three messages: did the dam just burst?

Its likely very evident I’ve been on another hiatus from writing since my last entry (I haven’t published since late November). I had hoped to end this hiatus with the arrival of the New Year, however the past two weeks have seen me struggle to write anything of a personal nature in what typically is has been my favorite time of the year to write.

The signs of breakthrough starting to coming arrived this week, when I actually opened an editor and started capturing words. However (you knew this was coming), that same editor then remained untouched for three days until I returned to the blog after spending the weekend relaxing and doing some ‘seeding’ for my now self identified and defined creative process, and engaging in some self care.

It’s often said the best ideas and processes are designed by the people who are going to be using them, and I finally seem to have accepted that this is a concept I need to apply in my own life, instead of just with the organizations I serve. (Wait, what? It, is this a fourth important message finally acknowledged as received?)

seem familiar to you? did to me as well, three days after I started it.
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truth and meaning found (found) in writing

It’s been a while since I did one of these ‘defining’ posts (I’ve decided that’s what I’ll call them.) This one has a twist, and perhaps if you’ve really been paying attention to the blog, you’ll see why.


In just the past couple weeks I’ve started to feel as though my life had returned to the level of busyness that I had existed in pre-pandemic. While the busyness of the variety of my commitments doesn’t yet look the same as they did pre-pandemic, the stress associated with those demands had bullied itself back into my life just as strongly as before, however the signs that had accompanied it’s arrival this time were different, more muted, blending into the background. It had been sneaking up on me: the Boil v1.04.

The good news was that the lessons of the pandemic’s arrival have held and I realized that I was succumbing to the Boil again (whatever version it is now). I’m sure it’s a Jack Herer inspired thought but: thank fuck the designers, creators and writers of this new version of the Matrix weren’t on their A game before releasing it, or I might have been lost to it, again. (And yes, I’m looking very much forward to revisiting.)

The inspiration to write this post started to shape itself in the past few days. My first writing course since high school is now complete and while the course experience wasn’t really what I hoped for (a how to become a better writer in eight short weeks), it did allow me to define just what type of a writer I am, but perhaps also provided a life changing lesson.

With thanks and appreciation to the course’s instructor, I now believe I have a label to apply to my style: Creative Non-Fiction Writer. For whatever reason I don’t feel ready to pigeon hole myself to just the one classification as a writer, but my leanings toward fiction might only lean so far as semi-fiction, as I cannot seem to call upon the muse to create ideas from a blank slate (I think that slate disappeared when the crayon was put into my right hand instead of my left in kindergarten) without a lot of creative focus, which I can rarely summon.

My creative writing course stayed true to it’s description, focusing on story telling, something that had been well outside of my comfort zone until I realized it was okay to call upon real life experiences in order to generate copy and satisfy the objectives of the course (in this case two 1000 word assignments and peer reviews). I now realize that it’s impossible to write anything that is without influence, and that has helped me find some peace in what I once considered a creative inadequacy I held. (Think how much better your life would be if you were able to accept this reality when the crayon was put in your hand versus waiting to middle age to figure out?) As far as my story writing ability goes, well, based on feedback, I might be able to stretch my range into semi-fiction, so I may not discard the premise I explored during the course, and instead explore it and the style further as a writing canvas to be pulled out when and if the spirit, the muse, revisits it, but it isn’t what comes naturally to me.

Truth unlocked: It doesn’t come naturally to me.

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a sunday of memories and hope

It’s the afternoon of Father’s Day and I’m lounging on our patio which continues to be our primary living space when the weather co-operates and allows us to relax in comfort. I find myself listening to Dire Straits’ ‘Brothers in Arms‘ album and thinking of my father, now missing for the second of these days. I now know I’ll spend all the Father’s Days ahead celebrating his memory and all that he contributed to my life.

I awoke this morning from a blissfully solid night of sleep; the kind it takes a few minutes for your eyes to un-gum from. Bae prompted the fur kids to wish me a ‘Happy Father’s Day’, but that instruction went unheeded, and despite this I willingly allowed my arm to become pin cushion later in morning after Bae had prepared a wonderful French toast and mimosa breakfast that followed the coffee that finally got the rest of the gunk cleared from my eyes.

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