Hi. Big breath. We’ve decided to pack up our beautiful studio.
A chalkboard sign in the studio that reads, “Firefly Creative Writing” and this quote attributed to E.B. White: “All I ever hope to say is that I love the world.”
Hello Sweet One.
I’m sitting in the main room of the studio, early morning, with a ball of sadness in my throat.
After a lot of consideration, consultation, and soul-searching, we’ve decided that when our 5-year lease is up on Dec 1, we’re going to pack up our magical portal and start building towards what’s next.
Why, right? Whyyyyy? It seems like we’re getting to the end of this pandemic. We held out so long. Why create more loss now? I know. But we’re sure about this. Here’s why.
For one, it’s not a healthy space for a pandemic transition.
The air circulation isn’t great and there are no windows we can open. Air filters only go so far. And it’s small! At this size, we legally can’t use it until we’re beyond Stage 3, and even then it’s questionable.
We’re also just cautious and tender humans. Several of us have immune-compromised people at home. With new variants cropping up and so much uncertainty, it’s stressful. Staying on Zoom for now will let us sit out this ambiguous stage and start fresh when we’re wholeheartedly ready.
But there’s a deeper reason — coming out of this long period of formlessness, when we ask ourselves what we want to return to, it’s not this.
Firefly has changed drastically since we moved in 5 years ago. Our team is wider, our work is richer, our ideas are bigger. We want space that represents who we are now.
And while we’ve poured ourselves into these 850 square feet, there’s been an endless list of problems. This space has never loved us the way we love it. We want to build Firefly on relationships that are strong, generous, warm, and reciprocal. We’re ready to look for that.
So, we’re going to plant all this care, vision, and creativity somewhere else… Do you want to hear about that?
In the next 1-2 years, we’re planning to open a space in rural Southern Ontario. Think crickets and stars, string lights over a harvest table, a big kitchen with something baking in the oven, all the beds made and ready. A screened-in gazebo. A grove of hammocks. Accessible and (dream with me) powered by the wind and sun.
We’ve been building towards this for years, and it’s time to commit. Once we’re fully settled there, we’ll explore re-opening a studio in Toronto.
For now, we’ll be in a period of uncharted waters.
We’ll be planning, saving, and running our programs online. We’ll keep finding new ways to use this digital space. When it’s much safer, we’ll start renting spaces for some workshops in Toronto.
We’ve also been brainstorming new ways to stay connected to you — pop-up workshops, bonfire evenings, coaching clinics in parks on warm days. We realized that we’ve been so focused on getting back to the studio, we haven't been bringing our love to what’s possible now. That’s where we want to live.
Will you help us say goodbye?
Whether the studio was a second home to you, or whether you’ve only seen it in pictures, we’d LOVE for you to come help us send it off, Firefly-style. We’re planning a gathering at the picnic area of East Lynn Park, across from the studio, with optional tiny tours (1-2 people) of the space.
We’ll be collecting memories to hang on a clothesline that we’ll leave strung up in our window after we go, to let the next tenant know all the magic they are walking into. We’ll also be giving away a lot of goodies to keep our storage needs light, so expect to leave with treats.
Friday Oct 29th, 7-8:30pm, with a Rain date: Monday Nov 1st from 7-8:30pm
East Lynn Park, across the street from the studio and a stone’s throw eastward. We’ll be in the Northern third of the park, close to the Danforth.
To make it as safe as possible, we’re asking everyone to wear a mask, even though we’ll be outside.
If you want to contribute to our laundry-line of studio memories but you can’t come, mail us a little card card and we’ll include it. Our address is 1898 Danforth Avenue, Unit 2, Toronto, ON, M4C 1J4.
Talking about the future softens the sadness a little, but this is really hard. Loss is loss.
This poem, which Ailsa chose and recorded for this newsletter speaks perfectly to this moment. It’s called In Blackwater Woods, by Mary Oliver. I’m going to leave you with this excerpt:
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold itagainst your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
go,
to let it go.
Thanks for being with me, with us, through these changes.
All heart,
