Wrong, wrong, wrong.

In the months leading up to Katherine’s departure to Japan, I had my share of very low moments. First, there was worried-mother-hen mode. What if she gets sick or lost? Who will help her? What if she’s lonely or homesick or is the last kid picked for the baseball team?

Then there were the practical questions. What if she loses her bank card? Or her passport? What if she forgets to get the right documents stamped by the right people at the airport? What if she runs out of money?

All of these things were, of course, shortly proven to be what they were: just the anxious musings of a mother who was sending her daughter overseas (except the money management, but that was a valuable lesson that needed to be learned). They were part of the growing up experience that is required of both parent and child.

When we dropped Katherine off at her hotel in Vancouver prior to departure to Japan, the GPI coordinator waited for us to say our goodbyes. Perhaps in an attempt to make it easier for us, he said casually, “It’s only five months.”

And he was right. Looking back on it now, the time flew by quickly, but at that moment, he might as well have said, “It’s only five years.”

Fast forward another five months and we are where we are today, halfway through May. It is track season. Yesterday, as I sat in my lawn chair watching her compete, it struck me: “This is Katherine’s last county track meet.” Add this to the mix of emotions that have been coursing through me lately as I contemplate her upcoming high school graduation, the arrival of her first boyfriend, and her university application, and you’ve got quite a cocktail.

I felt overwhelmed by sudden bouts of sadness before and during Katherine’s time in Japan that often arrived without warning and left just as suddenly. Then she returned and, although she had clearly grown up, she fit right back into our family unit. I’d managed her absence once; surely I could handle it again.

But I am slowly understanding that this upcoming move in August when she departs for university may be just as hard. May be harder, in fact, because it will have the air of the permanent about it. I have had a test run, that’s all, not the real thing. I occasionally find myself randomly emotional—like yesterday, contemplating the last county track meet—and I keep reminding myself that this is okay. That this year continues to be one of transition. I was up for the task before and I will be again.

But for now, as I write these thoughts, I’ll let myself have a little cry. And savour the memory, just like I have savoured the other moments that I’ve been there for, watching my lovely daughter grow up and experience the world. And be grateful, again, for every one of them.

I’m a fan of lists, but even my lists have lists these days. I’m trying to move through my days at a slower pace because the after-school scheduling is really taking its toll.

Perhaps this is a common problem at this time of year. I’ve spent more time lately trying to schedule appointments than actually keeping them! Case in point: one of my piano students is a multi-talented girl involved in a variety of sports all year long. Because my daughter, too, participates in sports, I offer some flexibility to my piano students, with the understanding that I occasionally will ask it of them. It’s an arrangement that usually works.

Enter soccer season, an animal even more complicated and time-consuming than volleyball, basketball, and track. But, with an exam looming in June, my student needs to still be at lessons, despite her four-nights-a-week soccer commitments. It took several emails and a phone call or two to solve this.

Then there was a potential new piano student, part of another very busy family. Again, email after email was exchanged, just to find a time for an interview.

We live in a world absolutely brimming with opportunities. Add to that our everyday responsibilities like work, grocery shopping, and childcare, and we are, at times, completely over-loaded. It’s hard to say no—there’s so many good things to be part of.

Because I believe in the arts, I’m a member of the Mountain View Arts Society and a contributing member of the Mountain View Arts Festival committee. I’m also volunteering to help organize the Festival’s Opening Reception. Because my children attend Olds Koinonia Christian School, I’m also deeply invested there, serving on the Board and, right now, on another subcommittee associated with this Board.

I believe the value of music, so I teach piano and give my time to the Olds and District Music Teachers Association. I value the written word so I write and edit. I value my children’s skills and needs, so I support them in sports and social events and schoolwork. My eldest daughter is graduating from high school this year, so there was time set aside for hair-styling and the purchase of jewelry and a dress. She wanted to see the world, so we helped her live in Japan. She desires to go to university, so we are filling in paperwork and hatching plans.

We want to spend time as a family and show our exchange student more of our province, so we are camping and taking a trip to West Edmonton Mall and Banff, and even some fun as simple as a walk downtown to K&W for a milkshake.

All these things are important. And because I’m the type of person who likes to do things well, sometimes I get caught up in them and they, in a sense, take over my life.

Years ago, when I was a preschool teacher’s assistant, I spoke with the grandmother of one of my students, who was also the caregiver/guardian of her many grandkids. When I asked her if she was available to do something, she threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender and said, “My time is not my own.”

Sometimes I feel the same way. But that statement is really a cop-out, almost martyr-like. Time, like anything precious, needs to be managed. I’m not calling for rigid plans with no flexibility—that’s just a recipe for crazy-making. But, seriously, what are we doing with time? Perhaps we should ask ourselves which of those valuable things are non-essentials? Perhaps we need to consider saying “no” or “not now” to some of them?

I remember seeing a beautiful picture with a woman dressed in pink holding pink flowers, and the caption, a quote from Oprah, read “You can have it all, just not all at once.”

This has always stayed with me. Good advice, especially to women. We want to be there with our kids, not missing a single tear, or game, or parent-teacher interview, all while simultaneously earning income, working on our marriages, volunteering, and managing every other detail that goes into a making a family work. I myself have made every effort in this, but it’s an impossible goal to execute perfectly, one that just makes us feel guilty when we can’t meet it. I’ve had to give it up. The ideal, I mean. I forgive myself when I drop a ball or two, when I forget to pick up cat food or double-book myself with two appointments in the same time slot.

More than my words, I’m aware that those who I most want to positively influence (ie. my kids) are watching my actions. I can say I value a life-style of peace and fulfillment, but what am I modeling? Over the last few years, we cut back on extra-curricular activities—now that my children are nearly grown, I sometimes wonder if that was the right choice. But then I consider the facts: they’ve had their taste of dance, horse-back riding, gymnastics, choir, and piano. Are they experts? No? Could I have re-enrolled them? Yes. Can they continue in these areas later in life, should they choose to do so? Yes.

Instead of enrolling them in extra-curricular activities, Richard and I have given them opportunities to visit large portions of mainland United States and even Hawaii. They have chunks of unstructured time to relax, hang out with friends, be creative (write, design, draw, compose music). We spend evenings and weekends together, and almost always share supper at the kitchen table. We make holidays out of sports tournaments. I’m usually home when they leave in the morning for school and when they return at the end of the day.

I’ve also modeled what it looks like to follow your dreams, by writing regularly and teaching music and volunteering in places that align with my personal values.

Saying no to a few things enables us to say yes to what really matters to us. In our Have It All Now world, this takes courage. But the rewards are exponential.

After a busy winter spent juggling personal and family and work commitments, I decided that the first week of May was going to be dedicated to more rest and relaxation. I’d just finished my third major project for the year—a great way to begin 2013—and I was noticing I was feeling tired, cranky, and indecisive, which is often a clue to slow down and take a breather. For me, that means loosening up my schedule and leaving large sections of the day to do what ever crosses my mind to do—playing piano, writing fiction, reading, perhaps even watching a movie. I’d envisioned hours at my computer working on my novel, followed by full afternoons with a book and cup of tea.

Monday got a kick-start in the wrong direction on Sunday afternoon. It was Katherine’s 18th birthday and we started it slow, letting her have the morning to sleep in after spending the week in Mexico on a school mission trip. Our house was even fuller that day, since we brought one of Katherine’s friends—also on the mission trip—home with us on Saturday night because her parents were out of town until Sunday evening. So that made six of us that night. Then, in the afternoon, my mom came over so we could celebrate Katherine’s birthday with cake and presents and card games. It was a short visit so we could head into Olds to one of Katherine’s favourite restaurants, South China Sea, for an early supper.

While we were eating cake and laughing, we became aware of a strange sound whenever the furnace came on, like something metal was banging in the vents. We didn’t think too much of it, until we were about to go to bed. Along with the noise, something didn’t smell good. In fact, it smelled like—burning. Like a motor about to burn out. We ran downstairs and flipped off the furnace and looked at each other.

“I guess I’m calling the plumber,” I said.

Monday was supposed to be a simple day—our car was scheduled to go to the shop at 9:00 a.m. to get the front rotors replaced and the snow tires removed—and I was going to take care of a few emails, get my piano schedule set up for September, then spend the rest of the day as I’d planned, doing whatever came up.

I guess I didn’t think “fix furnace” was going to be one of the things that would come up. Perhaps I should be more specific with my intentions!

I called the plumber at 7:30 Monday morning and left a message. I went to the gym and zipped over to the vet to pick up more cat food before heading home and waiting for the mechanic to pick up the other set of tires and run the car to the shop for its repairs. I set Anna’s space heater up in my office and warmed it up. I donned my sweats and fuzzy socks and warm sweatshirt and made coffee and waited.

I continued to wait. Nothing. Finally, I called the mechanic. He was running late and there was a problem with ordering the rotors, which meant not getting my car back until 3:00 in the afternoon. Inconvenient, but manageable. Then I called the plumber, who assured me he would be by late in the day, which meant probably during my piano student’s lesson.

As you can imagine, the restful quality of the day that I was so looking forward to eluded me. The plumber arrived around 2:00, followed soon after by my car. By the time I was able to run my errands, it was 3:30, just a half hour before my piano student was to arrive. In the meantime, I’d managed to get my piano schedules complete as well as the pressing emails, bake bread and banana cake (partly to use my oven to help heat my house!). That was it. The day came and went. I felt scattered and further from rest than I had the previous few weeks.

I also received a phone call that wasn’t particularly wonderful, something about, “Did you know your daughter came into contact with lice last week in Mexico? We tried to warn her to put her hair back and she’s been treated, but we thought you should know . . . ”

Like I said, not a great day.

The silver linings? Yesterday I learned I am finally getting paid for a project that I did over two months ago. I now have a quiet, working furnace that I could afford to repair. And every crucial item on my to-do list got done.

Perhaps the biggest silver lining of all—I have today. A do-over, if you will. A chance to sit at my computer and jot down these thoughts, as well as begin my week again, like yesterday never happened.

And so, after I take some time to read, I am going to grab some lunch and pop in a DVD. And relax.

This week is looking up already.

And the power of music.

As a pianist, piano teacher, and all-around-music-enthusiast, I experience this power daily. While writing, I almost always have a CD playing quietly in the background, mostly wordless like soundtracks, but not always. The haunting melody of a violin section in Legends of the Fall was the inspiration for a scene in one of my stories; repressed Marjorie, after listening to an equally beautiful violin passage, allows herself to feel and experience the rage she has been stuffing down inside herself for years, which leads her to take action (it could be argued that her choice of action wasn’t wise or constructive, but at least she took action!).

Another personal soundtrack favourite is Atonement. When I watched that movie, I was reminded what beautiful cinematography looks like. The movie captured the spirit of the book, which is all about setting the scene, putting us in the large English country house with its expansive green lawns and gardens, letting us experience the hot summer day, hear the sounds of the women’s dresses rustling and the child’s manual typewriter clacking. And, of course, along with all this sensory detail, also feel fully invested in the story of Robbie and Cecilia.

When I listen to Atonement, I am continually reminded not to rush my own storytelling. To take the time to set a scene and create a delicious experience for my reader. This is a learned skill for me and only one I’ve recently begun to appreciate when reading a novel—too much descriptive detail and I tend to nod off or skim—but there is so much value in it. Reading every word, fully entering into the world created on the page, is a gift that has changed me. Like the chicken and egg conundrum, I’m not sure if my slow-down-and-smell-the-roses approach to life caused this fuller appreciation of art or if it is just one of the many benefits, but it doesn’t matter. My life is the richer and fuller for it.

When I’m stressed, instead of stewing in it, I’ve started going to the piano. Since I began editing, I’ve not had as much time to play, sometimes only touching the keys when preparing for a lesson or playing a piece for my students. Never mind composing, which I used to do a lot in my youth. Well, I’m back at it. Enthusiasm for music is caught as much as taught, and if I’m not playing enough, it shows. My fingers become clumsy. My energy level drops (and with it, my memory). But, even more importantly, I don’t display my love for the piano when I’m not playing regularly.

Consistent piano playing is a joy unto itself. But I’ve also seen benefits in my students. As I practice what I preach, I somehow give them permission to move past just getting all the right notes to really entering into the music. I see this change in their body language, their confidence, their phrase work, and the overall musical quality of their pieces. Like all good things, improvement is cumulative, a mix of many, many factors including talent, time, confidence, student-teacher rapport, and good old-fashioned fun. And, of course, loving what you do.

I’ve always felt that earning high exam marks is great, but is secondary to a love of the piano and music in general. Too many parents have come to me with stories of taskmaster teachers and crying and wistful phrases like “I wish I could play” or “I wish I hadn’t quit.” Fortunately, music is forgiving. It always welcomes us, calls us. No matter how long we’ve been away, we can always come back.

It’s not hard to see the correlation between piano and writing. Loving what you do and doing what you love. Practicing, putting in the time to perfect your craft. And modeling what you believe so your message has credibility.

Speaking of this, I’m going to wrap things up here so I can post this—if I hurry, I may be able to squeeze in a song or two before the day is done.

This is a very popular question, often asked to authors. It’s akin to “How do you get your inspiration?”

Ideas, like inspiration, are subjective things; like atoms, they are invisible to the naked eye. For the author, words are the result of this inspiration. They appear out of nowhere and dot our computer screens and notebooks and we read them and exclaim, “Wow, that’s really good! Where did that come from?” (Or, if we’re honest, we often say, “What a bunch of crap! Delete? Or save to the I-Don’t-Know-What-To-Do-With-This folder?”)

At writers’ group this week, we discussed the fact that three of us are trying to finish up novels. Our concerns and questions are similar: How do I keep up the momentum? How do I tie things together and create a satisfying end? I’m so attached to these characters that I’ve created—I don’t want to say goodbye to them. I’m stuck—what do I do now?

During the writing of the novel I am working on now, I often had spots where I was truly stuck. For me, that meant I didn’t know what to do. I’d sit in front of the computer, stare, flex my fingers, adjust my chair, look out the window, stare at the screen, type a few words and promptly erase them. I was looking for the elusive idea that would act like a lighted up billboard sign and point me in the direction I should go. But that’s not how ideas come. They are more like gentle nudges: a cat walking through tall grass, a violin melody line, a memory. One of my short stories was birthed after staring into my cup of black tea and milk; the main character was an exact sort of person who timed everything just right, including how long she steeped her tea, and had an epiphany on a morning when she got stuck in a traffic jam on the way to work.

My other trick when stuck is to introduce a new character—it gives freshness to old material and helps kick start momentum. Thinking the challenge in one person’s manuscript might be a lack of ideas, I suggested adding a new character. Her response surprised me: “New ideas aren’t the problem! I have so many of them that I can’t pick which one to do.”

Ah. A very different issue, indeed.

The reality is, writing may seem like an elusive, mysterious occupation. And in many ways, it is. I’m sure there’s a metaphysical explanation for how ideas get in our heads and why they come out the way they do, but I don’t know those explanations (and if I did, I’m sure they’d be very complicated!).

But I think we sometimes give the mystery of writing too much credit. We wait for inspiration and, when it doesn’t come, we don’t create. The fact is, if you are alive, you have ideas. If you can feel the cold Alberta wind on your face, you have ideas. If you eat food, you have ideas. The reason writing resonates with us is because it comes from the wellspring of shared human experience. We’ve all been afraid or cold or frustrated or delighted. We’ve all had a childhood. Our experiences vary but the emotions don’t.

I try to write every morning; sometimes I’m happy with what comes out and sometimes I hit delete. That’s the beauty of a computer (but there’s something very satisfying about scratching out a long-hand section with my pen, too). The point is this: you won’t necessarily find your ideas until you sit and write them down. And as you do, those ideas will generate other ideas, building and building and building like a large snowball. Soon you’ll have so many of them that you won’t know what to do!

Which leads to the other problem mentioned earlier in this post. Too many ideas. Too many options. Too many potential roads—how to choose? I think sometimes all we can do in that scenario is pick one and travel for awhile down that path; if it’s a dead-end, try another one. In the meantime, perhaps ideas have come clearer while walking down the dead-end road.

As writers, every time we put thoughts down, we are the richer for it. I’ve learned to find the value in what I before would have called “time wasters,” things like writing just for fun or letting my characters wander a bit until I stumble upon the next thing to do. Because of this, my stories are more complex, my characters more real, and, just as importantly, I want to keep coming back to the keyboard. I have less frequent “dry spells” where I don’t feel like writing. Writing regularly has other benefits, too. The joy I experience while writing carries over into my non-writing life, making it fuller, richer. Which, in turn, fuels my writing life with great experiences that I can draw on when at the page.

In other words, the solution to not enough ideas or too many may be the same—write.

As a child, I first learned of him because of the Chronicles of Narnia. When I was ten years old, our family took a road trip to California; during the drive, we took turns reading aloud. We also continued this at home, so over the course of a few months, I read The Magicians’ Nephew, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian, and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I have a vague memory of The Silver Chair and The Horse and His Boy, but don’t recall if we finished the series, and all I know of The Last Battle is quotes from other books referencing it.

I know there are many J.R.R. Tolkien fans out there, so I hope I don’t offend any of them when I say I never read the Lord of the Rings series. I tried. I honestly tried. I love words, but Tolkien is just too wordy for my tastes. Plus, I’m not a huge fan of fantasy. But Lewis’ fantasy world of Narnia drew me in as a child. As I grew and discovered what I believed about the world and the God who created it, I found the story about Narnia and Aslan to be more and more relevant to my life.

The next book of C.S. Lewis’ that I read was The Screwtape Letters, a fictional series of letters from a senior-level demon to his junior. As all good fiction should do, it made me think. It made me ask questions about what is true and what is not and how that is shaping my life and the way I live it.

Fast-forward twenty years. I’ve lost track of how many books I’ve read—hundreds, probably—and most of them fiction. But somewhere, somehow, I ran across a reference to C.S. Lewis’ book entitled Miracles; the author remarked that it was thought-provoking or something like that (I’m not quoting them or the book because, clearly, I don’t remember the details!). And I thought, “Hmm.”

Since I read so much, I usually visit the Didsbury Library’s website and do a search within the Parkland Library System. And I discovered a gold mine. The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics—seven books in one.

When it came in, I looked at it, daunted. Where to begin? Would I like his non-fiction? Would I follow it or would it be too “intellectual”? A lot of the work was written in the 1940s and 50s—would it still be relevant?

I decided to begin with one that my mother had on her shelf years ago: Mere Christianity. And I’ve been unable to put it down. Not because it’s easy reading, because it isn’t. Originally read aloud on the radio, each chapter is only a few pages long and is chock full of thought-provoking ideas. I have read over two-thirds of the book and have discovered something fresh in every chapter. Each evening, as Richard surfs through facebook or checks his email, I tell him, “Let me just read this part to you—what do you think?” Or “I never thought about it that way before.” Or “I can’t believe this was written in the forties; the questions and answers seem just as relevant today.”

Now, I know this style of writing doesn’t appeal to everyone. Every sentence is meaty and not just with words, words, words, words. They are carefully chosen words. The kind of carefully chosen words that you need to read again and again in order to absorb them.

Which is a lesson that everyone who writes can takes heed of. Writing is fun and exploratory and cathartic. But the kind of writing that lasts is meaningful—because of the content, yes, but also because of its depth. Its wisdom is timeless.

So, on my lunch break I’ll return to Mere Christianity and see if I can absorb Lewis’ next series of thoughts and ideas. I think I’m up for the challenge.

Because “lost” is my middle name. I rely on maps because more often than not, my sense of direction will let me down.

Yesterday, I headed out the door for an entire day’s road trip. The whole point of this was to deliver a dozen copies of Take Flight: True Stories of Our Lives to the Rosebud Gift Shop at Rosebud Theatre, as well as more of Maxine Spence‘s beautiful note cards and posters (check out her book, Leaf, also available at the Rosebud Gift Shop).

Since I was going east, I thought I’d expand my route to include Three Hills and Drumheller. I chose this route for two reasons: I wanted to visit Three Hills Books and the Three Hills and Drumheller libraries to do follow up about Take Flight; and I also knew the road.

Anna’s junior high basketball tournaments over the past two years have been in towns and villages in eastern Alberta—from Didsbury, the most direct route to those communities is Highway 582. In mild weather, it’s a beautiful, easy drive, with almost no traffic. In fog, snow, wind, and ice, it’s an entirely different matter.

Three times during this year’s basketball season, I experienced 582 in all its most stressful glory; on two of those return trips, I was the one driving. So, I had mixed feelings about the road, but I knew it. There was no danger of getting lost. And, on a sunny March day, I could turn up the music and relax, confidently knowing exactly where I was headed.

As I drove toward Three Hills, I was mulling over my preference for certain roads and routes and the thought struck me—in order for roads to become familiar, they must be driven on for the first time. Which is not unlike life. Every time I try something new, I make it familiar. Fear is nudged away and that formerly new and somewhat frightening experience becomes more comfortable. Even if there’s some ice and snow, I know that road and where it leads, and that is confidence-building. Which makes it easier to take the next series of roads that I’ve never driven.

I got a little turned around in both Three Hills and Drumheller (I’d written down the wrong address for the Three Hills library, easily fixed by searching for it with my iPhone; and in Drumheller, I turned east instead of west on my way out of town, also easily corrected), but that didn’t derail me, as it might have before I gained confidence.

So, maybe Robert Frost had it right after all. It is good to take that less-travelled road. But what does he mean by less-travelled? Less-travelled by others? Less popular? That’s how I’ve always interpreted it. But what about those roads that are less travelled (or un-travelled) simply because they are new? An un-travelled road is an unfamiliar road. What Frost doesn’t directly say is how we are changed and made better by taking those unfamiliar roads. He just says that it “has made all the difference.”

Appearances are deceiving. Just because I was skinny didn’t mean I was fit. I found that out as an adult when I injured my shoulder while driving in snowstorm; the injury was so bad that I couldn’t use my left arm and I spent several sessions at physio. It was then that I learned that, despite my small size, I had very little upper body strength. The snowstorm injury was in fact a re-injury of the same spot from high school, when I’d lifted a heavy suitcase. The physiotherapist warned me: “You’d better get building your upper body muscles or you’ll be here again.”

So I joined Curves. By this time in my life, I’d had two babies and had some excess flab still sitting on my waist and thighs, which exercise quickly eliminated. But more amazing still, I gained energy and much better circulation (I used to be cold all the time) and could see the difference in my upper body. In the winter, I used to have to carry tiny bundles of wood to the wood burning stove; after a couple years of exercise, I realized that I was loading up my box and easily hefting it to the basement.

I’ve been working out at Curves for eight years so I know I’m fit. But, once again, appearances can be deceiving.

Over the last two years, I’ve made a lot of changes in my life. I’ve become much more in tune with my intuitive side, paying attention to internal cues when making daily decisions. What I didn’t realize was, my body, not just my spirit, was talking to me.

Perhaps because of my physical fitness and my decent diet (room for improvement there, but that’s perhaps for another post) and my tendency to just keep driving ahead, I don’t stop enough and pay attention to physical cues. I get working and skip—or seriously delay—lunch. I drink too much coffee and not enough water. I stay up late and get up early.

When I do this, my body adjusts, but it sends me messages that say “Ouch.” Headaches. Fatigue. Stomach pain. Neck pain. I have a theory: when ignored, these “Ouch” messages just go underground. They get absorbed and build and build and build, until I either get a cold or my anemia flares up or, as I struggled with in March, exhaustion comes. The kind of exhaustion that takes my breath away.

I have had a list of people to call that I looked at but just didn’t deal with. Procrastination is so not my style but it was my constant companion, day after day. If the item on my to-do list wasn’t life-shatteringly important, it just didn’t get done. As a person who used to struggle regularly with depression (also another long story that may end up in a post), I recognized the signs but didn’t want to look at it that closely. Depression goes hand in hand with fear and anxiety—oh no, it’s here again; how long it will stay this time—and just thinking about it feeds that fear.

So I ignored it. Kept plugging along. But it hovered in the background, just waiting, and I was deeply aware of its presence.

About halfway through March, I visited my massage therapist. What should have been a normal forty-five minute session was far from that.

“Normally everything aligns back where it should be,” Jaye said. “But not today.” She urged me to take it easy for the next two days and take care of my neck, and come back in a week. A week—normally I go three.

Again, back to my theory. My body knew that something was wrong. It talked to me through my neck, but I’m so used to that pain that I didn’t take the message seriously. Fatigue was talking to me but I didn’t go to bed early. I just kept on as before, expecting my body to deal with it.

Now these aren’t new lessons for me but sometimes I’m rather thick. But when Jaye told me my body refused to go back into alignment, the light went on. It had had enough. It had absorbed more than it should and the balance had tipped the other way.

It became stunningly clear that I could be “fit” and still be unhealthy. I could pat myself on the back all I wanted about my 1000 Curves workouts but I was going to have to get better at listening to my body’s cues.

No change happens overnight. I know that. But, just as I’ve learned to pay attention to other internal directions, I had been overlooking one other significant form of direction. Normally when it hurts, we stop. Our body has been designed that way to keep up from melting our fingertips on a hot stove. But how often do we listen to the more subtle clues and give ourselves permission to take care of our bodies?

I took Jaye’s advice and iced my neck and guess what? It helped. I did something on my to-do list and I felt better, which helped get the ball rolling to the other procrastinated-items. I limited my time in front of my computer, one of the quickest ways to exacerbate neck pain. I read my book. I spent a fun afternoon at CrossIron Mills helping Katherine get her new phone account and celebrating with some frozen yogurt. I edited.

Most importantly, I listened. And I’m listening still.

I drove west for a time, then took a side road with almost no regular traffic so I could drive as slowly as I liked. Because I was alone, I could scan the snowy fields for anything that caught my eyes. After about ten minutes, I noticed something I hadn’t paid attention to before, even though I’d been down this road many, many times. A small white shack sat on the east side of the road in the middle of the field. Obviously not lived in, but it caught my attention. I pulled over and snapped a couple pictures, then drove up a little further until I found a better place to park. I ended up across from a playground; inspired, I jotted down some thoughts in my notebook. I’ve only made a few changes to the copy you see below:

Snow. Deep, white snow, glittering in the sun like sand by the ocean. Empty stands surrounding an empty baseball field, empty swings gently moving in the breeze. Children should be playing here. On the swings, on the field. The air should be full of the scent of barbecued hot dogs and the cheering crowd.

But all is still. Underneath its snowy blanket, with not even a trail of footprints to break up the whiteness. And yet, it’s not desolate. Overhead, the sun shines. The wind nearly non-existent. To the west, the mountains stand immoveable, stalwart, still.

Across the road sits a small white chapel, its black roof clear of snow. A few feet away, a lone mailbox.

To live out here is to taste aloneness on a large scale but that doesn’t mean loneliness. Farmers and acreage owners band together, creating a community. Not unlike the settlers from long ago who carved homes for themselves from the land around them, building what would become towns from scratch. No one did it for them. This is the stock we come from. This is Alberta’s heritage.

On a day like today, it doesn’t feel isolating. It’s merely still, un-judgmental, open. To trudge across these unmarked fields feels intrusive, like entering someone’s bedroom unannounced. I am merely a visitor, a spectator.

I walk out of the car to the snow pile to my left and run my fingers through the light, cold snow that melts and floats away equally quickly. I have left a trail of my shoeprints on the road, proof that I was here, impermanent evidence that will be erased in a day or two by either fresh snow or a warm sun.

What a fun experiment!

Since my field trip, winter has returned and dug in deep. Like my cats who have holed up inside, I go outdoors reluctantly and only when I have to. This is the time of year when I feel myself waiting impatiently for the end of winter, where I struggle with procrastination and have to make myself finish simple tasks. But, when I re-read these thoughts and remember how the sun felt streaming through my car window, I am reminded that spring is truly not far away now. Winter’s last gasp is here. I only have to wait it out and remember that sooner rather than later, it’s nearly time for budding trees and singing robins and coffee out on the deck.

I usually look forward to Thursday evenings. At nine o’clock, I grab a glass of water and settle down on the couch for Mystery (PBS), followed by Grey’s Anatomy.

Instead, I discovered that PBS was broadcasting Celtic dancing and Grey’s was a repeat. Richard found me on the couch with shoulders slumped forward.

“There’s nothing on,” I complained.

He picked up the remote and ran thorough the channels and settled on the documentary channel. I could feel fatigue rolling through my body and resisted the idea. I didn’t want to learn anything! But I was too tired to get up and find my book, so I stayed on the couch.

The documentary was about a group of writers who were spending a few days in northern Labrador. The idea should have intrigued me but I was still missing its value. I was in the middle of grumbling a little more when all of a sudden I heard a name I recognized.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I know that guy!”

The “guy” was Joseph Boyden, brilliant author of Three Day Road and winner of the Giller Prize for Three Day Road’s sequel Through Blue Spruce. Several years ago, I had the privilege of hearing him read in Calgary. His main characters in both Three Day Road and Through Blue Spruce are native, and as he read from his work, his voice flattened into a more nasal tone, which reminded me of my native sister-in-law’s speech style.

After the reading, I joined the line of people waiting to get their books signed by Joseph. We had a short conversation, mostly about my last name which is British or Scottish but, to Joseph, sounded native.

Needless to say, I was suddenly very interested in the documentary. Richard, who often finds gems like these, wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

The five writers, led by Inuit guides, saw local wildlife—including caribou, black bears, and polar bears—as well as an iceberg, several fjords, and flowers and plants native to the area. One author was particularly inspired by the blue tint of the iceberg; she talked about how as children we always colour water blue, despite the fact that we are told water is clear.

Occasionally, the camera showed the writers with laptops and notebooks, trying to capture what was in front of them with words or drawings. At one point, Joseph said, “I’d like to write but there’s too much to take in, to process.” Another writer echoed his thoughts: “My eyes are too small; my heart is too small.”

Personally, the north is not on my list of places to go, but, as I watched this documentary, I could feel something stirring inside of me that was put into words well by a couple of the writers. One remarked on fear—when she was faced with a challenge that frightened her, she had learned she must do it because the fear was an indicator that an unforgettable experience was awaiting her; another said she spent too much time alone, that doing things like visiting the north and participating in experiences such as watching her companions skin and cut up a freshly killed caribou was so important as a writer.

I feel the same (although I have no desire to help cut up a caribou!). Writers write about experiences. Our material comes from a wealth of stored up images and people and places—when our tank is empty, we have nothing to use and our writing can become stale and old instead of vibrant and powerful.

My talented writer friend Maxine Spence inspires me in a lot of ways; in particular, her dedication to a yearly personal retreat has helped me realize that I can do this, as well. I’ve decided to make this dream part of my visualization board—another new thing I am incorporating into my life.

But a retreat takes time to plan. After last night’s documentary, I asked myself how I could do this now.

I usually dedicate one afternoon a week to having fun as an artist, inspired by Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. Today is it. Because of last night’s show, I adapted my plans. Maybe I can’t get away for a few days right now, but I can take a short drive and find a place to pull over and marvel at the beauty of the freshly-fallen snow in the fields. Maybe I’ll write and maybe I won’t. That isn’t always the point. What is important is getting out of my office and adding fresh images to my tank that I can draw from when I am writing.

So, early this afternoon I think I will head west. I have a rough idea of where I’d like to go but that may change, which is part of the fun! I’m leaving lots of time for this adventure so I can enjoy it, snowy roads and all.