On Carrying Grief

Let me tell you a story. Once, there was a writer who gave birth to a daughter with Down syndrome. Wait. That’s not how the story goes. Let’s begin again.
Once, there was a woman who wanted to write a book. She gave birth to a daughter with Down syndrome and that experience was the catalyst that led her to write with a purpose. Furthermore, the writer now understood the book she wanted to write. For the writer, there is no point in writing without passion at the centre. Her love for her daughter filled that hole.
One day, the writer was journaling on her bed when an eerie blue light filtered through the blinds. The writer transformed into a mother cast in a shadow of sadness and she cried for seven days and seven nights. Her tears flowed and formed a river, which we will call “de-nile.” The mother wrote about the curse of the blue light, but she couldn’t free herself from the sadness. Not completely. The story and grief stayed inside her. For years, she carried the curse of the blue light, unable to free herself of its burden. The writer in her wrote, but the mother in her kept her from telling the full truth.
Nine years passed. The writer produced a book and was in the thick mire of writing another. And it was during the writing of that second book that the story of the blue light came back to her. She’d been carrying it deep inside of her all these years. She had no idea the story would save her.
The writer’s second book was a collection of essays. One of the essays she was editing was lengthy, unruly and in need of…something. She took the essay with her to a retreat in France searching for answers. There, she met and received guidance from a scribing sage: “I don’t usually do this,” the scribing sage cautioned about being prescriptive “but what you have here is two essays.” Now the writer could see what was obvious to an outsider. And so, the words were cleaved and a new essay in its infancy was born.
Later, at home, pondering the new essay and what it could become, the writer recalled the story of the blue light. With time and experience, she understood more fully where the sadness had come from and why. She had carried the weight of the blue light on her back and she was ready to fling it aside, like a pack that had once served her, but was now empty of reserves. But it’s true that the grief may never subside in its entirety, and the writer and the mother are okay with that. They will greet grief, upon its return, as though welcoming a long lost friend.
To research the ancient story, the writer dug through old journals, fished open old documents to accurately recreate the tale. Ultimately, she searched her own heart. And the pieces fit. The essay was complete. The writer smiled at the mother she once was, the person who needed to guard her truth. In the end, the blue light served her well. And only by releasing the truth of that experience could the blue light also serve others.
The process only took nine years.

On Being A Happy Person

I think of myself as being a happy person. I hope people who know me would describe me that way. What does it mean to be a happy person? Can someone become a happy person? Nature or nurture or both? For me, being a happy person comes from a happy childhood, I was well held, and from fostering a positive outlook on life. I think, to be a happy person, one needs to be content in one’s own skin. To be able to look at yourself in the mirror and at the very least say, “This is it. Here I am, world. Take me or leave me.” To know that whatever or whoever you are in this space, that it is enough. You are enough. More than enough. You are a dazzling star.

That’s happy person talk, forgive me. Happy people speak kindly to themselves and others.

            The more I reflect on being a happy person, the more I think being a happy person has to do with being able to accept and delight in other people’s happiness. Happiness as a contagious, infectious, condition. Happiness that is meant to be shared and reciprocated. Happiness that bubbles forth and rejoices in everyone it meets and touches.

            To be a happy person does not mean that you are forever happy. Like everyone at some point, I have experienced deep soul-crushing grief and sadness. Huge losses. Major setbacks and failures. But the happy person finds their way back to the light. In their own time, to be sure, but the light is a beacon that calls and the happy person must eventually answer. The happy person is the light. You may argue with me here or disagree, but part of being a happy person is about making the choice to be one. “Is this yogurt cup half full or half empty?” Penelope asks me this morning. I’m always leaning toward half full.

            But the flip side is not true. Unhappy people have not necessarily chosen to be so. I am not being so flippant as to suggest one can simply will their way into happiness. Many folks need medication to get there. If I needed medication to feel happy and content, I would take it, if I could.

True feelings of happiness at its height are fleeting even for the happy person. But the happy person walks around content. With a smile on their face. The smile makes the happy person feel good (and sometimes it’s the other way around). I don’t buy ‘fake it until you make it’; the happy person is genuinely happy, and I think they are so because they have allowed themselves to feel their true feelings as they arise, and they have dealt or are dealing with those feelings— even the uncomfortable ones. Especially the uncomfortable ones. I feel happiest when I’ve dealt with my feelings, and to do so, I often use the page.

I think the simplest things in life make me happiest and bring me the greatest joy. And by simplest, I mean the things that come naturally. My love for my children. Getting up early and catching the winter sunrise dance in the sky. Taking the dog for a walk on a frosty morning and seeing my cold breath suspended. The first steaming sip of my earl grey tea to begin the day that jolts me awake. Tucking myself into bed early, pulling the cozy flannel sheets right up over my chest and cracking open a new book to read. My husband’s warm hand tucked gently around my waist. Finishing writing a sentence on a page.

I have faced ridicule and spite for being a happy person. And found myself in awkward situations. Wives whose husbands have asked, “Why can’t you be happier, like Adelle?” Comparison is the surest way to feeling unhappy, and I’m guilty of it myself.

As a kid, I was a competitive gymnast. Participating in sports throughout my life has brought me great happiness, and exercise remains an instant mood booster for me. At fourteen, I was at the height of my gymnastics career and dating a high school boy. I used to think, at that time, that being happy meant denying sadness, but I now know that’s not true. I was introduced to a girl who had a crush on my boyfriend. I didn’t know she was interested in him. “Hi! I’m Adelle!” I said in my singsong teenage gymnast voice, extending my hand. I was happy to meet her, a new face. She ignored my hand and sneered at me, then turned to the person behind her and said, in a mock tone, “Hi! I’m Adelle” And I remember the shock of that blow, of being mocked for who I was and how I spoke and the realization that not everyone accepted me for who I was, even when I’d conceivably done nothing wrong. And perhaps it’s my life’s work to realize that being a happy person does not mean that I need to please others. Being a happy person does not mean that it is my job to make other people happy.

            Being a happy person is about finding that happiness, creating and fostering it first for myself. That happiness is then shared with the people I love and those in my sphere. Those who truly love me never begrudge my happiness.

End Note:

Over the course of writing this blog, I experienced some deeply unhappy feelings. I usually write blog posts on a different day than I end up posting them. This post was written during a pleasant morning when I was feeling quite happy and content. The next day, the wind shifted. My aunt died. My daughter was diagnosed with a life-altering disease. Innumerable other small unhappinesses seeped into my life unbidden and unannounced, just like that, at the passing of a day. I thought, oh great, how am I going to post that happy person blog now when I’m feeling decidedly unhappy? I wanted to scream I feel like crap at the version of myself that declared herself fulfilled. Time passed. I worked on other pieces of writing and let the blog sit. I waited some more. Friends texted. I visited with family. I talked my feelings through with my husband and gave myself a bit of space to process. A few days later, something had shifted. I could see the things waiting for me that brought me joy and that lifted my spirits. I accomplished a few difficult tasks. I tried my best to stay true to myself and my own needs and desires, in addition to giving to my family and the community around me. I did yoga first thing. Went for runs. I found rhythm in my work. And the happiness hung around like a glow, almost perceptible in my chest, its embers flashed and danced inside me again.

On Finishing

No story is ever truly finished. We live out our lives in waves, and sometimes we stop telling our tale, suspended, at the height of crests, and other times, we find ourselves holding our breath underwater somewhere near the bottom, left in the trough until the next rising wave comes along. Life has these peaks and valleys. Books, on the other hand, are different. Books do have an ending. Books must come to an end due to the limits of physical space, attention spans, and because for readers, endings are incredibly satisfying.

            Seven years ago, I wrote a memoir about my journey as a mother receiving a prenatal diagnosis of Down syndrome when my second child was born. Over years, I wrote a complete draft, followed by two subsequent drafts. I sought feedback from experts and comments from beta readers and wrote the fourth and final draft incorporating those responses. With the help of a trusted professional editor, I had a final copy edit done. By 2019, I had a completed manuscript. Or so I thought.

For writers, endings can be incredibly hard to write. Not so for every writer, but what is true for every writer is that the ending needs to land and deliver—this is your final impression!—in a similar way that the beginning must draw readers in.

            One of the most difficult endings that a writer must contend with is completing the first draft, which is, of course, not an ending at all, but a place for the next stage of beginnings. Following a draft, revision and editing happen, and this is the bulk of the work. In his craft book On Writing, Stephen King wrote that writing is rewriting.

            Before rewriting, a first draft must exist. Next, comes multiple rounds of finessing. And this is where I find myself in the writing process of my second book, head ducked beneath the waves.

            I am writing a collection of essays. Essay writing is unique in that huge swaths of text (complete essays) may be finished before another section of the book has even begun. I find myself with essays in varying stages of completion. I have essays from my book that are published and a few more I want to write from the ground up.

            As we come to the end of 2022, I’m reflecting on what it means to “finish” the current book I’m writing. I have an admission: finishing a book or project is the absolute hardest bit for me. I am spectacular at beginnings. I have new ideas a plenty. Several other books exist partially on the page and in my head that I want to write. A chapbook, two books of poetry, a collection of short stories and in the past few weeks, I’ve been developing an idea for a novel—a novel! Meanwhile, my collection of essays sits patiently to the side, at risk of becoming an abandoned child. I, the mother, guilty of neglect. The truth of the matter is that my essays are close, but the ending, wrapping up what I have, is a challenge. Finishing a project requires discipline and putting in the time. Finishing becomes more methodical, and while creative thinking is paramount infinitum, to finish requires curtailing any wild flares or fancies. I must work within the confines of what I have begun, of what has already been laid down and round out what is lacking. Finishing, tying up loose ends and editing and rewriting essays, is work. Arguably the most important work to be done. My mind loves to jump to the glittery rock at the bottom of the pond of my thoughts. That new shiny thing, yes, my brain says. Pick it up! Pick it up! Let’s write about that! I have to swat away those impulses, or better yet, write them down in my daily process journal for another day when the essays are done. Nothing is ever wasted. I resist the stone’s temptation and strengthen my resolve. I finished writing a book once, and I will do it again, I remind myself.

            This finishing business is no easy task. The Down syndrome memoir I began writing seven years ago I no longer consider a completed work. I no longer think of that book as “done”, but as something that I’ll come back to. And in many ways, I already have. In many ways, I have never not been working on that book. Stories from my memoir have found their way into my essays. While I once found an end to that book, the stories continue. Sometimes, you must write the first book in order to get to the second, truer story.

2023 is the year I finish writing my collection of essays. If I had a vision board, it would also say, “2023 is the year I find a publisher.” I have been working on the pursuit of my publication dream for ten years. These stories I’ve been keeping, they were never really mine to hold onto. They are for you. Capturing the stories, writing them down, sustains me, but putting those stories out into the world and having others receive them is, for me, one of the most satisfying endings.

The Deliciousness of Bodies

Dan, my husband, is away. Forget about what this sometimes does to me: mentally, physically, emotionally. What I’d rather discuss is the impact on my daughter Elyse who has Down syndrome. I should preface this by saying Dan has no choice as to whether he travels for work or not. It comes with the territory.

In Dan’s absence, Elyse’s behaviour changes. The change is remarkable to the extent that her school has requested I notify them of any dad departures in advance, so that they may adjust her day accordingly. They incorporate more rest, smoother transitions. In short, they demand less of her. She is a creature of habit, and her daddy is an integral part of her day. She relies of him for obvious help, but also subtle cues, subtle cues I’m not necessarily even aware of, which Elyse makes clear to me in our interactions.

Elyse sees us as a family of balloons, a colourful bunch, and with her dad away, it’s as though she is cut adrift, left wandering up into the sky of beyond. I reach for her string, try to grasp it, bring her back down, but she’s too high, too far gone.

But I have my tricks, by necessity. What mother doesn’t?

She is floating high high up in the sky, away from me, and I remember how to get her back down. I lay flat on the ground in the living room, cheek planted on the plush carpet looking right in the direction of our new windows, clear and shiny. In my field of vision, I see the bright glare of sunshine through the glass, clouds passing by, the bare winter branches reaching high, and our tropical plant, Urma, with her lush leaves in the foreground.

I lay there, ribs compressed, prone, and attract the living creatures.

Elyse is the first to take the bait. When words fail with her, I’ve learned to communicate with my body. This laying flat is an offering, you see.

I hear the pounding of her footfall approaching. Elyse straddles my torso and peeks her little face down into my field of vision. Her hands work across my back like a kneading cat.

The dog arrives next. His big wet tongue trails across my face, and Elyse defends me, bats him away. My youngest lounges across the backs of my calves. The laundry will have to wait. I am the one being draped with bodies.

I stay there, motionless, pressed into the earth, without talking, and Elyse claims me. I surrender myself to her completely. She lowers her little body completely on top of mine, squeezes me tight, and flashes her shark teeth close to my face with another big cheeky grin. She lets out a laugh. She is delighted to have me in her grasp.

Got you.

The Writer’s Wheel of Fortune

I’m on a date with another more experienced writer. This is what writers sometimes do. We connect and compare notes, we tell stories and celebrate the triumphs while acknowledging the defeats. The many many defeats. And the wins! My new friend tells me the story of her winning poem, the one that took top prize in a prestigious poetry contest.

“That poem was rejected 138 times before it won.” I look at her, gobsmacked. How is that even possible? I ask. She shrugs. Okay, it might have been sent out 136 times.

I have read and heard many times that all it takes is one reader, the right reader. The topic of my friend’s poem was somewhat obscure and required the right set of eyes with the mind to match to capture the poem’s essence and appreciate its beauty. Talent, timing, luck and…perseverance. That’s what it takes to get published or win that award or grant or application. And something else that I will call—cue booming God-like voice—engaging in THE WRITER’S WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

Let me explain how the wheel works.

Simply put: what comes back to you, you must send back out into the universe.

How about a fine example from my own writing life. Recently, I received an email rejection for a well-regarded residency I was hoping to get into.

A writing residency is a set amount of time away to work, say two to four weeks, that sometimes involves a stipend, often room and board is covered and, occasionally, you get to work with a mentor or two. The main attraction for me is time and space to write, everything else is bonus. These residencies are hard to earn, competition is fierce.

 “We reject to inform you…” the five words writers never want to hear. I immediately did what I encourage every writer to do. I was already in the process of finishing another writing residency application. I swallowed my disappointment in one blink, and then was able to add the finishing touching to said new application and WHOOSH, off it went into the wild wide world. And I could breathe a huge sigh of relief. The trick is to take the energy that comes attached to a rejection and put it to positive use, i.e. my next submission. This sounds suspiciously like reframing the rejection as a new opportunity. Another writer, Barbara Harris Leonhard, reframes the rejection by saying the piece was “returned.” In this way, through the writer’s wheel of fortune, like the ups and downs of life, I end up on the crest of the hill, instead of deep in the valley of depression.

And why am I sharing this with you? Because hard work comes with its rewards. Two days before that residency rejection I had a lengthy essay accepted into a literary journal I highly respect. And that essay had already been “returned” more than once. The right eyes, the right mind will connect with your pages, your application, your submission. You and your work will find a home.

 Admittedly, I’m still relatively new to all of this, but I’m learning that once you’ve accrued a body of work and received feedback and made substantial edits to that work, that THEN the key is to submit and keep the wheel of fortune moving. Take your masterpieces and push them out and through the world. The publishing world moves at a snail’s pace, so I try to make my turn arounds sharp by already knowing the next place or contest I might send a piece of work, or be writing several grants or residency applications at once.

My sharpest turn? Once I received a rejection for a literary anthology for an essay that I knew wasn’t quite the right fit, but I didn’t want to miss the deadline or opportunity. In the meantime, I was working on the just-right essay somewhat by chance. When the rejection letter came in, I thanked the editor profusely and said, “… but actually, this new essay I’ve been working on will fit perfectly with your collection.” Now, this is not always going to end happily, but for me it did. The essay was accepted, and the book received high praise.

The thing about the writer’s wheel of fortune is that you can’t win if you don’t play the game.

The Beast of Longing

I wake early, six a.m., squinting against the bathroom light. Outside is a dark bruise. I rally the troupes—Dan, the dog—come on, I say, let’s go for a run. The trail near our home where the dog runs off-leash is closed, but perhaps, in the early hours and cloaked by darkness we can jog along the path unencumbered and free. I want to run that way, released, feel the burn in my lungs, the lash to my legs, the pumping of my heart, you are you are you are here. But also, to unleash the feeling that’s grown deep and restless inside me, the beast of longing. Ah, yes. The beast of longing. Her. We are well acquainted. I hold myself fixed to a certain goal and the beast of longing grows and grows, alongside my ambition. She can be monstrous, dangerous. Do not poke her or provoke, she will devour you whole.

Only our front porch light torches the way, the sidewalk ahead is encased in a shrouded mist of black. We move, the three of us, into the morning night. I lead the way, loosening, my muscles adjusting, arms tucked close weighted by fists, one foot falling in front of the other, a light determined step. We find our way down paved roads lamp-lit to arrive at the opening of the forest. The opening is a tunnel of darkness, black turned in on itself. I flick on my phone flashlight. Stay close. Cedar roots jut out from forest floor, mud patches, stumps, loose stones and boulders litter the way as we make our way down the steep incline to the cinder path, my companions trailing behind disappear outside my light. We arrive, and the cinder path lights up reflected in the mist and I switch my phone flashlight off. Total black save for the star stream of bright at our feet.

We make our way easily down the now flat trail, hop hop hop hop; our feet little rabbits. The forest on either side of us holds unknowns, threatening mystery. I recall the man encamped within, illegally, who wouldn’t—couldn’t?—stop screaming one morning. A jogger passing by called 9-1-1, but the camper refused help, howled and howled, and sent the ambulance away when it arrived. I don’t know the camper’s wider story, but I do know what it is to howl. And how it is when the howling inside will not abate.

Footsteps, ours, stones scraping, heavy breathing, the distant whoosh of passing cars, the only sounds. The morning night is spooky, but our trio is at ease in each other’s company. I unwittingly call to mind the coyotes who leave the entrails of their meals littered across the trail. Safety in numbers. We hit the halfway mark and turn around.

As our eyes adjust to the night, our footfall to each other’s cadence, so too does the dawn break and the light creeps back in. Barely perceptible, then all at once, undeniable. Where once my foot fell into an abyss of black, now roughly defined features of craggy earth reveal themselves below. A large pile of dirt from the trail workers, we were lucky not to have tripped over on the way out, rises before us. Piles of excrement, as well, we are quite pleased to have dodged. And perhaps the most surprising, the metallic jaws of a dinosaur, an entire excavator, sitting alongside the trail, bucket raised with sharp teeth.

My mind churns, and I dig into my own short-comings, feelings of perceived failures arrive at this early hour unbidden. The beast of longing. She has found me, even here. I can’t stop my thoughts from rising up, howling, but I don’t stop running, never stop running. One foot in front of the other, we press on. I don’t say a word.

We reach the base of the hill leading back to home. Up we climb, up and up and out of the forest. And it’s brighter still. A matte sky. The street lamps look silly casting their glow in the brightening day as the mist fades away.

And I know, running back down the road towards home, that I will write about this moment. I can already grasp the metaphor of moving through darkness, tucking into the forest, and re-emerging into the light, but I don’t yet know what it means.

Sick with the monster of my own longing, that weighty beast, I can do nothing but finish the run. See it through. Feel a measure of comfort from the company of my companions. I don’t understand what it means to wander in the dark and keep moving until the light. Keep moving until the light. Keep moving toward the light. Toward the light. Persevere. I write my way there.

Back to School Cool

What it’s like to be a parent to a child with Down syndrome on the first day of school after most of summer camp didn’t go particularly well and you were regularly summoned from your work—pulled, wrenched from your work— when the phone rings because there is some problem with your child, “problem child”, that needs dealing with.

Most commonly: “Can you come and pick her up?”:

It’s the first day of school, and I’m sitting at my eldest daughter’s desk, out of my element, because I’m keeping our new kitten Marvel company. She’s a marvel. The phone rings unexpectedly and I jump from my chair—I leap from my chair. Where is it? Where is it? Where’s my phone! How dare my phone escape my peripheral vision, my direct vision. My hand. The watch on my wrist is the thing vibrating telling me I have a call. I have a call! Where is the physical device, the talking piece. I need it. Now. NO CALLER ID is flashing at me. I know what that means! That means it’s got to be the school, it’s got to be the school. Elyse. She needs me. They need me. The school. Where’s the phone? Where is it? I need to answer this call. I have to. I need it now.

I run, go barreling, stompy-footed down the stairs, hand bracing against banister railing and then pause. Hold breath. Listen. Hear the vibration of phone shimming on wood table. Eyes dart across the room. The kitchen table. There it is! Must reach phone. Arms outstretched legs moving too slowly too slow this cumbersome body. GOT IT! Hold breath. Answer the damn phone.

            “Hello?” Calm, courteous, polite. Calm. CALM.

            “Hi Adelle, it’s the dentist’s office calling, are you able to switch your dentist appointment to this week instead of next week, we have an opening.” Breath slides out like a deflating balloon, but my heart swells.

            Yes, if that’s all that this is, then no problem. No problem at all. I’ll take any appointment you’ve got. Just, keep my kid, and make sure she’s happy and learning, will you?

Star Sleep

I woke up outside shy of 4:00 a.m., cold and in the dark, to a chorus of wolves yipping, barking and howling far off in the distance.

I decided to rekindle the fire I lit before going to sleep. I pushed back my warm covers to a barrage of cool air hitting my face. I poked at the embers, seasoned their glow with leaves and twigs, then threw on three more logs and breathed life back into the fire that sparked, snarled and snapped back at me. Dan slid off his side of our air mattress to take a leak. Climbing back into bed, I pulled our flannel comforter over my head, peaking out enough to allow a breath of cold air in, and a small window out to see the flames, which roared sideways in my direction like a woman’s fiery orange hair come alive. An owl in the trees nearby who whooed and the loon’s wails echoed, haunting the lake until dawn. When I awoke a few hours later, the birds were chirping, a few Blue Jays squawking, but it was the sound of the busy bees buzzing to and fro, choosing their flower, buzzing off into the trees surrounding me, that filled my ears. I spotted their hive high up in a birch tree.

We were at our cottage, and the night before was calm and serene. I raked out our fire pit to create a flat surface, then laid two logs down parallel, filling the space between them with leaves, twigs and bark, arranging my kindling down across the two logs like a bridge. The fire caught beautifully. Dan fished off the dock with Penelope and Elyse, and I swam with Ariel and a neighbour as the sun sunk into the shadowed hills. By the time the swimming was done and the stars were out, one log laid nestled against the other like a burning work of art. We sat with the girls, working on a crossword together by the fire, roasting oversized maple marshmallows. Finally, bedtime for the kids, but I wasn’t ready to leave the perfect fire and still night, not yet. Dan ushered the girls into their beds, and I sent him a text.

Dan. I’m super excited. Tonight’s the night.

I looked up from the fire to find him standing at the window of our screened-in porch above me.

“I know what you want to do,” he called down, and I saw him roll his eyes, a slight shake of his head with a smile across his lips. Dan has an uncanny ability to read my mind. He knew EXACTLY what I wanted to do that night.

In the few days before, I had one of my BIG Ideas. The last time I had a big idea, we ended up selling our home and traveling around the world as a family. This new big idea revolved around a potential future book project for which I was compiling a list of experiences that intrigued me. Not a bucket list—exactly—more of a loving living life list. One of the experiences was to sleep under the stars.

Once I get an idea in my head, I have a strong desire to carry it out. Dan barely resisted the idea of sleeping outside the cottage all-night, though his initial text reply was: I don’t care to. With the temperature dropping to twelve degrees Celsius overnight, I would need his warmth and feel safer tucked into his side. I was relieved it wasn’t that much work to convince him. The last thing Penelope said to me before falling asleep was, “Don’t get eaten by a bear.”

With our plans for the night in place, we set to work.

“You get the tarp, I’ll blow up the air mattress,” Dan said. We set the air mattress on top of the tarp, and Dan emerged from the cottage with an armful of bedding. We layered up, I added a few more logs to the fire and the two of us laid side by side looking up through a window of trees at a bowl of stars. “Did you see that?” I asked him. We both had. The distinct glow of a shooting star pulsed and then faded across the sky, an astral firework. We kissed goodnight and rolled into each other for warmth, me in my hoodie, socks and flannel PJ bottoms, him in shorts and a long-sleeved tee. Dan’s light snores cast out into the night, while I laid on my side, gazing serenely at the fire until nodding off into an easy sleep.

So how did the night go? Dan slept somewhat fitfully, waking around two, three, and four a.m., while I fell asleep somewhere close to midnight and got up closer to four to mess with the fire, which, I learned, does not provide much warmth unless you nestle up fire-hazard close. While my body didn’t benefit from the fire’s warmth, my face turned toward it did, and I basked in its warm glow.

At one point, at some ungodly hour, the distinct sound of a twig snapped nearby—quite close to us. Dan tensed beside me, waking us both up. I slid down further underneath the comforter while Dan lifted his head. I thought of the mink that lives by the water’s edge in front of our cottage, and the large fisher, a bear-like creature with claws that our neighbour saw passing by the top of his driveway the other day; as well as the porcupines the Madawaska Valley is named after, skunks, racoons and of course, the bears, which I have only seen forty-five minutes away in Algonquin Park. No further sound. Within a few minutes, Dan’s breathing slowed again, and I fell back asleep to the rhythm of his easy snores and the comfort of the fire. The sound was likely a chipmunk scurrying in the rock pile above our heads where they live. In the night, every sound is amplified.

When the sun rose, I assumed I’d wake and slide right into the lake for an early morning dip, but it didn’t happen that way. The stars subsided, giving way to a cyan sky. Dan left the warmth of our nest to go fishing and I pulled the comforter back over my head until way, way after the sun came up. I sank further into daytime sleep. I wanted to hold onto the dream of the wolves howling in the night with my eyes closed a little bit longer, a little bit longer, listening to the bees and the birds, knowing it had all been real.

 

New Beginnings

From every ending comes a new beginning.

This phrase is tired, overused, cliched, but I can’t help but see a red sun sinking deep into the earth, the black of night, the moon a pearl in a quilt of stars; and then as though a God were fishing, the sun hooked and reeled back up into its perch in the sky, dressed in muted yellows and luminescent golds. Something new, ready to begin.

My MFA program has ended. I spent two pandemic years immersed in earning a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction Writing.  “We’re masters now!” my peers and I joked at graduation. Yet every master knows that only a fool would consider themselves to have mastered a subject to a point of completion. The learning has just begun, and will begin again tomorrow, and the next day, if we’re lucky. Still, the intensity of the program, the degree to which we immersed ourselves in that learning, focused in on honing our craft, applied critical thought to ideas, worked to deadlines, received feedback and tried again. And again. And again. To improve and get better. This is worth an oversized piece of paper and a pat on the back. That the learning should and will continue does not diminish the accomplishment. But, maybe, just maybe, if you’re like me, before you dress in that graduation gown and plop the cap askew on your head, tassel waving in your eyes; before you strut across that stage to fanfare and applause, smile plastered across your face; before all of that will sit a question high on your list of priorities to attend to. A big question, the one that’s constantly at my throat, clawing my insides, pushing me further into the deep thick of this life’s offerings: What’s Next?

I really, truly, like to know where I am going. Not everyone does.

From every ending comes a new beginning.

A month or so ago, on a day when I may have been pondering that question of what’s next, an email jumped to my attention on the screen from Alison Wearing whose newsletter I subscribe to. Alison is a writer who runs Memoir Writing Ink (an online memoir course) and facilitates writing retreats around the world in addition to the many other hats she wears. I have read her books which are enthused with life and humour and seen her animated readings. She has a charismatic theatrical personality that only the dullest of person would not find charming. I know others who’ve attended her workshops and retreats and I have long since known I have something to learn from this woman. I just didn’t know when exactly that would be or how. Other paths have bumped into each other peripherally the past few years, with her name poking up for me here and there, and about a year ago, I seriously considered attending her writing retreat in France. I looked through photos, reviewed packages. But the timing was wrong. I already had residencies to attend where I would be engaged and working with other writers, and the MFA was intensive and consuming. France would have to wait.

But the email that came into my inbox from Alison was about two magical spots that had opened up in the France retreat in June. These were truly last-minute spots due to cancellations. An end for someone else meant a possible new beginning for me. Alison was seeking out published writers to fit in with the group, and I could sense this retreat would be a good fit for where I’m currently at in my writing process. I have essays to edit. The timing was right. The exact week of the France retreat, I had planned to be on a self-imposed writing residency with a friend anyway. My writing friend is a world traveller. Literally, she has been to every continent and over a hundred countries. We had planned to meet in Barry’s Bay, Ontario, where my cottage is located to get some work done. “How do you feel about going to a writing retreat with me in the South of France instead?” Reader, there was no hesitation. I reached out and applied to Alison Wearing’s retreat right away, and by some stroke of magic, within hours of receiving the invitation (because that is exactly what that email was, an invitation from the universe) I had a confirmed spot, and my friend too! And we were on our way to France.

What’s next?

You could argue that a trip to France is nothing but an elaborate distraction; that travel, in general, is simply a way to pull yourself away from the responsibilities of real life. But if I’m going to keep writing and moving on to the next thing, I need to recharge, to feel invigorated in my life and have things to look forward to. I need space and time to myself and with other creatives. I need to experience the world outside of my office window. Why not surround myself with beauty and do this in the wide open air countryside of southern France?

What’s next is a writing vacation, the rest of summer, and the business of real life. Trying to find an agent, secure a teaching job as a writing instructor, finish editing my essays, continue writing and running my own retreats and believing in myself. What’s next is more family life and visits and house cleaning and cottage maintenance and the plethora of usual adult responsibilities.

But first, we celebrate.

How many trips across that stage does one get to make? Visiting my in-laws, my brother-in-law asked me, “So when are you going to get your PhD? He was partly joking, goading me on, knowing it’s an avenue I’ve considered. What’s next? I have no plans to pursue another degree as of now, but who knows? What’s next is clearing the space in my mind for future plans. What’s next is being pulled by the tides, not adrift, but not fully in control of my final destination either.

But for this moment, I see myself holding a glass of something red, the sun a slow melt into distant hills, sinking deep into the earth, eventually folding into the black of night; the moon ever a pearl in a quilt of stars.

The Archway

Our covered front porch is accentuated by three brick archways. From the viewpoint of standing on the porch, or arcade, each archway is like looking through a window.

I found a new place to write. Sitting on a blue cushion in a wicker rocking chair on my covered front porch, my red dog at my feet. We’re overlooking the garden and perched where we are in the elbow of the street, we can see the comings and goings of our neighbours. Two squirrels squabble in the tree of my neighbour’s yard; Atlas’ ears perk up, but he doesn’t budge—not yet. We are suspended in this peaceful moment together. Even a six-month-old pup knows a good thing when he’s got it.

A van drives past, the squirrel hunting his nut at the curb lifts his frame, shifting the bulk of his weight back onto his haunches, and high tails it in the other direction. Good decision. The whirl of a helicopter cuts through the peaceful chirps of birds, disrupts the gentle breeze. With the hospital nearby, the helicopter signals emergency. Like a cat stepping onto piano keys, the whoosh of the helicopter compresses my heart, plucks each string; the helicopter a harbinger of tragedy, or rescue—or both. Rescue or tragedy or both. I recall the friend of a friend whose newborn needed new lungs to live. The mom waited for lungs for their newborn to arrive by helicopter. For that baby to live, another had to die. Perhaps a car accident, where the baby doesn’t make it, but the lungs remain intact. And that mom, just waiting, waiting, for the sound of the helicopter chopping at the air. Wondering how much longer her baby will survive without the lungs. Reconciling what it means for the lungs to arrive. Reader, they do arrive. As if such impossible longings could ever be reconciled.

A mama robin has built her nest into the vines on the side of our garage leading to our main entryway. I noticed her this morning after I shut the door and peaked behind me through the door’s glass window. The robin held a juicy worm between her beak, and something about the posture of her body, the way she stood erect, alert, puffed breast, on the sidewalk in front of our house, not far from the nest, said “mama”. And that’s how I noticed the nest. The worm disappeared, and soon she was carrying a mouthful of twigs and dry grass and up she flew, into her nest. Around she twirled making herself cozy on top of her eggs.

I haven’t seen her since—it’s worrisome.

Atlas has decided to explore. He momentarily gets himself locked behind the side gate, after I have to scurry across my driveway after him. But he complained almost instantly at the separation of the gate, so I grab him a hunk of wood to chew on, and now we’re back in our spots, me on the blue cushion of the rocking chair, him lazing on patio stones the pinkish-blue twinge of granite, gnawing on wood.

Two dwarf-sized daffodils in my garden are vibrating in the breeze. And the thought occurs to me how much the backs of flowers are like the backs of people, the backside of a flower. Our faces, flower-like, open or closed. I don’t finish that thought because Atlas catches sight of a silver cat, the bell on its collar tinkling, taunting. I warn him a few times—“Atlas!”—but once he sits up, ears perked, any hope of him paying attention to me is lost. He springs to four paws from his place beside me into a crouch position at the end of the porch, then quickly cuts across the grass and onto my neighbour’s driveway. He makes it to her fence, the cat safely on the other side. The silver feline easily slips away in the time it takes me to get my puppy’s attention, which isn’t too long. He comes back to me now, wagging his puppy hips and tail, like wasn’t that fun mom?

I tuck him inside the house, where he whines for me, confused. I wait a beat then attach him to his leash before heading back outside.

Shortly after, our elderly neighbour walks down the street, slowly, slowly. Atlas yanks my arm off trying to get to him. He loves this man.

I can’t keep up with the action through the archway; my pen unable to hold pace. The silver cat comes back, and slinks across the road just as Thirsty’s Lawn Maintenance parks in front of my neighbour’s house. One gas vehicle after another is unloaded and powered up. So much for a place to write in peace and quiet. The motors scream and Atlas throws me a sorrowful glance. But this is a window onto the season and these sights and sounds of summer I gladly accept.

And in this way, we bend from one season into the next, letting go of longings we cannot reconcile. We lean into new worlds coming alive before our eyes, and live as fully as we can, as observers or participants, inside the window, or out.