What about the can opener?
A collage of photos of cozy cabins and cottages.
As you may know, there’s a great big dream at the heart of all this.
I — all of us — want to one day open a Firefly Writing Centre, a farmhouse or big ol’ cabin somewhere in Southern Ontario, probably in or around Northumberland County.
I want this to be a deep-down landing spot, where countless people can come together for retreats, solo residencies, community dinners and quiet writing afternoons to reconnect to their voices, their belonging, their much-needed rest.
Some days, I can almost feel it — the sunrise glowing on a windowsill, the tall trees leaning into the spring wind, the morning coffee percolating to gentle sound of pens and laptops, something warm in the oven.
I’ve been carrying this like an unbroken egg for decades, sketching floorplans, naming rooms, volunteering at retreat spaces to see how they work. And now we’re slowly, somehow, I think, getting closer, and one thing is very, very clear.
I’m losing my shit.
Commercial mortgages, zoning codes, bylaw officers, use planners, OMG the numbers. Do we need a commercial kitchen? Should we look for investors? How far is too far from Toronto? Why do I burst into tears every time I get off the phone with the bank?
The other night I woke up with a bolt of fear and one thought — what about the can openers?
It was one of a billion moments when the sheer complexity of this project landed on my unsuspecting mind. Can openers don’t have a line item in my budget yet. Neither do spatulas, pillow slips, toilet plungers, curtains, hand soap, dust pans...
I lay there until the sun pushed its first rays through the curtains, telling myself, for the billionth time, that I’m not the first person to try something like this, and somehow it will work itself out.
Point is: Big dreams are exhausting. And while it’s true that I’m in a state of deep joy and wonder that this may be somehow within reach, I’m also taking Tylenol for stress headaches between phone calls with people who intimidate me, and wondering why this is so hard.
Then I remember passion projects are supposed to push us to our edge.
I hear it in the shaky voices of new clients in intake calls, in pacing and pen-clicking during silent time on retreat afternoons, in the forehead-on-the-table “maybe I should just give up” moment at the heart of every almost-finished book project.
I get it. I actually love it… When I’m seeing it in other people. This twisted rope of chaos and persistence pulls us through the hardest things. This is our human spirit, fighting to create something that’s never existed before.
Sit with the chaos, I say. Ask for what you need. Just because you can’t see the end, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
I think it’s time to turn all that faith on myself.
It also helps when I remind myself that we aren’t meant to do hard things alone.
As a lifetime lover of the words, “I’ve got this,” admitting that this is way bigger than me can feel terrible.
But this year, the word “interdependence” has been following me like a puppy. Every time I glance at it, my limbs soften, my face smiles on its own. There’s freedom in asking for help, in admitting that I, and everyone, needs it, basically all the time.
Why the bloom of shame when the mortgage guy starts talking fast and I can’t follow? Why don’t I just ask him to slow down and explain? Or hang up and call someone else, who can talk me through it slowly, with kind words?
If we only create things we already know how to create, we’ll never bring new visions to the world. And this world of ours, it needs new visions. It needs the best of us.
It also bears constant reminding that even just thinking about this is a breathtaking act of privilege.
When I get pulled into the fearful rush of the finance and real estate industries, I try to breathe and remember that there is ego in hurrying, and entitlement in the idea that this dream should come true.
To do this right, I need to be present to all of it, to ask:
What does it even mean to “own” land, and how can we navigate this harmful concept with a deep and active respect for Indigenous title?
How can this be “right sized,” so that we’re sure we’re not taking more than we need?
What does it mean to ground this whole process in community, to make sure it’s a place for all of us, including people we haven’t met yet?
This is not a goal to accomplish, it is an evolution to live into. To share. To be changed by.
Meaning… if we don’t move forward with humility, we won’t be bringing our whole selves along, and we won’t be bringing all of you along either.
And bringing you, if you will come, it’s the whole entire point.
So, about you.
Whatever creative process you’re tangled in right now — the relationship, the book, the career, the blog, the career change, the loss, the seemingly-unanswerable question — is it possible to slow it down? Whose voice is telling you that you should have figured this out by now? What is the right pace for you?
And, who can help? We are built to help each other, we need to make things together. It’s how we evolved this far as a species. Who can you trust with this half-formed moment? Who will talk you through it slowly, with kind words? What skills can you source from others to help you on this path?
And, about the can opener.
We want to make this with you.
Is there a skill, a connection, a store-house of knowledge inside you that might move us a few more steps along this journey? If so, here are a few things we could really use:
Someone to talk to about Ontario bylaw and zoning laws, especially the process of re-zoning.
Word-of-mouth love, online reviews and Facebook recommendations for the work we do now. We don’t have a lot of love for Big Tech these days, but these are invaluable for letting us build trust with the world.
Pep talks, kind words and encouragement.
… A gorgeous, character-filled, wheelchair accessible, 5-or-so-bedroom farm house, with beautiful views, under 2 hours from Toronto? Gotta ask!
At some point, we may put out a call for things — hand-me-down lamps and bedside tables, willing hands to paint walls in exchange for meals and writing time. Spoons. Vases. Can openers. But we’re not there yet.
I’m here for it.
This beautiful, life-filled mess, mine and yours, taking our steps, watching yours, leaning into each other’s shoulders, moving our mountains.
Thank you for being part of this.
Sarah Lewis, author of The Rise says it beautifully.
“To reach an audacious goal, we sometimes benefit from having it lie just beyond our grasp.”
Just because you can’t see the end, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
Here’s to all of us finding the hope and helpers we need to take the long trek from “I know this could be wonderful” to “here we are,” whatever that is for you.
And, dare I say it? Here’s to toasting the end of this search in a big housewarming party under the stars and twinkle lights. Some day.
In it with you,
