On Writing


Each day is a list to climb. Mostly mountainous. Time is full…and so is my brain and my belly and my dreams. I stop working on the computer and take a walk to get out of my head and fingertips…to engage my legs and skin in an activity with nature. I fall into bed sometimes still vibrating and unable to sleep or already in dreamland by the time my head hits the pillow. I spray the sheets with essential oils to hold me in place: bergamot, ylang ylang, lemon…Peri-menopause is a monster I’m facing more and more. Whose body is this? Whose face? This hair? Nuh-uh. I don’t recognize the face, the body in the reflections…yet I write on.

Workshops with high school students. Classes with poets and flowers. Poetry in witness and relief. These are the things I’m doing. All the things wrap tenderly around creative output. Even laying on the sofa with the family, the dogs, watching Stranger Things, season 4, or The Offer…or Better Things…all of it nudges or slams with creativity. It is an honour to be a creative…among other creatives…

The words are choppy today. Fitting. I’m dragging strips and pages into my new poet laureate website…trying to figure out blogs and easier ways to handle social media…that my intuition poo-poos at every turn. Is it necessary? Important? What are the losses if I escape from that form of communication? Is it okay to request only email or phone communication? What is this guilt, this slippery fear of misconnection?

The desire to do nothing but read for pleasure is sliced off like a limb under a sword. I keep telling myself…soon…soon. Thing is, I’m in charge of soon. Of never reaching it. Of taking hold.

I turned 44. This is a good number. Meaningful. We ate delicious food. We watched Top Gun Maverick at the theatre…that dream to meet Mr. Cruise shot up like an F-18 in a dog fight maneuver. We looked through photos of my labour for Jett – he turned 16. We share the same day of birth…We counted down the hours, minutes of his delivery and I remembered when he was placed on my chest, our hearts heaving…

It’s taking me longer to respond to emails, to comments, to likes…I’m feeling guilty, frustrated. There’s so much to acknowledge…inside and out. All the things are taking just a big longer….it’s okay. It’s a new flow, right?

It’s spring, but the summer heat is flexing. I love it. Boob sweat be welcomed!

All the things…the navigation…the holding and the letting go…the kindness up against the cruelty…choose kindness….

Outside my window, a beautiful dog, some kind of doodle, was being walked, and then – it stopped. Sat. Waited. Its owner sat down beside it, gave it some love…What a vision – stop, sit, exchange some love. Indeed, all the things are laced with love.

Can I write you a poem?

If you’re coming to Art in the Park this weekend at Willistead, do stop by the writing room! There’ll be poetry and fun stuff for sale.

Here’s all the Art in the Park INFO – ticket costs, hours, vendors…

See you there!

What is done in love is done well.

Vincent Van Gogh


3 thoughts on “ALL THE THINGS

  1. Did Jett open the box of stuff we all wrote for when he turned 16 ? I’d like to see what my mom wrote ? ________________________________


  2. Wonderful Vanessa! You express the writer’s angst and joy so well!

    I went today, but could not find parking! Tomorrow, I’ll go early, park at Taloolas, And walk! See you then!!

    Sent from my iPad



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