrote a lot about the kids. I posted recipes and meal plans. I wrote about juggling constant stay-at-home childcare with attempts to steal even a smidgen of writing time. I’d published one collection of short stories, four years earlier. It seemed presumptuous to attach myself to CanLit as a participant (even an Obscure one). The Mama was the ascending identifying force in my life at that time.
I haven’t posted a recipe in a very long time.
I don’t write about my kids, except glancingly.
These days, I come here, to this familiar space, to reflect mostly on writing, but also on what seem to me to be ephemeral, spiritual matters: aging, artistic discipline, setting routines, learning new things, re-learning old things, the repetition of the seasons, creative practices, play, emotional weather / weathering emotions. Etc.
In the 14 years that this blog has existed, I’ve poured energy into being a writer, laying claim to that identity, earning grants, publishing three more books, teaching creative writing, organizing writing workshops, serving as a consulting editor with The New Quarterly, speaking, travelling, practicing the craft, seeking to keep my connection to my writing alive and thriving.
Obscurity is a self-effacing mindset (erasing? shrinking? minimizing? hiding?). I know that. But it was necessary protection as I tried to become / be a writer. I’ve been afraid of being a writer, of laying claim to this identity and its shifting cultural responsibilities. Since childhood, I’ve wanted to perform magic tricks with language, to conjure imaginary landscapes, converse with imaginary people, finding solace in their losses and successes. I did not aspire beyond that — that was a big-enough dream. I knew my writing wouldn’t be activist in nature, because I am not an activist by nature. I’m a ventriloquist, an observer, a performer, agnostic, hungry to learn, curious about the questions, less-so the answers, the mystery, not the proof.
It’s a rather exalted view of being a writer. Or maybe I mean ecstatic. Or impractical. But I admire it, I love what my former self was attempting.
I dipped into The Juliet Stories this morning, a book now ten years old, and the writing sang off the page, just like magic. I couldn’t remember the person who’d written it. It was like reading a stranger’s words. Did I know then what I’d made? No. I didn’t trust its worth. I didn’t need to. I just kept trying, year after year, focused on the writing, and eventually made something.
I want very much to be that same writer, to write with confidence, believing in the magic of language. “You know it’s not the same as it was”: this song came on my “Run Fast” playlist this morning (oh Harry! so nostalgic); maybe “As It Was” especially resonates in These Times, when we’re trying to remember who we were Before. But life is lived in the present, and time carries us onward. We change; and experiences change us. It’s not the same as it was. That’s a neutral statement, at heart. It doesn’t have to weigh heavily, though it’s tempting to roll around in those deliciously bittersweet emotions.
What’s next? What path am I running, where does it lead? I can’t see very far ahead of my feet. Whose hands am I holding? What’s pulling me onward?
What kind of a writer am I now? What kind of a writer do I aspire to be? Do I need to know? No. As Lynda Barry would remind me: it’s none of your business. Follow the energy, get comfortable in the not-knowing.
I don’t have a new title for this blog, just my name. Enough? Enough. Yes.
xo, Carrie
Good morning, new season
What a beautiful day. What a beautiful week it’s been. Each day has a slightly different rhythm, but throughout there have been conversations with friends, bike rides, walks, and several runs in the park.
How has your morning routine changed, as the new season begins?
For me, it’s meant waking up earlier, though I’m still figuring out how to get to sleep earlier to compensate. I’m prioritizing daily morning yoga. We are also walking Rose more regularly. After a close encounter with a skunk last month, Rose now has a curfew: she’s not allowed out after dark on her own. Ergo, more dog walks. Kevin and I like to end our evening with a walk around the block with Rose. We often walk together in the morning too, just around the block.
The first two hours of every day are devoted to exercise, yoga, and, often, connecting with friends. The house empties out by 8AM.
As this new season begins, the house feels so much quieter. Our two eldest are at university, and do not live at home. Our two youngest are now both in high school, and growing ever-more independent. So …
What am I to do? I’ve spent 21 years of my life devoted to looking after my children. Their needs are changing rapidly. In the midst of all this quiet, I’ve begun look around and consider what comes next. There is writing, of course, and there always will be. But I’d like to find a job, now, that offers stability and routine, preferably not writing-related, preferably with people. I really love being with people; I love writing solo in my little home studio, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve loved doing that all these years with a bit of cacophony in the background, a swirl of impending chaos. Maybe the disruption and interruptions have been as important to my writing process as the ear plugs.
Your thoughts, suggestions, advice, leads, encouragement would be very welcome, as I begin opening to this new direction, with some nervousness and hope.
In the meantime, on the book front, I’m keeping occupied with some readings, book clubs, and workshops. Links posted below!
xo, Carrie
Friday, Sept. 16, 7PM (tonight!) Bestival Reads with Wild Writers Literary Festival, tickets include snacks and a drink, with Emily Urquhart, Kimia Eslah, and Tanis Macdonald
Saturday, Sept. 17, 2PM (tomorrow!) The Village Bookshop, 24 Main Street North, Bayfield ON, reading and book-signing
Tuesday, Sept. 20, 6:30-8:30 WPL Eastside branch, The X Page Storytelling Workshop, with me and Anandi Carroll-Woolery, a mini-version of the workshop, open to all! Free, but you need to register at this link.
Hold this space
Local literary event coming up this Friday in Belmont Village! Tickets will be available at the door, or to get ticket in advance, check here. Tickets include snacks and a drink.
xo, Carrie