Hello big heart.

At the end of Grade 11, my very sweet boyfriend wrote in the back of my yearbook, in tiny script, as if no one could read it but me…

Hi Lovely.

Are you too tired to write? Am I projecting my problems onto you? I am so tired right now. All my ideas feel floppy, and I don’t have the energy to dream beyond them.

On our staff website, where we keep class plans and training notes and resources, we have a big doc called, “Just Because It’s Beautiful Doesn’t Mean It Belongs.”

We were so excited for our Community Bonfire tonight. We’ve been watching the weather like a bunch of bandits since Kim first noticed yesterday that it wasn’t looking good. Now here we are, turning this train around.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the word “welcome.”

It comes from two Old English root words: “Wil” which means pleasure, and “Cuman” which means to arrive.

Coach Kim here, to talk to you about rhythm.

Sometimes I hear writing compared to exercise, especially a marathon…

A couple of years ago, Britt said to me, “When I make it to 10 years at Firefly, I want a party.”

I loved that gusto and I held her words close to my heart.

What comes to mind when you think about yourself at your most awkward?

For me, it’s that picture right there. That look, like I have no idea what the world is. That tea towel, tied around my neck like the biggest bib on earth.

Last week, I woke up with a small tug, clear as a sunbeam. It was the urge to write.

It had been a while since I’d felt it. This winter has been a mess of stresses, and I’ve been racing around with my little bucket…

Last weekend I was driving home from our Winterfire retreat, and my ears filled with honking geese, a sound that always softens me. Then I looked up and saw V after V of them flying, ragged and determined, across the pale sky, and I realized — it’s February.

As a kid, I loved playing hide and seek.

I loved the breathless joy of being tucked out of sight, behind a curtain or under a bed, ears pricked for footsteps. I loved the sheer aliveness of being suspended between invisible and visible, waiting for the sudden reveal.  

Begin here: I’ve got nothing.

I had big ideas about sending you a banger of a newsletter this January. I started the year with an unexpected swell of inspiration and drive.

Even though I won’t send it right away, I’m writing you this early on January 1st, while the whole world — or so it seems — is still still sleeping.

Here we are, on the darkest of the year.

According to my weather app, the sun will rise today at 7:48am, shortly after this arrives in your inboxes, and will set at 4:43pm.

Do you need to exhale?

We are all holding so much right now.

Hi hi hi!  

We’ve all heard it, right? Writing is a chore, a long painful task, and that — and this line is attributed to too many writers to count — “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

There’s an idea that’s always irked me in mainstream writing inspiration.

It goes something like this — if you don’t write it, someone else will, and it will be too late.

On one hand… sure? This could happen…

I’ve shared a few times my deep dream of opening a writing retreat centre in Southern Ontario. This vision has been close to my heart my whole adult life, I can hardly remember a version of myself without it.