The long hallway of hope.
A narrow path surrounded by green grass meandering through a forest.
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Hi Lovely.
It’s been 9 months since I wrote to you with my big, messy dream of opening a Firefly Writing Retreat Centre. At the time, I was reeling with the hope and overwhelm of it all, waking up at midnight worried about can openers.
And now time has passed, some things have changed, some haven’t, and I thought it was time for an update.
Some things that have happened, in no particular order:
Good news: Such a huge outpouring of care after I sent that email! Offers of used furniture, MLS listings, family members who are zoning experts, an actual can opener in the actual mail… It was a huge, “you are not alone.” Thank you.
Bad news: I found out that farmhouses are possibly the least wheelchair accessible types of structures in the world, and that rural Ontario was mostly built for able-bodied people. I got sad and angry about our collective lack of basic accessibility, and vowed to do better.
Good news: Britt and I spent many delicious afternoons trailed by her son with clip boards and measuring tapes, checking out potential properties. We knew we weren’t ready-ready, so we called this “dream kindling,” and felt the fire of our imaginations crackle.
Bad news: Money got more complicated. Like most small businesses, our numbers have declined over the pandemic, while interest rates skyrocketed. Many late nights were spent swimming in spreadsheets and looking for loans.
Good news: Some truly thoughtful and lovely retreat centre owners and planners came out of the woodwork to help me figure out zoning issues and bylaws. I am forever grateful for their time.
Bad news: Despite that, we’re still mired in the complexity of these questions. Rules change from one municipality to the next, and when I try to get advice on that level, I’m always told the same thing — buy the property, then call us. I can’t figure out what to do with that.
Good news: I still beam every time I think about this. We all do.
This is the chaos at the heart of every creative project.
I’m telling myself the things we tell all our writers: Be gentle. Go slow. Find the support you need to keep moving. This is how we make things that didn’t exist before — we walk into the darkness of what we can’t see. We keep walking.
Or, as a therapist said to me once: “When one door closes, another one opens… but there’s sometimes a long hallway between those doors.”
Can you relate?
What is the big thing you are working on? A novel, a marriage, a vision for social justice, a kind of healing? The work of raising children or animals? Of finding a way to live in this world that feels soft?
We’re all in that hallway a lot of the time, knowing there’s something important ahead of us, but not sure where the door is.
And we just keep going. We keep each other company. We accept that the labour of hope is a labour of love. We keep believing in that room.
In the meantime, here’s what we’re up to.
We’re starting to look for a small, affordable, accessible space in Toronto where we can set up our table again. We want a little nest to start to put roots down.
We’re also exploring new ways to approach the big dream. This individualistic idea that we need to do everything ourselves is getting old — our strength has always been in community. So…
Is there an animal sanctuary or equestrian therapist who might want to buy with us?
Could we find another creative business with interlocking dreams and wishes?
How about a local farmer who needs land but not lodging?
We’re talking to everyone we can, planting new seeds and watching for sprouts.
… And in the meantime, we’re taking deep breaths, keeping each other company, and packing snacks for the long journey through the in-between.
Patience can be sweet.
I was in France last summer with my sister and my niece, touring a facility that makes candied mint leaves, rose petals, and oranges. The tour guide was a tentative, soft-spoken teenager with ringlet bangs. Every time she would explain how long it took to candy something, she’d smile, tilt her head to the side and say, “But don’t worry, we have patience.”
This newsletter is dedicated to her.
With patience, and with you,
