Author Archives: pryan

Taking Stock

Image from Cindy at pixabay: https://pixabay.com/photos/chicken-noodle-soup-4742070/

This week a friend asked me what I liked about cooking. I gave her a predictably long-winded response that ranged from my fascination with the beautiful chemistry of roasting cauliflower to the frivolous delight of picking out seasonally-appropriate paper napkins – the latter a habit that my daughter would call “bougie,” and, well, she’s not wrong. I tried to capture the specific brand of joy that cooking brings me in a previous post, but this past week, my friend’s question felt especially relevant as I returned to cooking in my kitchen after an eight week unplanned hiatus. My real answer is the same as it was years ago: for me, cooking is a reflexive act. It gives me a structured (and mercifully, time-limited) space to let my mind wander without my usual judgment and pragmatic attempts at redirection. As I chop and stir and taste, and occasionally wave tea towels at the smoke detector while it blares the now familiar soundtrack to my culinary experiments, I find I am able to sort through a surprising amount of internal gunk. My kitchen is the place where I can sit comfortably and think about the people and things that need my attention without dissolving into a full-scale panic. All things that seem frightening and impossible in the 3 a.m. darkness somehow feel manageable as I wield my knife on the butcher board and listen to the sounds of my family pretending to do homework between touchdowns. While I can’t say I’ve found a recipe for world peace in my soup pot, I have managed to work through some thorny emotional issues while slicing and dicing. The kitchen is where I find my centre of gravity; the place where I take stock of things when the world feels like it’s closing in.

In mid-August, I broke my ankle. The circumstances will not surprise anyone who knows me: I slipped on the grass hill at my church, moments after enjoying a lovely summer evening concert. The churchwarden in me delights in reporting that I was carrying the donation box when I fell, sliding rather inelegantly down the small incline that leads to the parking lot. I have a slightly hazy but mortifying memory of shiny toonies rolling around me as I landed on the asphalt. I watched as twenty-dollar bills floated gently around me like manna from the sky as I tried unsuccessfully to maneuver my foot from its alarming position under my tush.  It was, as they say, a scene.

Flash forward eight weeks. My daughter leaps from the couch to give me an “up top” high five and bear hug as I descend the stairs for the first time without my walking boot. My son is characteristically more restrained, but in his outstretched hand and quiet “Dap me up, mum,” (what that mean anyway?) I sense both pride and deep relief. His gentle eyes cheer me on as I make my way to the kitchen and begin, ever so slowly, to take stock.  I open the fridge and announce, to no one in particular, that it’s time to get cooking.

~~~

Words feel inadequate to describe the last eight weeks. I still swing wildly from the feeling that my injury has radically shifted my perspective on All The Things to the sense that nothing at all has changed.  It has been humbling to realize that while I wax poetic about the meaning of my broken foot, my middle aged bones have have quietly gotten on with the work of fusing together, albeit with the some help from a talented surgeon and some high grade titanium hardware. As expected, I’ve had the full gamut of emotions since that night. I’ve felt profound relief that the surgery went well and have been thankful for the excellent medical care that I have received at every step. These feelings have existed alongside my recurring bouts of anger, frustration and sadness as I navigate the daily challenges of my recovery.  Some days have been worse than others: one night my kids texted me a photo of the 40 yard line as they cheered from our usual seats at the Argos game. That sparked a crying jag that lasted the entire fourth quarter (thankfully, the Argos still crushed it).

Some emotions have been harder to understand. I admit to feeling twinges of awkwardness when well-meaning friends and family remark on my progress. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think it’s rooted in a sense that my healing has occurred not because of me, but in spite of me. To be clear, I’m proud of the way I’ve stuck with my challenging (read: tortuous) physio exercises and I believe my husband when he reminds me that I’m pretty damn good at doing hard things. Yet when I think back on the last two months, I can’t help but feel that the work of recovery was not really just mine. I think of those tender days immediately after my surgery when, ensconced in my basement, I sat while loved ones brought a steady supply of food, flowers, treats, cards, puzzles and other delights to lighten my load and keep me laughing. I know with certainty that my healing was made possible by a string of ordinary kindnesses that stretched from my basement couch to my back door. My recovery was the collective work of a motley but beautiful crew of saints and sinners who showed up day after day, loving me back to my own two feet, and caring for me in a thousand different ways.  It was the work of my doctor friend in my congregation who helped get me off the hill that night and into my car. It was the work of the many nurses, technicians and doctors who would come after her to mend the ugly broken bits and sew up seeds of hope along with my stitches.  It was the work of beloved friends and family who showed up with birthday cake and dice games, and who cheerily drove me to my pre-op appointment (and importantly, enthusiastically supported request to stop on the way home for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese).  It was the work of my beautiful husband and two teenagers who never once complained about my relentless demands for coffee and lime bubly, and who kept my spirits and my body upright when I needed it the most. It was the work of a whole community of people who prayed with me and for me, reminding me that God was with me in the basement and in my mess, not to mention all the places in between.

Last night, on the eight week anniversary of my injury, it made my way up the church hill on my own for the first time. I joined twenty others for our weekly Campfire Compline. In the Christian tradition, Compline is the office of evening prayer.  Its name comes from a Latin word meaning “completion,” and it’s a beautiful and reflective way to close out the day. One might think of it as a liturgy of taking stock, and giving ourselves and the concerns of our day over to God as we welcome in the darkness. Needless to say, it’s my favourite form of prayer.

As I slowly and tentatively made my way up the stone steps to the hill, I felt my fear give way to gratitude. No doubt, part of it was the sheer thrill of being able to finally walk up the steps on my own, but there was much more to it.  As I watched the group assemble quietly around the fire, I was overcome with awareness of the boundless well of love and support that has surrounded me these past eight weeks.  I stood for a moment to take it all in, trying to remember the words of the Prayer of St. Patrick, which I learned as a child. I could only remember the first few lines..Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me but somehow, it felt like the exactly the right prayer for that moment. After a while, I made my way into the circle, warming my hands around the blazing fire that my daughter helped to build, and beaming at Gus the dog, who had sauntered up for an ear scratch. 

A little later, as I listened to the Psalmists heed their ancient prescriptions for living well, I took some quiet comfort in the knowledge that even the strongest trees that are planted by water sometimes need help. While I can’t say I am grateful for my broken ankle, I am grateful for the ways that this experience has helped me to take stock, and see the breathless beauty around me, even amidst the broken parts. It’s a pretty nice view, and even better from the kitchen.

April-ish Round Up

The azalea bush on my neighbour’s lawn is in full bloom, which is one of my favourite parts of spring. It’s planted near the sidewalk under the dappled sun of their giant maple tree, which makes for ideal growing conditions. I love their bright purplish-pink flowers — just showy enough to be impressive, but still with a delicate texture that keeps them humble. Azaleas are known for their quick blooming season (sometimes only a week or two!), so I’m enjoying the show while I can. I’m especially happy that I can see it from my home office window.

My datebook reminds me that I am now a third of the way through my sabbatical. The time is flying faster than I hoped but I have few complaints: it’s been a remarkable and joyous season, and I still feel very grateful for the chance to regroup and move in some new and fun directions. Below are a few highlights of the last few months.

  • I was successful in securing a small grant from the Research and Awards Committee of York University Libraries for my original research project, tentatively titled Exploring the affective dimensions of transitioning from subject to functional roles in academic libraries. My project explores the experiences of academic librarians who have transitioned from subject specialist roles to functional roles as part of an organizational restructuring. I’m excited to begin this work and am now awaiting approval by the York Research Ethics board. It’s nice to have this project finally taking shape.
  • We spent March Break in Pittsburgh! I was headed there to attend ACRL and decided to bring the whole family. Pittsburgh was unexpectedly wonderful: a fun, walkable city with a neat arts scene, great food and wonderful views of the bridges all around. We had a great time even though the Penguins got trounced by the Montreal Canadians, much to my son’s dismay.
  • I finished up my last course for my Certificate of Theology at Trinity College, Toronto School of the Theology. I’m taking a short break for the summer, but have applied tor a Master of Pastoral Studies at Knox College, beginning in September 2023. My part-time theological studies have been incredibly rewarding and I’m pleased about the possibility of continuing with a special focus on counselling and spiritual care.
  • I’m going to Israel! I’ve been co-leading the planning in my parish for a pilgrimage in April 2024. We are currently working with Craig Travel on the final itinerary, and I am thrilled that the Rev. Canon David Neelands has agreed to be our Tour Leader. David has been a priest in the Diocese of Toronto for over four decades, serving in over 17 parishes. He is also the former Dean of Divinity at Trinity College and a very well known scholar and thinker who has made many trips to the Holy Land. He’s also just a lovely and generous guy, so it’s going to be a to be a fabulous trip.
  • The #100 Branches project continues! My visits slowed down in March due to a combination of travel, crappy weather and deadlines with my research project, but I’m still keeping at it. I’ll do a more complete round up soon, but here are is a much-delayed recap of a few February visits.

Forest Hill Branch
Date: 06 Feb 2023
Arrival Time: 4:10 pm
Checked out: The Family vegetarian cookbook : 225 recipes everyone will love. (Reader, take note: everyone did not love.)

This is a fun branch — a good location with a bright and open design. I love the funky shelves with little illuminated ladder displays on the end of each row. It was quieter than I expected for a branch with a middle school next door, but the handful of teenagers at one table were talking loud enough to create a buzz. One of them appeared to be talking to his bookie, which all felt a bit disturbing as the mom of an almost 16 year old. I sat in a good spot overlooking Eglinton Avenue for awhile before wandering around a bit more. Oddly, there were no displays or Best Bet shelves; I guess Forest Hill patrons know what they want!

Barbara From Library
Date: 06 Feb 2023
Arrival Time: 5:26 pm
Checked out: The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison.

It was neat to arrive walking west at sunset — the branch was an imposing shadow against the burnt setting sun. The branch is nestled between a few churches and a Hebrew school at the back of a busy plaza. It’s a multi level branch with a few quite wonderful collections: the Jewish Mosaic collection (from the Armour Heights branch) is impressive, as well as the very large audio and large print collections. It was very quiet in every corner of the branch. The second floor is showing its age: the floral carpet is a certainly a choice and there’s a fair bit of dusty rose going on. Still, there’s a nice assortment of newish seating and tables and a computer centre, enclosed by glass. There’s also a Youth Hub on the 3rd floor which seemed to be popular judging by the foot traffic.

Leaside

Date: 08 Feb 2023
Arrival Time: 3:30 pm
Checked out: Think Again by Adam Grant.

I was looking forward to this one as I haven’t been here since its renovation. I walked into find a Christmas book display near the front counter, which I found odd but slightly comforting given the festive Christmas geese that still grace my front window. The branch was moderately busy with an impressively wide range of ages milling about. The children’s area was quite full, with handfuls of school kids and a few grandparents trying desperately to corral toddlers. This branch had the ignoble honour of being the one where I encountered the most obnoxious patron to date. I watched as a woman spent nearly 25 minutes loudly summoning the front desk clerk back and forth to help her (unsuccessfully) interpret her flashing computer screen. I think I even saw her snap her fingers a few times. Not a good look, Leaside.

#100Branches Project

January Round Up

It’s mid February! Impossible yet true. Six weeks into sabbatical and I can confirm that shoulders feel much better in their rightful place below the neck, as opposed to hunched up to the ears.

My fears about feeling restless and disoriented by the radical change in schedule have not come to pass. It’s taken some time to get sorted, but I feel good about how this year is shaping up. Perhaps it is a function of better planning, a wider (and hopefully more generous) perspective on things and more realistic goals. My part-time studies at the Toronto School of Theology have helped too, and I’ve found deep learning and joy in my courses and in the communities that I have found here. One of the best parts about seminary is that there are a lot of second career students. Many in my cohort have had already had long and well-established careers, and a good number have given up quite a bit to take this strange path. I think this makes a big difference to the learning environment, and there’s a generosity and openness among students that I find quite moving. Although there is still some jockeying and competition among the MDiv cohort, especially with those who are hoping to be considered for postulancy, the vibe has been a nice change from the culture of competition and scarcity that characterizes much of academia. I encounter less of this in my role as a librarian, but it’s still in the water.

January went by very quickly, but I did manage to do some good thinking about the research design for my major project, and am currently putting together my ethics review application. I also caught up with a number of friends over lunches and teas, and have been stretching my edges leading new things in my church community. I also made good progress on my #100Branches project! Here’s a round up of my January visits.

[George Locke] (https://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/locke/)
Date: 14 January 2023 (Saturday)
Arrival Time: 12:27 pm
Checked out: Paul: a biography by N.T. Wright

Recently re-opened from a renovation, this one floor branch reading room is spacious and bright, and even on a Saturday, it was very quiet. The adult fiction and non-fiction shelves were immaculate, and every shelf has a single face out display title at the end of each row, which is a nice touch. The children’s area was spacious and bright but completely empty, which I chalk up to it being very close to nap time.

I snagged one of the best seats alone at the round table next to a large semi-circular window overlooking Yonge street. The view was spectacular. It helped that it was a near perfect winter day, just a few degrees below zero with the bright sun high in the sky and the morning snow still crisp and fresh. I sat there undisturbed for about an hour, people watching and flipping through cookbooks. (I have been storing herbs incorrectly all my life, it seems).

On the way out, I noticed a lovely metal sculpture hung high on the west wall, right above the fiction section. It’s dedicated to Louise Birch, first head of the Locke branch. I don’t know anything about Louise but it made me happy to see it, and to think that maybe her family or friends come in once awhile to take a look at it and remember her.

Riverdale
Date: 18 January 2023
Arrival Time: 4:45 pm
Checked out: Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole by Susan Cain

I walked over from the Crow’s Theatre after seeing a wonderful production of André Alexis’ Fifteen Dogs with my sister. Approaching on foot from the east, Riverdale has an imposing entrance.  I walked around to get my bearings, then settled in one of the bright orange arm chairs facing east on Broadview. The branch was moderately crowded but quiet, save the gentle buzz of headphones from the man sitting next to me.  The building is showing its age but has some nice features: a good sized children and teens area, and a large programming room.  It also has comfortable looking study rooms, all of which were empty. The English fiction collection is small but well curated, but the Chinese and Vietnamese collections are the real stars of the show at this branch. I also noticed a small reference collection that was almost entirely comprised of Grade 11 and 12 math textbooks.

Parliament St
Date: 18 January 2023
Arrival Time: 6:20 pm
Checked out: Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy by Anne Lamott

I hadn’t planned on this visit, but stumbled on this branch on my walk back to Yonge Street from Riverdale. It’s a large, bright bustling branch and with at least 35 people on the main floor, it was the most crowded one I had visited to date. All the public computers were in use, and it was tricky to find a spot at one of the large study tables. The bookshelves in the main reading area are half-sized (3 shelves high), which makes for nice sight lines. The branch has a very impressive collection of Indigenous-authored titles along with fairly large Chinese and Adult Literacy collections. It was surprisingly quiet given the number of people on site. I checked out some of the displays on the way out, which were nicely curated. I decided to pass on checking out the Youth Hub on the 3rd floor, figuring I wasn’t quite the target demographic.

Northern District
Date: 30 January 2023
Arrival Time: 4:05 pm
Checked out: Canadian Whisky, 2nd Edition. The New Portable Expert by Davin de Kergommeaux.

Northern District is my home branch, and I’m very fond of it. It has been a more or less a bi-weekly destination for my whole family for over fifteen years, and it’s been neat to see my kids starting to head there occasionally after school to hang out friends and pretend to do homework. I was having one of those low energy Mondays where nothing was coming together, so late in the afternoon I hauled out my thermal layers and ventured out the cold, damp wind to walk over.

After discretely checking for any sign of the aforementioned kids, I settled into a table at the front near the Best Bets display. I watched what I assume was a mom introduce a shy teenager to a new tutor, and then pretended not eavesdrop as the tutor grilled him on his study habits and interests. After a while, I wandered over to the teen section, which was completely full and shockingly loud. Miraculously, there appeared to be homework being done at least a few tables. In the programming room, a handful of parents and preschoolers were assembled to learn about (and likely destroy) Snap Circuit sets , and I felt a small pang of nostalgia for those bittersweet days. I quickly snapped out of it, and spent the rest of the visit reading about Canadian whisky from a book that was oddly included in a “Make a New Year’s Start” display.

Lillian H. Smith #100Branches

Lillian H. Smith
Date of visit: 10 January 2023
Arrival Time: 1:32 pm
Checked out: Our Missing Hearts by Celeste Ng

I had to get some books for my course at Knox College from Victoria’s Emmanuel College Library so after climbing the twisty wooden staircase for my books, I spent the morning there catching up with my readings. The shelves were pristine, and the you could hear a pin drop. It’s a bit of a departure from the library where I work, which isn’t a slag, just an observation about funding and class and how it pretty much rules everything and anything.

Afterwards, I wandered down St. George street, bobbing in and out of UofT students lining up for poutine and dumplings. I made my way to College Street and to the Lillian H Smith branch. I stood outside for a minute to admire the eagles flanking the front door and and the bike share racks on the east side of the branch. If I can ever summon my nerve to bike downtown again, this might be a great option for getting around to branches when the weather improves.

The Lillian H. Smith branch is well known for its children’s collection, both circulating and rare. The main floor children’s area is large and brightly lit, if a little dated (perhaps a smidge above “moderately dingy”). There’s a lot of neat art work on the walls and a good size area reserved for families with reading tables that could double as climbers. It was empty, save one very earnest adult who was attempting to read a picture book to a toddler. He in turn was in turn, singularly engrossed in ripping up a large envelope. I nodded silently in sympathy — at that age, my daughter’s favourite part of visiting the library was pressing the water fountain button.  I suspect that may still be true.

I made my way upstairs and after a few laps of the collection, I decided on the best seat, which I determined to be at one of the three large group tables overlooking College St. It was all pretty quiet, except for a man at the next table snoring irregularly, but very loudly. I sat for awhile, making notes and taking in the view, then did another lap around the 2nd floor to check things out. By my count, 5 of the 22 people on the second floor were using a print title, while the rest stared quietly at laptops and phones.  Seems about right these days.

I took the elevator to the 4th floor to check out the Osbourne Collection. I spent a good while wandering through the current exhibit on Fairies, which was great fun. An impressive collection, and a great branch to begin my #100Branches project.

#itworked

It took two days of fussing and enough cursing to make a truck driver blush, but I’ve managed to get iA Writer to publish automatically to my blog. It should have been very simple, but like most things, it wasn’t for a bunch of silly reasons that were my fault. Still, Huzzah! Here we are.

I purchased iA Writer last year but couldn’t find the time to use it, which ironic as my goal was to limit distractions to find more time to write.  Now that I am less distracted, I am enjoying it a lot!

100 Branches.

On January 1st, 2023, I began a one year sabbatical. It comes at a very good time. I just completed a four and a half year term as the Director of the Content Development & Analysis Department at York University Libraries. It was a rewarding role in many respects, but the combination of a large scale library restructuring in 2018 and a global pandemic made for a more intense management experience than I expected. It left me pretty tired and if I’m honest, a bit unsure of where to go next. I am very grateful for the chance to catch up with research projects that I had to defer or outright abandon during the Director gig, but I’m even more grateful for the time and space to think more deeply about things that interest me. It’s particularly nice to not be checking email all the time.

I have a number of projects and plans for this year, and my hope is to use this neglected space to document my progress on some of them. One fun thing I hope to do this year is to visit all 100 branches of the Toronto Public Library. This idea has been kicking around in my head for years,. and this year feels like a good time to try it.

I’ve set up a few criteria to make things interesting: I must spend at least 30 minutes and check out a single title in each branch and, wherever possible, use public transit to get there. It’s an ambitious goal, but with careful planning, I think it’s doable. It’s a way to add some structure to my weeks and get to know my city again on foot, but I think it will also be great fun. My very first job was as a student page at TPL (the York Woods branch) and given all the good things that came out that, it feels like the right project. A professional pilgrimage of sorts. At the very least, it will be something to write about.

Picture of a handmade mug.

The Mug

Last week at the cottage, I spotted this handmade mug at a wonderful gift shop we visited on the way into town. I did what I always do when debating the merits of a “just because” purchase: I picked it up, admired it for a few minutes, and then launched into a silent but heated conversation in my head about whether or not I needed a new mug. It was a futile argument, since no one ever really needs a new mug, much like no one ever needs a new notebook. Or a new fountain pen.

After the requisite amount of internal fussing, I walked out of the shop empty handed. But as we made our way through the rest of our errands, I couldn’t stop thinking about the mug. It’s not just that it was beautiful to look at, or that its weight and size seemed particularly well equipped to contain the boldness of my morning dark roast. It wasn’t just that it was made in Canada by a woman artist, or that drinking from it each day would serve as a lovely reminder of this year’s cottage trip, which was especially good. While all of these things kept me thinking about the mug as I meandered through the aisles of the Bancroft Foodland, I also couldn’t help but feel that the image on it was whispering something to me about the shape of my own life and the ways I understand it as I prepared to turn the corner on a half century. Needless to say, we stopped into the shop on the way back home and bought the mug.

Back at the cottage, I stared at it for a good long while. For obvious reasons, I saw a cross at the centre, but as my daughter pointed out, it could just as easily be a tree. I love the way the four points are pulled together gently by connecting strokes that twist and turn into each other, like a Celtic knot. I noticed that the connecting lines aren’t solid — the artist has put in breaks at the points where the strokes loop back into each other in unexpected directions. When you take a step back and look again, the breaks become less noticeable, and a coherence emerges from the lines as they slope gently towards the centre. What you can’t see in the picture is that top rim is slightly askew, forcing me to do a double take as I set it down on the table. The imperfection only adds to its charm, reminding me that this is a thing made by human hands. All of the features seem at once intentional and accidental, which is a lot like how understand the design of my life.

As crazy as it sounds, buying this mug has helped to shift something internally. Like many others, I have struggled during the waves of the continuing pandemic to maintain the necessary connections to myself and others that give rise to creativity and wholeness. Unlike those who managed to figure out how to flourish creatively amidst repeated lockdowns, I more or less lost the ability, and the desire, to write my way through the difficult and the beautiful. And I don’t mean just on this blog, which has been remarkably good-natured about the chronic neglect it has suffered. My internal landscape has been noticeably dulled by the isolation and uncertainty of the last two years. And although I seemed to have moved beyond languishing, I find I still can’t quite summon up the required energy or discipline to regularly translate my feelings into coherent sentences, much less ones that I think might appeal to my faithful readership of five. It has felt easier, perhaps even safer, to move through these the long days and weeks and months by keeping my focus squarely on day to day tasks, checking my work email a thousand times a day, and sticking within the structured and imposed demands of essays and assignments. Save the occasional experiment with preparing intercessions for Sunday services, my proverbial inkwell has been pretty damn dry. But, staring at this mug for the last week has somehow made it possible, indeed even essential, to at least try to make sense of the world in my own words again, and has made me want to recommit to making time and space to attend to the messy contours of my mind. Hell, maybe even attend to this blog.

As I sip my morning coffee from my new mug on the start of my 50th birthday, I’m aware of a whole host of things on my heart, but some feelings are clearer than others. Amidst the predictable fears and concerns of middle age and hovering just slightly above the chronic worry and existential angst that has always defined me (and likely always will), I find myself resting comfortably in a deep and abiding sense of gratitude. Gratitude for all that has been, and all that is to come. I am acutely aware of how this might read like an annoying hashtag #blessed sentiment, but I will have to risk the eye rolls and judgment of my peers because I honestly don’t have a better word for it. It’s not just a garden variety kind of gratitude, though. It’s the kind that you feel deep in the marrow of your bones, the kind that makes you quite sure you have a soul. It’s a gratitude that stems from knowing that no matter what lies ahead, you have already had the chance to touch the sky more than a few times, and you know what it feels like to be loved and to love freely, even when that love ends painfully by chance or by choice. It’s a gratitude that comes from realizing that even though your body doesn’t look or feel like quite like you hoped, it’s the same strong and capable body that has been faithfully carrying you towards the centre for fifty years, towards communion with yourself and with others. It’s the kind of gratitude that can help offset the effects of a global pandemic that has robbed us all of too much for too long, and the kind that can steady you against the onslaught of human brokenness that passes as morning news. It’s a gratitude that makes you want to send work emails that say “Hey, thanks for being in my life” rather than “How’s that project coming?” It’s the very kind that makes you want to shout and sing and cry at the thought of everything and everyone that has brought you to this moment without shame or embarrassment, and that compels you invite a ridiculous amount of people to an Argos game to share in the full catastrophe that is your life. Mostly, it’s the kind of gratitude that helps you look past the disastrous state of your living room to see, with fresh eyes, the holy splendidness of your one wild and precious life, and the staggering beauty of those who have helped to shape its imperfectly perfect design. It’s the gratitude of knowing you are loved, just as you are, by a creator whose grace and mercy is boundless, and that you too have the capacity to love that way, even if you fail spectacularly at it on most days.

And even if this feeling of gratitude only lasts until you finish the last drop of coffee and you look up to find that it’s well past noon and the kids still haven’t had breakfast, it’s still enough. Maybe even more than enough.

I’m very glad I bought the mug. Here’s to the next fifty.

Image of a filled syringe.

Jab 2.


It’s been ten months since my last post. I wish I could say that the Muse has kept up her end of the bargain, showing up each morning with an expansive smile just as the sparrows enter the fourth movement of their treetop symphony. I wish I could say that I have a string of unpublished drafts waiting to be wrangled into prime time, or that thoughts have been pre-boiling in my fiery caldron of creative energy. I wish I could say–as I might have said last spring–that I’ve been far too busy for luxuries like writing and am using my free time to take up my employer’s Certified Wellness Wednesday Strategies for Self-Care in a Pandemic [barf].

But of course, none of this is true.

The reality of the last ten months has been a lot more meh. My morning routine has generally been the same. I wake at an ungodly hour in full throttle curse at the aforementioned sparrows, tossing and turning hard enough to regularly launch my back-up pair of glasses from my nightstand. I eventually give up the fight for more sleep and stumble down to flip on the coffee. As the pot gurgles away in the darkness, I quietly renew my determination to use this time to read or write or think or pray about things that have absolutely nothing to do with work, virtual schooling, or COVID-19. I pour my coffee and settle into my favourite chair, and then proceed to spend the next three hours on things relating to work, virtual schooling or COVID-19. What can I say? The road to meh is paved with good intentions.

Given my early morning routine, it’s not surprising that on most days, I feel spent by noon. The combination of back to back Zoom meetings and fitful sleeps (yay midlife hormones!) has given way to a chronic low-level tired that while not debilitating, has not exactly been fertile ground for creativity. Lunchtime walks and late afternoon power naps (along with some small but potentially life-changing steps in a new direction which I will eventually hope to the courage to write more about) have been enough to keep me feeling more or less okay. But despite my daily attempts at gratitude for the many layers of privilege that have helped me withstand the ravages of the pandemic better than most, the persistent meh has been my constant emotional soundtrack — a bit like COVID-themed muzak.  It’s as if both my imagination and my affect—the very things that my introverted self needs to keep solidly connected to the world and the people around me– have been in a deep freeze: technically alive, but largely inaccessible. Thanks to the New York Times, I now know that the clinical term for this particular brand of meh is languishing, and while it’s been comforting to know that I’m in good company, the diagnosis has brought little in the way of actual relief.

But this week feels different. Noticeably different. I had my second jab three days ago and even in my AZderna induced fatigue, I am starting to see the rich colours of my imagination returning. Yesterday, for the first time in ten months, I did not immediately delete the “poem a day” in my inbox. And this morning, after two full cups of coffee and the requisite amount of futzting about aimlessly on social media, I mustered up the courage to see if I could remember how to log into this damn blog. (Praise Jesus for password managers). Two hours and six clunky but recognizable paragraphs later, I am still here plunking away on my keyboard, (and uncharacteristically late for my first meeting of the day). I don’t know exactly what this it all means or it would survive a fourth wave, but I do know that after ten months of dull gray whetever and six billion episodes of  “What the Fuck am I Watching” on Netflix, it feels very, very good.

Sometimes we find hope in the conviction of things not seen (hat tip to St. Paul)  but other times, is is delivered directly into our left arm. I am not complaining.


School Supplies.

“How about lined paper?” he said. “They’ll probably need some of that, right?”

I nodded sympathetically as we backed out of the driveway. “Sure,” I said, “might as well pick some up.”  We drove in silence for a while before he blurted out, “And pencils. Mechanical pencils. Everyone needs those.”

I resisted the urge to point out that we had at least two unopened packs in the craft bin and that my strong hunch was that neither of our kids would need much more than a keyboard and monitor until at least December. Instead, I just nodded again.  “Yup, better get some of those too.  You never know.”

I could completely relate to his irrational urgency to buy school supplies, even if almost none will be needed this year. I could relate because my own love of back to school shopping has been known to verge on the obsessive. I mean honestly, what’s not to love? Row upon row of neatly stacked piles of paper standing sentry, ready for duty. Pens and markers of every conceivable colour nestled cozily in their plastic spheres, waiting patiently for just the right hands to pluck them from obscurity.  Bright neon post its and highlighters battling it out for attention on the shelf, while the staplers maintain the quiet dignity that comes from knowing your purpose. Bin after bin of push pins, rulers, glue sticks, paper clips, sharpeners, erasers. For nerdy types like me, it’s better than the buffet at the Mandarin. Well, almost. And then there’s the notebooks. So many beautifully fresh notebooks.  Honestly. I can’t even.

As we walked into the store and slowly followed the floor arrows to the back to school aisle, it struck me that the whole exercise was just our way of hanging on to a little bit of normal this fall. It was a way to remind ourselves that we will someday return to these time honoured rituals of return without the layers of dread and anxiety that have been our constant companion these last few weeks.

Like all parents, we wrestled with the back to school decision all summer. We went back and forth and back again, trying our best to follow the science and our guts, even if neither are particularly reliable right now.  After the requisite amount of agonizing we settled on the virtual school option, but it could have easily went the other way, and still might. Our kids aren’t thrilled about it, but a few long talks about the need to make imperfect decisions with imperfect information has helped a little. If this year has taught my kids anything, it’s that there’s isn’t aways a right answer to everything. Sometimes all you can do is summon your courage and make the decision that feels the most right for your family, then commit to living as well as you can with the consequences. I wish it didn’t take a global pandemic to make this point, but it’s not an unimportant lesson. I’m so proud of the way our kids have accepted our imperfect decision-making with grace and ease, and I am grateful for their willingness to roll right along with the gong show that has been 2020.

As we gear up for whatever this fall will bring, it strikes me that we may need a different set of school supplies this year. Instead of the fancy lunch container, we might all be better off with a family size pack of patience and stamina. Instead of the three hole punch, we might want to pre-order a pound or two of resilience and an extra large sense of humour. This might be the year to skip the three pack of binders, and maybe even the notebooks (oh, the horror!) and start sharing our stories with each other. Maybe instead of another device, we invest more in trying to mirror back to one another the kind of love, acceptance and tolerance that we all are all craving in this stupid, difficult, relentless year.

Maybe this September, we can fill those shiny new backpacks with more awareness of how every single one of us is carrying around a story of the last few months, and some are a hell of a lot heavier than others. It might be also be a very good time to try to shift our gaze even a little beyond our own discomfort and fear and look for ways to move through this season of uncertainty with more compassion, more openness, and more joy.  Our kids need it. Our teachers need it. Our neighbourhoods need it. The alternative is just so damn bleak, and I think this year has served up quite enough of that nonsense.

No matter what decision your family has made for this fall, know that it was exactly the right one. There is no right way to go back to school this year. So, grab that basket and fill it up as best you can with what you need, then line up the people you love who can help you carry it when the shit hits the fan, which it inevitably will. We’re all gonna need a little more kindness this year, so you might as well stock up now.

Oh, and don’t forget the pencils. Mechanical pencils. Because you just never know.

Permission Slip.

For anyone who needs this today.

You have permission.

You have permission to serve them a bowl of popcorn and a lime bubly for lunch. Three days in a row.

You have permission to pretend that you are unaware that they’ve been holed up comfortably in their bedroom fort for five hours watching back to back seasons of Heartland instead of tackling their french homework.

You have permission to admit that you spent an obscene amount of money on art supplies in Week Three of quarantine that have been touched exactly once since landing on your porch (to remove them from their packaging).

You have permission to admit that the pre-sleep routines you’ve carefully cultivated over the years to help your still reluctant sleeper settle each night have been abandoned by the single phrase: “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”  You have permission to admit that it is actually you who is comforted by her slow and steady breathing beside you in the night, even when her elbow is in your ear and her knees are wedged painfully into the small of your back.

You have permission to run the wash cycle three times because you can’t remember if the clothes inside are clean. And while you’re at it, you have permission to rescue your purple yoga pants from the dirty clothes hamper a final time because you can’t summon the energy to convince the twelve year old to carry it downstairs.

You have permission to define quality family time as nightly group viewings of RuPaul’s Drag Race. (Note: you will not regret this).

You have permission to remove the battery from the bathroom scale, and toss that fucker in the trash.  Then toss the scale in with it.

You have permission to show up to every morning department meeting and say, over and over, “I honestly don’t know.”

You have permission to say “no thanks” to the standing Zoom date you set up with your besties because some nights, you’d rather sink into a steaming hot bath and stare at the shadows on the wall until your kids have finally gone to bed (even if it’s your bed).

You have permission to toss aside the Booker Prize novels you ordered in Week Two and go right now and renew your online subscription to People magazine. You also have permission to spend an entire evening carefully combing through every instagram picture that Dan Levy and Reese Witherspoon have ever posted.

You have permission to make Ottolenghi’s mustard cheesy cauliflower six times in the last month because every bite makes you feel like might you just might make it.

You have permission to give up entirely on homeschooling and outsource that shit to the experts. Trust me on this one.

You have permission to acknowledge that exactly nothing about the last three months has been anything close to normal, and you have permission to stop pretending that anything is even remotely close to normal.

You have permission to do some other things, too.

You have permission to decide what it might look like for you and your family to re-engage with the world, however slowly. You have permission to feel as though you are not even remotely close to being ready to do that.  Or, you have permission to feel like you are ready to picnic naked in Trinity Bellwoods Park (but please don’t do that).

You have permission to feel that despite the tragedies of the last few months, a part of you has been grateful for more stillness. For more time to read and think, to play and to pray. You have permission to acknowledge that you realize that you are only now beginning to get to know the wonder of your family and that you are not all that anxious to get back to rushed meals squeezed in before Scout nights, swim lessons and church meetings.

You have permission to use this not-at-all-normal time to sit still long enough to finally listen to your own voice, and understand your own needs a bit better.

You have permission to use this time to finally acknowledge things you’ve been afraid to confront. You have permission to admit you might very well be in the wrong job, the wrong city, or in the wrong relationship. You have permission to stand up to the people and the things that continue to hurt you, and to entertain a world beyond what you’ve always been taught is possible for you. You have permission to finally answer the calls you’ve been terrified to answer.

You also have permission to change absolutely nothing at all.

You have permission to silently grieve the many losses of the last few months, or to find a community of like-minded souls to help you carry them. You have permission to sit and cry most nights, or to move constantly and energetically towards a different light. You have permission to let this awful year change you. You have permission to let this awful year change everything.  

You have permission to do all of this, and so much more.

And, you have permission to ask for some of that damn popcorn.