Tender mercies, and the human work of showing up.
Two microphones in front of a fireplace decorated with fairy lights and rainbow bunting.
Before our Open Mic Night earlier this month, I had every nightmare you can imagine.
I get there but it looks wrong. I’m in the basement of a downtown office building, and a man in a suit is saying I can run the Open Mic, he just needs 20 minutes to launch his new product at the beginning.
The Open Mic starts, and I realize that someone is walking up and down the aisles with a megaphone yelling that I’m a terrible person.
Asifa, Kim, Sydney, and I are setting up for the Open Mic, and then we check the time and realize that it’s midnight. The event is over. No one came.
I’m being awkwardly personal here, because I want you to know that if showing up for community is a little hard for you right now, you’re not alone.
At the start of the evening (in the opening remarks I told my co-workers I might feel too nervous to make), I asked for a round of applause from “Everyone who struggled a little to leave the house tonight.”
There was a lot of clapping.
Is this new? I don’t think I used to feel like this.
Today I looked at photos of our studio housewarming party in 2017 and I see myself looking so free and unencumbered. To me, today, we all look free and unencumbered back then. Of course there was struggle in the room. Of course these glossy snapshots only tell a fragment of the whole story.
But still, it feels like somewhere between social distanced grocery store lines and Zoom birthday parties, I lost something, and I don’t know what to call it.
I just know that being among people started to feel like a choice I could make, and a thing I could fail at.
The morning of the event, Ian and I were driving in an industrial part of town, and I saw two Canadian geese at the door of a building.
They looked out of place with their gorgeous round bodies, like old fashioned jugs, their long, ostentatious necks.
At first I thought they were admiring themselves in the glass, but then I realized that they were confused. They saw two geese, mirroring them in the glassy surface of the door. They were trying to get to them, pecking this way and that, tilting their little heads.
I thought — is this me? Thinking I’m reaching for community but only finding my own anxious image?
Let me skip to the end: It was wonderful.
It was saved by streamers.
It was saved by the sounds of Kim and Asifa and Sydney laughing while they blew up balloons in the next room.
It was saved by the extra box of cupcakes that the baker slipped in, with “For the Fireflies” scribbled on top.
It was saved by the sun setting low over the valley outside.
It was saved by the person who brought popcorn and little bowls for everyone.
It was saved by the person who offered to troubleshoot when the mics started giving feedback.
It was saved by the nephew of a Firefly who passed out treats at break on fancy plates.
It was saved by warm glances.
It was saved by every reader’s voice.
It was saved by every person who showed up.
I don’t know how to explain it, I just know that a gate opened quietly, and we moved through it. Belonging was offered. Or rather, we were reminded that it was always ours.
John Tarrant writes: “How to meet the times we are in is a real question, and everybody feels the force of it.”
In the times we are in, we’re asked how to rebuild human connection after tremendous wounds. We’re asked how to trust each other despite the presence of violence and fear. We’re asked to coexist, newly. We’re asked to decide what’s safe for us, what’s right-sized, what’s right.
Some days I’m on the shiny surface of these questions — What should I say? What should I wear? How can I make sure it’s good? There are no answers there. I peck and peck at the shiny surface, and can’t find the other side.
Other days, like that beautiful evening, I can find a way to let it happen, like how spring is happening all around us right now, filling the brown places with tender greens, and the promise, later of dandelions, each one its own tiny spectacular firework — messy, imperfect, inevitable.
Our summer writing workshops open for registration May 6th.
If you want to be a dandelion in a field with us, check out the line up. If you want to be extra organized, you can get on our early bird list — you’ll get the chance to register a week early, and there may be a discount code in there for you too. :)
It’s not too late to apply for financial aid this season.
And, if you want something sooner, we have a couple spring programs with space available, read on…
There are 2 more chances to write with us in small, cozy groups this spring.
Brief Bursts is an online workshop with Britt dedicated to very, very short fiction. It runs on Tuesday mornings, and starts next week.
City Sanctuary is an in-person weekend in Toronto, dedicated to the joy of creative productivity and voice. It’s happening May 31st to June 1st with Asifa and Kim.
Our summer workshops will be opening for registration soon.
Early birds will get first crack at the spots this Tuesday. You can get on the early bird list here.
Then, we’ll open the doors wide on May 6th.
It’s not too late to apply for financial aid — bursaries are available here.
Prefer something less personal? Push Week is coming up!
This is a large format program (so larger group, less personal connections than in workshops) that we LOVE. It’s been called “a carnival of productivity.”
Sliding scale and super fun.
We’re raising money this season for Moon Time Connections.
This is an Indigenous women-run organization that gets menstrual products and education to remote, Northern communities.
We’re running 1-hour focused writing sessions later this spring, after Push Week, and we’re donating all the profits.
And, of course, a poem.
A new very-summery poem by one of my beloved go-to writers — Danusha Laméris.
Mari texted in the morning to ask how the event went.
When I told her how beautiful it was, she wrote back — “Tender mercies.”
I smiled and smiled and smiled.
Wishing you tender mercies today too.
In it with you,
P.S. We have two brand new workshops on the list for this summer, both very related to the content of this newsletters. We are thrilled about them. (Curious? Here’s one, and two.)
P.P.S. John Tarrant is a Buddhist teacher, the quote above comes from this short essay.