Writing Is Self-Care
A meltdown and a reset in Nova Scotia
We met in the coffee shop in Dartmouth, just as it was closing. But upstairs, the pizza shop stayed open, and so we walked the winding staircase to sit at a low table and smell the cheese and tomato sauce bubbling in the oven as we sipped iced tea.
He was an author from the UK moved to Canada, and now a director-at-large of the Writers Federation of Nova Scotia. “I joined so I could help put Nova Scotia writers on the map,” he said. “I don’t think they really are.”
We did the dance of conversation that people who don’t know one another do, but eager to learn more. What do you write about? How do you publish? Do you do anything other than writing? Of course you do because not many people make a living solely by writing. And then the deeper questions about life and purpose and place and belonging.
Morning comes, and I turn back the cover of Daystart, Songflight by Brian Bartlett, a book with excerpts of eighteen months of journaling before the dawn. He mentioned LaHave Bakery, and I’ve been there, and then he writes about the sideways slant of the Nova Scotia peninsula so that you really must consult a map or a compass to know which direction you are heading, and I understand this, too.
It doesn’t take long to know a place. First, pay attention to the landscape. Where do the hills rise and where do they valley? Notice the deer in the yard. Watch them gnaw at the grass, lope across the road before you lumber up it in your modern vehicle.
Then, ask questions. In the Pizza Cut, as the onions and green olives and sausage soften and crisp under the bubbling cheese, as the Digby clams cook in the fryer, listen to the way the woman pronounces her words - the way she says the ou in out, a true Canadian. The man tells a story of flying through an American airport on his way somewhere and how he was stopped and questioned because his skin was darker, his accent heavier. Not surprised, you nod sympathetically. You laugh with the woman over the Outlander TV series and lament having to wait to watch the new episodes until you can access your subscription back home. The shows are different here, she says, and you nod and say, yes, it’s exciting to see what Canadian TV is like.
You talk with everyone you meet. The woman at the Happiness Is Homemade Bakery on the Cabot Trail in Cape Breton, as she fans herself near the open window because the oven is steaming the room. The hatmaker who threads elastic into the corduroy cap you’re buying and tells you how she made a hat for Elton John when he performed in Canada.
Notice the way the ocean changes in color and sound and scent and thunderous call as you move along the long coast of this place. Watch the fog roll in and burn off as the day heats up. Stand in the warm breeze and listen to its conversation. Settle into the stillness of being in one place for as long as you are there. Know it. Take note of it.
I am happy here but a few days ago, I had a little meltdown. I’d been on the go for three weeks straight, taking care of everyone but me. Planning and packing and directing and filling days with activities and yes, I enjoyed them all, but then the levee broke and the emotions rushed forward.
It’s ok. I’ve learned to cope. But I guess I haven’t learned to prioritize self-care. On Saturday, my husband and daughters flew home and I have the house to myself. A solid week of sleeping alone in the quiet, rising when I am rested, writing for as many hours as I want. Yesterday, I walked the length of Hirtle’s Beach, then sat and read and wrote facing the crashing waves.
In every class that I teach, we hit a point where someone asks how to make time for writing, and I answer it like this: It’s not just about writing. It’s about making time for what feeds you. It doesn’t have to be hours on end or weeks alone. It just has to be yours.
I think we’re really talking about self-care, aren’t we? I write best when I’m not worried or glancing at the schedule or in a rush to do the next thing. When writing is an expression of my soul, and I believe, really, that my soul needs to speak and it’s ok to sideline something else to let it.
All the things I describe above are pieces of self-care. Stopping to notice. Breathing in the fresh air. Taking time. Making time.
And though I am bad at it, I believe it needs to happen every damn day to be well enough to write beautifully and often.
Thanks for reading! I’m off to commune with the self and take care of me. Wishing you a wonderful week full of pockets of time just for you.
xo,
Lynne
Thanks, @Bonnie Jess Lopane!
I enjoyed this, Lynne.