Jen Gilroy's Blog, page 16

Why do I write?

In a Facebook group this week, another writer asked: “Why do you write?” 

While the answer is different for each writer, the question made me think about the constants from when I first started my writing journey—enthusiastic and starry eyed—through to now—still enthusiastic but more realistic. 

Making sense of the world 

Making sense of the world I live in has always driven my need to write about it.

It’s also why I sometimes can’t easily separate reading from writing because in this area, the two are closely intertwined. 

From childhood, reading has helped me learn about the world. And when I started writing toward publication, being an avid reader made me a better writer. 

Reading teaches me about words, syntax, and how to tell a story. It also teaches me about human relationships, conflict, and emotion. 

And as an author, I seek to apply that learning on the page, all the while giving it my own twist. 

Lifelong learning

I’m the first to admit I’m easily bored, but in writing I’ve never had to limit my learning. 

From researching interesting jobs (in my book coming out later this year, the hero is a songwriter and his son is studying animation), to tackling advanced craft through specialist online courses, the only limits to my writing are self-imposed. 

Writing also gives me a vehicle to exercise my innate curiosity—the what, whys, where, and how that occupy my busy brain. 

Playing with words and language

As someone who has always loved words, writing for a living is like playing in the best sandbox ever.

While some find joy in cooking a complex dish, creating a garment, or fashioning items out of wood or another material, I find my joy using words to tell stories. 

Sometimes frustrating, often painful, but always meaningful, choosing words and shaping them into a narrative gives me a satisfaction I haven’t found through any other creative outlet. 

The core of who I am

The days when I don’t write are those when I’m not fully who I am. 

Even when I labored in the corporate trenches (with a boss who told me to “take an email” in an unfortunate echo of the autocratic boss in the now-classic film, 9 To 5), writing gave me an inexplicable sense of self. 

And whether I write for publication or not, the act of writing meets an innate need. Not only does it renew, stimulate, and challenge me but, and like the fictional characters I write about, it also helps me become the best possible version of myself. 

What I get back

As a published author, there is nothing better than receiving messages from readers. 

Not only those who encourage me to keep writing, ask about new books, or refer to my characters like friends, but those who share that a story has helped them through a tough time. 

For me, there is no higher compliment, and I’m touched and humbled to have a made a positive difference in someone’s life. 

Why I write…

Changes from day to day and season to season, but for me, writing has always been more necessity than indulgence—and a magic portal to hope, possibilities, and discovery. 

And when I’m sad, angry, or scared, it’s also both outlet and escape. 

At a fundamental level, when I write from my heart, I also find home.

And despite rejection (every writer’s gut-wrenching companion), the joy of writing never fails to deliver my very own happy ending. 

As for that boss who saw me as his “email writer” on call? Even if I eventually redeem them in fiction, there’s a bit of him in most of the anti-heroes I write. 

Because as this coaster on my desk (a gift from a friend) says: “Careful what you say, you may be in my next novel.” 

We writers are sneaky that way! 

Hunkering down for winter

I grew up in a Canadian city (profiled in a documentary “Colder Than Mars”) that is either celebrated, or depending on your perspective, reviled for the harshness of its winter weather.

Now I live near a place that this week garnered the dubious distinction as the world’s coldest capital city.

Yet, despite proximity to this season’s many beauties, I am not, by nature, a winter person.

As soon as autumn’s crisp air is but a faint memory, I settle in with thermal socks and heated blanket at the ready, a stock of tea and hot chocolate in the pantry, a winter “survival kit” in the trunk (boot) of my car, and industrial-size pots of moisturizer to protect against cold days and frosty nights. 

Perhaps because it’s been an especially bone-chilling few days with temperatures hovering around -37 Celsius, I realized I spend five months of the year ‘hunkered down.’ 

But since the Canadian winter is an inescapable part of my life, I then reminded myself to “count the pluses” (as my sweet mom used to say) instead of bemoaning the negatives. 

Books and Netflix

Cozy in my reading socks and with a warm Floppy Ears snuggled by my side, winter is a time to sit by the fire, read, watch films, and refill my creative well. 

So far in January, I’ve read five books, have two more in progress, and have also watched numerous Netflix shows—yay for the return of a new series of Grace and Frankie here in North America!

Candles

Eating by candlelight isn’t an exception in my house but an almost daily occurrence. 

After the night draws in, there’s nothing better than pulling the curtains and lighting a candle (or oil lamp).

Not only is it calming, but there’s something about that soft glow that encourages lingering over a meal and more family conversation too. 

Heat, hot water and indoor plumbing 

Back in the 1840s, my Irish ancestors settled near where I now live. Their long-ago log house, recorded in early census data, had none of the modern conveniences to which I’m accustomed. 

What would it be like to use an outdoor privy (outhouse) on frigid winter days, bathe (at most once a week) in a tub with water heated over a fire, or wrestle with a wood stove to cook family meals?

I’m grateful I don’t have to find out! 

Winter walks 

Wearing the right clothes (cue thermal long underwear), I find special contentment walking along a woodland path in winter, crisp snow crunching beneath my boots, and cold air sweeping life’s cobwebs away. 

And when I lived in England, and during rain-soaked walks from my daughter’s school to my then day job, I often longed for snowy woods—and now they’re on my doorstep.

Embracing the season

When there’s no prospect of a Caribbean beach in real life, I haul out an old CD and put Canadian music icon, Gordon Lightfoot’s “Song for a Winter’s Night,”on the player. 

So while I hunker down for winter (wrapped in the gorgeous shawl a dear friend sent me for Christmas), I also try to embrace and be grateful for this cozy time of simple pleasures.

And if all else fails?

Both books I’m currently working on are set in summer so at least in fiction I can retreat to a world where temperatures are balmy, flowers lush, and characters spend long, lazy days on the porch.

After all, no matter how long and harsh this winter season, there is always the gentle, if elusive, promise of spring.

A year to cultivate

In the past few weeks, my social media feeds have been dotted with posts from those who have chosen a particular word to guide them through 2019.

I’ve chosen a ‘word for the year’ since 2014 (read more here), and because I don’t usually make resolutions (and never in January), choosing a special word to refer back to has often given me a helpful point of focus, especially during difficult or troubling times

For 2019, ‘my word’ is cultivate. I come from generations of rural people but am not a gardener, and although my houseplants are thriving, I suspect it’s more due to good luck and judicious window placement than inherent horticultural skill. 

Yet, in the last few weeks of 2018, references to ‘cultivate’ were seemingly everywhere. 

My bedtime reading was Barbara Claypole White’s The Unfinished Garden, a women’s fiction novel where gardens are metaphors for character growth and change. 

And although it’s been many years since I studied French literature, while searching for something else I came across an online article about the eighteenth century French writer, philosopher, and historian Voltaire, still known for that famous phrase, “Il faut cultiver notre jardin” (translated as we must cultivate our garden, in other words, tend to our own affairs).

‘Cultivating’ also spoke to me in other ways including through devotional reading, holiday advertising, and an article about book marketing for authors.

For me, ‘to cultivate’ applies in many different contexts and after 2018, my year of courage, when I stepped out of my comfort zone to explore new directions in both life and writing, this year it’s time to nurture those nascent seeds.

In my writing, I want to continue to grow my craft, cultivating new skills, new ways of expressing my stories and, as I release both a new book and German translations of my Firefly Lake series, reach new readers and engage in new communities. 

I plan to cultivate health too, paying more attention to not only what I eat (Note to self: Limit mindless grazing!), but also my work-life balance, stress management, and asthma care.  

And I want to cultivate friendships old and new. As I grow older, loyal and trusted friends are more important than ever and like plants, those relationships need nurturing to not only survive but thrive. 

And not least, I’m cultivating my family, being open to new adventures and building on the steps we took at the end of last year to develop new coping tools and resources to help English Rose live her best possible life, despite ongoing medical challenges. 

Tech Guy doesn’t choose a word for the year, but he also comes from a rural background, although unlike me is a keen gardener. As such, he has plans for ‘cultivating’ of his own in 2019, starting with spring planting to replace the grass, trees, and shrubbery destroyed by construction work near our home.

Now if we can only prevent Floppy Ears from ‘cultivating’ too—digging holes in each muddy patch of ground she spots!

No matter how you mark the start of 2019, I wish you a year filled with good things, happy times, and books to read! 

A world of kindness

Several weeks ago, and to celebrate the first birthday of Back Home at Firefly Lake, I offered a giveaway on my Facebook author page. For a chance to win a signed paperback and holiday ornament, I asked my readers to leave a comment about a random act of kindness they’d either given or received.

With almost 200 entries, the response was both wonderful and heartwarming. In ways large and small, giving to others is alive and well amongst my readers, and I was touched by how these real-life ‘angels’ are making a positive difference to their families, friends, communities, and wider world.

After another troubling year of grim news headlines, this illustration of human goodness—and doing for neighbours as we would wish to have done to us—has helped me end 2018 with more optimism.  

In the past few months, there has also been a great deal of kindness (and angels) in my life.

At Holland Bloorview Kids Rehabilitation Hospital in Toronto, where English Rose was treated from November into December and the two of us lived for a month, the staff are, as we expected, consummate professionals.

Yet, they were also kind, offering compassionate words, hugs, and unfailing gentle consideration to patients and families in their care.

Also kind were the numerous community groups—choirs, bands, actors, puppeteers, and more—who entertained us at the hospital and brightened our lives.

And when we came home after that long and tiring month away, kind friends and neighbours had left us a homemade meal. That nourishment for our bodies was accompanied by a sweet ‘welcome home’ note that nourished our souls.

Yes, there are bad things happening in our world, but there are many kind things too and each of us, in our own lives, has the power to give and pass kindness along, and also be and advocate for changes we want to see.

My word for 2018 has been courage, and while I’ve indeed needed courage over the past twelve months, in those difficult times I’ve also experienced more kindness than I could ever have imagined.

I haven’t yet chosen a word for 2019, but it already holds some exciting things.

I’ll have a new book out (release date and title to be confirmed), and I’m looking forward to sharing it with you. The story features a wishing tree, a big Irish-American family, music, secrets and, not least, yummy treats since the heroine works in her family’s bakery.

I’m also thrilled and honoured that German rights to my Firefly Lake books have sold and the trilogy will be published in German translation beginning in April 2019 (now available for Amazon pre-order).

Here’s the German edition of the first book in the series, The Cottage at Firefly Lake. I have cover love!

Best of all, though, the Holland Bloorview treatment programme helped English Rose and our family immeasurably, and we have new tools, resources and new hope that English Rose is better prepared and supported to live her best possible life, even with ongoing medical challenges.

I’m taking a break from blogging over Christmas and New Year but will be back on 11 January 2019.

For those who celebrate it, I wish you a blessed Christmas, and to all, a joyful new year.

Thank you for your kindness in reading my blog and continuing to share in my life and writing. 

Take two characters: From Back Home at Firefly Lake to The Blue Castle (& a giveaway too)

This week, I celebrated the first birthday of Back Home at Firefly Lake, the third book in my Firefly Lake series—books that blend contemporary romance with women’s fiction and take place in a small Vermont town.  

As part of this celebration, I’ve written a guest post for my friend Susanna Bavin’s blog choosing two favourite characters, one from Back Home at Firefly Lake, and the other from The Blue Castle by Canadian author (better known for Anne of Green Gables), L.M. Montgomery.

Read the guest post on Susanna’s site here and, if you’re so inclined, leave a comment for us, too. 

Susanna lives by the sea in Wales but writes historical fiction (sagas for my British readers) set in the north of England. I’m currently reading and loving her new release, The Sewing Room Girl.

If you enjoy romantic women’s fiction and/or chick lit, I’m also currently participating in a giveaway with a number of other romance, women’s fiction, and chick lit authors.

Two lucky winners will receive a collection of romantic women’s fiction/chick lit (and some contemporary and historical romance) books too, plus the grand prize winner will also receive a new e-Reader.

Just for entering, you’ll also receive a collection of free reads.

You could win my book, Back Home at Firefly Lake, plus books from a number of authors I enjoy reading.

Click here to enter this giveaway, open internationally. (Ends 12 December 2018).

I’ll be back with a regular blog post just before Christmas, and my winter author newsletter comes out before the end of the month too. If you don’t already subscribe to that quarterly (and/or new release) e-mail list, you can do so here.

In the meantime, happy reading!

Home is where you make it

From tea in my favourite mug to so much more, I’m a homebody.

After many moves and other travel, I draw strength and comfort from living in a place where my roots run deep, and in a home where I’m surrounded by pictures, furniture, china, and family memories going back several generations.  

However, as most of you know, I’m currently away from home and in Toronto for a month while English Rose is treated at a rehabilitation hospital here.

I’ve spent the first two weeks in the condo where Tech Guy stays while he’s working in Toronto from Monday to Friday. From next week onwards, English Rose and I will be together in the hospital’s family accommodation.

I’m certainly not homeless, but I’m still ‘out of home’ and displaced from my usual space, routine, and comforts.

At home, from my back porch I see the spire of a church that dates from the 1880s. From the front porch, there’s another church spire, this one from a parish that traces its roots even earlier, to the 1820s.

In between are the homes of friends and neighbours—people who know me as “Jen Up the Hill,” mum to teen and dog, the woman who writes books, or the one who sings in a choir, takes ballet, or belongs to their book club.

I rarely step outside my house without someone waving at me, even if I don’t know them by name.

Here in Toronto, though, I’m a stranger.

Tech Guy’s apartment complex overlooks other buildings, most less than ten years old, and beyond them, a busy road where traffic rushes by 24/7.  

In the elevator and other common areas, people usually avoid eye contact, despite the persistent efforts of Floppy Ears to make friends.

And when I walk my happy hound, most of the time we’re traversing empty streets punctuated with deserted and now snow-rimmed patches of green space.

Tech Guy’s eighth floor apartment (filled with furniture that pre-dates our marriage twenty-two years ago, or which we acquired during our years in England) is comfortable and to some extent familiar, although very much a minimalist ‘bachelor pad!

Yet, precisely because I’m ‘out of home,’ I’ve realized that home truly is where I am and what I make it.

First and foremost, home for me is love and where Tech Guy, English Rose and Floppy Ears are.

But beyond my family, home means making a conscious effort, like Floppy Ears does, to engage with people here. The mom of the toddler recovering from brain surgery whom I met in the hospital’s family room, and the elderly woman with a pug dog living nearby whom I communicate with via smiles, nods, her rudimentary English and my non-existent Russian.

It’s being open to people I pass in the corridors of Tech Guy’s building, usually while diverting Floppy Ears from tracking the delicious cooking smells emanating from behind various closed doors.

And it’s finding and exploring new places, some of which have become favourites.

It’s also rediscovering things I enjoyed before my small-town life…that special big-city buzz, gawking at fabulous shoes and up-to-the-minute fashion, eating at Chinese restaurants to rival those I frequented in Hong Kong, and having a fabulous Indian takeaway (takeout) around the corner.

And finally, it’s being in a hospital where everyone belongs, where people understand what my family and I are going through, and where English Rose is getting the best possible treatment to live her best possible life.

Home is more a feeling and less a geographical place.

However, when I forgot to pack my dressing gown, I went out and bought a new one. Adaptability only goes so far. And like a window for Floppy Ears to look out of, a cozy dressing gown is a basic requirement of life, as well as writing!

 

New hope and Colouring The World Orange

Orange is not my colour. At best, it makes me look sallow. At worst, ill.

Yet, this month (dubbed NERVember by the International Pain Foundation), I’m taking pride in wearing orange to raise awareness of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS, also known as Reflex Sympathetic Dystorphy, RSD), and support those, including English Rose, battling this incredibly painful and little-understood neurological system disorder.

Before January 2016, I was a mum of a seemingly healthy tween. Life had its ups and downs, but apart from regularly scheduled check-ups or the occasional minor accident, doctor and hospital visits were blessedly rare.

Then, one day, everything changed and life and mothering would never be the same.

English Rose rolled her ankle in school gym class. A few stretched ligaments said the ER doctor at our local hospital. She’ll be fine in a week or so.

Yet, the pain didn’t subside. A minor fracture said the orthopaedic specialist. Give it six weeks or so and she’ll be fine.

But the pain got worse. Don’t worry said our then family doctor. Everything looks okay.

And yet, the pain got even worse…so bad that my usually stoic daughter was screaming in agony and couldn’t even tolerate the weight of a light blanket on her swollen foot and ankle, now also a blotchy patchwork of red, white and blue.

After a trip to the emergency department at the children’s hospital 90 minutes away, we got what I thought was an answer. Little did I know then that a diagnosis of CRPS was instead the start of a long and complex journey that will shape the rest of English Rose’s life, as well as mine.

In brief, that ‘minor’ ankle fracture triggered a malfunction in English Rose’s central nervous system resulting in incorrect pain signals being sent to various parts of her body. And as she now battles the most painful condition known to modern medicine, a 45/50 on the McGill University pain scale, our family is living with a ‘new normal.’  

Life is a round of doctor’s appointments and hospital visits. And, since numerous other conditions are linked with CRPS, I have become an acronym expert, attuned to new symptoms that might signal an addition to what is already an alphabet soup of diagnoses.

Although I didn’t follow my late mom into a nursing career, I’ve also had to become an armchair pharmacological and medical expert, versed on side-effects, new drug trials and research about a condition for which there is a possibility of remission but currently no cure.

Perhaps most difficult of all, though, is that I’ve had to master tough love, pushing English Rose out to school and other activities to help her live as ordinary a life as possible—pacing her life but still living it, despite disability.

When you give birth to a healthy baby, you give thanks.

And each day that your child is healthy, you also give thanks.

But when life changes and you end up on a path you never expected to be on—parenting a child with special needs— you have to give thanks, too.

There are friends and family who support you and your now teen with a listening ear or caring message, a hug, a meal delivery, or who offer to spend a few hours with her so you can take a break from ‘on call’ caregiving.

There are doctors and other medical staff who listen to your concerns and try to get to the bottom of a chronic condition most have never heard of, let alone understand.

There are teachers who help make your teen’s school life more manageable.

There are organizations (like Ferocious Fighters) where you can connect with other parents and caregivers and your young person can get support as well.

And most of all, you learn to give thanks for the good days—the times when you can do things you once took for granted like going out to a restaurant, or to a museum, movie theatre or shopping.

Orange is the colour for nerve pain and CRPS is one of more than 100 (largely invisible) conditions that have nerve pain symptoms. 

This week, 5 November was #ColorTheWorldOrange Day and many landmarks around the world (including billboards in Times Square in New York City, Toronto’s CN Tower in Canada, and the Emirates Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth, England) were lit up in orange to raise awareness, and support and give CRPS patients and their families hope.

For our family, that hope has sometimes been in short supply. Yet, for this next month we’ll have new hope and new reasons to be thankful, and it’s not only through initiatives like #ColorTheWorldOrange.

This weekend, English Rose and I are heading to Toronto for a month where she’ll be treated in an intensive programme for adolescents at a specialist rehabilitation hospital there. The only one of its kind in Canada, the programme has a good success rate in helping teens like her have a better quality of life.

For my daughter and all those suffering with CRPS, I’m not giving up hope and I’m wearing my orange, not only in November but all year round.

Unlike Floppy Ears, who with her autumnal colouring looks gorgeous in orange (and curls up on English Rose’s Ferocious Fighters blanket whenever she can), I’ll never look my best in any colour that echoes a pumpkin!

But from shoes to jewelry and other accessories, there are many ways to incorporate a bit of orange into my wardrobe.

And the fashion possibilities are, like my hopes for English Rose’s future, without limits.  

 

Find out more

Color the World Orange

Complex Regional Pain Fact Sheet

Ferocious Fighters (for young people fighting CRPS and those caring for them)

Living with CRPS

Quilts for a cause

I don’t sew, knit, crochet, embroider or do any of the other handicrafts at which women on both sides of my family tree excelled.

In junior high home economics, sewing was painful for both me and my long-suffering mother. Mom made many of her own clothes and was renowned for her knitting, but she’d been blessed with a daughter, me, who struggled to sew a straight seam and to whom sewing patterns were as incomprehensible as geometry.

But fast forward more years than I want to admit, and I now spend one Saturday morning a month volunteering my time (and dubious skills) with my small-town branch of Victoria’s Quilts Canada (VQC), an organization that makes quilts to comfort Canadians with cancer.

As with many things in my life, the path to this kind of voluntary work was far from linear.

Thanks to the beautiful quilts made by my mom’s great-aunts, quilts were part of my life from an early age, but I didn’t know how they were made. Quilts feature in some of my published books too, but to help set a scene rather than being integral to plot. 

However, this spring, when the book I’m currently working on was in its early stages, the heroine’s mother became a quilter. As such, I needed to learn about quilting to ensure I referenced details correctly in fiction.

Part serendipity, part living in a small town, I met the president of the local branch of VQC and she invited me to attend a quilting ‘bee’ to help with book research.

After attending that session, I decided to return to the monthly bees, not as ‘author me,’ but as a woman with family and friends touched by cancer who wanted to do something, if only in a small way, to help.

When I expressed doubts about what I could contribute, one of the quilters (whose pragmatic manner reminded me of my late mom) said: “You can pin, can’t you?”

Yes, I can and while that comment has gone into my book, the time I spend pinning quilt tops to batting and backing to make a “quilt sandwich” is teaching me as much about life as quilting.

Although some men quilt, and indeed the sewing circle in my book has a male member, quilting bees have historically given women opportunities to talk together about their lives, families and communities, as well as bigger world issues.

Through quilting I’m part of a community of women spanning generations and geographies. The conversations over the quilt tables—about husbands, children, grandchildren, jobs, health issues and so much more—encourage me, a writer who lives much of the time inside her head, to look outwards at both the world and my life in fresh ways. 

And since I’m part of a community where my mother’s family roots date to 1830, maybe it wasn’t surprising I’d meet a quilter who knew my late mom and shared precious memories of her as a girl.

Several of the VQC women have offered to teach me to quilt, but I don’t think I or they are ready for that particular challenge!

Although I’m not a quilter, with each pin I anchor into fabric, I’m remembering and honouring loved ones whose lives were impacted by cancer…my parents, my auntie Margaret, my cousin Beth, my grandmothers, my friend Katie and more. 

As for my fiction? I’ve tried to get the quilting details right but when the time comes I now have women I can ask to read for accuracy.

I’ve also called the hero’s dog in that book Honeybell after a quilt pattern. For a writer, a man with a dog named Honeybell offers rich possibilities!

Disconnected from a connected world

If you follow me on social media, you know that I was unexpectedly offline for most of last week when work to lay underground fiber optic cables cut existing the cables that deliver landline phone and internet service to my home.

As someone who is almost always connected to the wider world, I was all of a sudden marooned with only my cell (mobile) phone, and a vague promise of repairs six days hence.

Not only did I feel cut off, but there were inconveniences large and small.

Without technology…

Sending out my quarterly author newsletter was delayed by a week. (If you aren’t already signed up for my newsletter—a letter to readers with new book news, giveaways, and book recommendations—visit my website to register here). 

I couldn’t access Facebook, Twitter, Google, or send and receive email.

And since I was also laid low with a flu-like cold, I wasn’t well enough to trundle to the library or a local coffee shop to access free Wi-Fi.

I also incurred large cell phone charges making and receiving long-distance calls related to English Rose’s medical appointments—calls that would otherwise been covered by our landline plan.

Not least, as a ‘news junkie’ (a bit like Charlie Gibbs, the heroine of my first book, The Cottage at Firefly Lake), I missed having news and weather at my fingertips.

Embracing the offline world

Yet, I not only ‘survived’ but, once Tech Guy told a few key people I was offline, and I taught him how to post a message on my Facebook author page, I learned to embrace my week of disconnection.

I listened to the news on the radio at scheduled times and never before bed. As a result of being at a distance from current events, I was considerably less stressed.

Being offline also gave me ‘permission’ to accept I was ill and rest on the sofa with a book.

For several days, I escaped to the American South through Karen White’s Flight Patterns, a wonderful women’s fiction novel about a fine china expert—part historical, part romance, part mystery and entirely engrossing. Karen is one of my favorite authors and her book was just what I needed as I coughed, sneezed and sniffled my way back to better health.

And when I came across a new-to-me word, instead of Googling it, I dug out my old Oxford English Dictionary and looked up said word, learning other new words too from browsing those tissue-thin pages.

I listened to music on CD instead of online and rediscovered some old favorites.

And since English Rose couldn’t connect with her friends via FaceTime and Snapchat, she and I talked more together. As she grows up and further into her own life, that extra mum-daughter time was a special bonus.

The electronic leash

While I didn’t want to be offline longer than I was (and indeed relished being able to pop into social media when English Rose and I went to Toronto for a hospital appointment), the cutting of those cables also cut what is in some ways an electronic leash.

Being offline reminded me that I need to build more of that time into my everyday life by:

Leaving my iPad and phone outside my bedroom at night instead of on my bedside table;
Being stricter about no screen time (and no news) after eight in the evening;
Removing social media alerts from some of my electronic devices.

And while I value the friendships I’ve made via social media, I’m also now more determined to stop, smell the metaphorical flowers and consciously pay attention to what is going on in my real, as opposed to virtual world.

Online/offline

While I wouldn’t want to live without technology, my time offline made me assess what (and how) I’m using that 24/7 connectivity for.

Meanwhile Tech Guy, who helped build the internet infrastructure and then the mobile devices that feed it, is puzzled by social media and was happily surprised by the messages in response to his post on my Facebook author page.

“Why would people like a technical difficulties message?” he asked.

“Because they’re my friends and readers,” I answered. “There are real people out there, you know.”

And since he’s also negotiating with our provider for a refund for the days we were without service, I refrained from mimicking English Rose and adding “duh.”

Back to the barre

For most of my adult life, a pair of worn ballets slippers has lurked at the back of my wardrobe—a poignant reminder of something that was important to me as a book and dance-loving child and teen, but that I’d lost sight of as the years slipped by. 

Those shoes might have stayed tucked away forever, except when visiting my local library this summer (libraries are resources for things beyond books!), I spotted a leaflet advertising adult ballet classes and began to wonder…what if?

After going through all the reasons why taking ballet again at my age was a bad idea, I finally acknowledged the one reason why it was a supremely good idea. In short, I wanted to!

After several weeks of indecision, I emailed the instructor for more information. Evidently used to anxious prospective students like me, she answered my questions and invited me to ‘drop in’ to the first class to see how things went.

Excellent. No commitment and an escape route if needed.

Clothes

The next hurdle was that perennial female problem of what to wear. The last time I donned tights and a leotard, I was seventeen, skinnier, and much more confident in exposing my body in public—and in front of unforgiving studio mirrors.

The instructor was clearly used to that question too, and for the adult classes she advised that stretchy dance pants and a close-fitting top were fine.

Off I went to a branch of a dance store I’d last visited in my teens.

As luck would have it (or a sign from the universe nudging me in the right direction), the store was having a sale so I was soon kitted out in black leggings (with an ever-so-helpful tummy control panel), a black vest top (with a similarly helpful built-in bra), and pink ballet slippers that were reassuringly familiar, although half a size bigger than the pair in my cupboard.

Back to class 

By the time the first class arrived, I was set to talk myself out of the venture yet again.

What if I was lumbering mutton amidst a field of frisky, flexible lambs?

What if my muscles had no memory of exercises that used to be as natural as breathing?

And worst of all, what if I fell flat on my face in the middle of the studio floor?

Still, I edged into the class on the appointed day and time.

Unlike the ballet teacher I remembered from my teens, a former principal dancer whose formidable manner was both legendary and terrifying, this teacher was as kind and encouraging in person as she’d been in her emails.

My classmates were as middle-aged as me, as well as friendly and welcoming.

And most important of all, five minutes after I walked into the studio, the old magic I’d once found in the world of ballet was still there, dormant but not gone forever.

Lessons for life and living 

After that first class, ballet is now a highlight of my week.

When the woman next to me muttered during a particularly arduous stretching exercise, “I’m sure not fifteen anymore,” I nodded in agreement.

At fifteen, I was flexible enough to stand on one leg and lift the other one over my head. I didn’t have asthma, sciatica in my lower back, or bursitis in my hip.

But yet…

When I looked at myself in the studio mirror, I didn’t lament what I’d lost, but rather I was grateful for what I have.

After several health scares, I’m still here and able to do ballet, as well as live my life as a wife, mum and author.

My body, with all its bulges, scars, and frailties, has carried me through a number of years and will, I hope, see me through to old age, too.

For a sedentary writer, whose shoulders are usually somewhere near her ears, the physical benefits of working my body have already been significant. Not only have I lost a few excess pounds, but my eagle-eyed teen daughter noted that my posture has improved, and although my joints still creak and groan like an old house in an autumn wind, I’m slowly becoming more flexible, too.

Yet, as I work my body, I’m also working myself in ways that go beyond the physical.

Last week, when the teacher reminded me to focus on one spot to avoid getting dizzy when I spun round, she was talking about dance technique. However, for me, those were also wise words for life.

In addition to pushing me out of my comfort zone, perhaps the greatest gift my middle-aged foray into ballet is giving me is focus.

Because I need to focus on the exercises, my busy brain can’t scurry off in its usual 101 directions. And because of that hour of focus, for most of the rest of the week, I’m calmer, less anxious and more centered in myself.

Now if only that focus would translate into remembering where I left my reading glasses…

(For any of my Canadian readers in the Ottawa or Rideau Valley areas interested in taking up a new hobby or revisiting an old one, I highly recommend Nancy Cowan at the Nancy Cowan School of Dance).