Fall writing workshops, and the freedom of letting a dream die.
Two deck chairs on a screened-in porch, facing a lake surrounded by greenery. There’s a small table with tea close by.
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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. I was sure it would happen — more sure than I’ve been about anything.
I saw tall oak trees by the driveway, waving gentle arms as writers arrive. I saw a big yard where we could host open mic nights under the stars. I saw rooms that participants could call their own, a freezer full of chocolate chip cookies, a free little library up by the road, filling and emptying over and over.
And this is me, today, saying — I’m letting it go.
There are a lot of boring reasons for this change of direction: money, bureaucracy, time, I could go on and on. But today I’m more interested in what’s under the surface.
The more I’ve worked on this, the more unanswerable questions have arisen. Questions like…
A big mortgage like this would mean redirecting tons of our hard-earned funds to big banks. Being a loving steward of money, how do I feel about that, when our money could also go into more bursaries, accessibility, staff wages and income redistribution?
Does Southern Ontario really need another retreat centre? What does it mean to make something this resource-intense that isn’t necessary? Wouldn’t I rather support the hard-working retreat centre owners I love rather than create competition for them?
Speaking of other retreat centres, every single one I interviewed for this is overworked. Can my body take on that extra toll, while running the rest of Firefly? Especially knowing that the financial strain of this would make it harder to outsource tasks? What impact could that have on me, and how would that trickle outward to the team and the community?
Why do I feel this pull to “own” land? What colonial ideas have infused that urge? Do I even believe in it? How much more free could this dream be if it was untangled from the assumptions and gatekeepers of land “ownership”?
The joy drained out of this quite a while ago. I’m working on fumes now. As a lifetime fan of perseverance, it’s hard to ask this but — what happens when our dreams don’t bring us joy? Isn’t that data to listen to? And can I bring my best to this while I’m also overwhelmed?
That’s a little slice of where I’ve been.
Over the last couple of years, while all my free time has gone into working towards this; these questions have been adding up, pulling me in other directions. I’m finally listening.
There may still be a way to make this happen, but I’m certain now it’s not this way. It’s not now.
All this makes me wonder about the use of dreams.
Are we supposed to empty ourselves into our visions, pursuing them until we’re ragged? Or are we supposed to head out in the direction they point us, and keep gathering information?
I’m starting to think that dreams are like sandboxes: a space to play, to give shape to what’s inside us. They’re a way to show others what we’re seeing, to recruit them into our vision. They give us courage and purpose and drive.
After a while though, they can become fences, not letting us see what’s on the horizon. When we cling to them too tightly, we lose our vision of what’s around us right now.
At best, dreams are good guesses. And all guesses have lifespans. And the lifespan of this one — at least for the time being — is up. There’s freedom and power in being able to decide that.
It’s so vulnerable to tell you this! But I want to fall down and get up with you, so that you can fall down and get up with us. And I want you to feel so free — here and everywhere — to dream without apology and then change your mind without shame.
I’m proud of this dream, and how far it took us.
Okay now you. Do you have any dreams you’re ready to retire?
This could be small — maybe you don’t want to learn to crochet, or you want to let your gym membership go, or you’re finished with that short story that just won’t come together.
This could be huge — maybe you’re finished with your marriage or your career or your town.
My hope is that this story rubs off on you a little, and lets you feel the freedom of letting things go, listening to today, and crafting a future based on what you know for sure, right now.
And of course space still matters to us — we want to do this work in person, in beautiful places.
We’re hoping to open something in Toronto again in the next year or two, and to keep finding new beautiful rented retreat centres to gather at outside the city. The heart of this isn’t going anywhere, just the shape.
Here’s one more thought.
When we think we need to realize our dreams, we’re assuming that the only right direction is forward.
But forward is a choice. So is backward, so is deeper, so is standing still.
As the summer is wrapping up, and all around us green life is taking its last stand, I’m taking comfort in remembering the inward pull of fall, the stillness of winter, and the chance, always, to start again.
In it with you,
