Shadows, Songs, and Sculptures: Our Night at Pumpkins After Dark

There's something deeply nostalgic about a crisp October night. The cold air, the darkness arriving earlier, and that wonderful feeling that something unexpected might be waiting just around the corner.

Earlier this week, Rob and I headed to the Markham Museum grounds for Villains Night at Pumpkins After Dark.

We had barely passed through the entrance when the familiar Addams Family theme began playing. We walked beneath an open pergola-style tunnel, and somewhere along the way, the people around us seemed to disappear. Not literally, of course, but I was so caught up in the atmosphere that I stopped noticing them. I was enjoying that little introduction so much that I never even thought to take a photograph.

Beyond the tunnel stood an illuminated entrance arch, glowing with gorgeous orange and purple lights and carved pumpkin faces. It was clear we were about to enter a wonderfully strange land.

Just past the arch was a stage decorated with dozens of carved pumpkins. You couldn't really call them jack-o'-lanterns; they were works of art! There were villains, Disney characters, and some fantastic dinosaurs.

Nearby were several places where visitors could pose for photographs. We only tried a few, but two turned out to be perfect for us.

The first was a stagecoach. I decided to climb inside and have Rob take my picture. It wasn't until I looked at the photograph afterward that I noticed the story we'd accidentally created. We'd forgotten to close the coach door, but otherwise it was a pretty convincing kidnapping!

Rob's photograph was even better. He was the perfect King of Bones. As you can see, he really brought the regal attitude.

How I managed to get myself kidnapped by a stagecoach driver is still a mystery.

All hail King Rob, ruler of the Throne of Bones

I don't think either of us expected to become characters in the evening's stories, but there we were.

We decided to leave the 3D maze until later and headed toward the pumpkin trail. The first area included a jail scene and a mystery involving an escaped prisoner. There were clues scattered throughout the displays, but solving the mystery wasn't really what interested me. I found a few letters along the way, then promptly forgot about the investigation. There were far too many other things to look at.

We were greeted by what appeared to be collectible cards featuring familiar monsters, including Frankenstein's monster and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Now, I could try to describe every display we passed, but we'd be here all day. Instead, I'll tell you about the ones that stayed with me.

For starters, somebody had made a word search out of pumpkins! Not a little one, either. It was ten rows by twenty columns. A proper word search, only instead of letters printed on paper, the whole thing was made from pumpkins.

There was a set of rebus puzzles, too. I had a little trouble figuring them out, though the second one was a little easier than the others. I don't have the answers, but give them a try.

A little brain exercise among the pumpkins.

A pumpkin puzzle: can you solve the rebus?

I know, I know. It's called Pumpkins After Dark. Of course there were pumpkins everywhere. But it had never occurred to me that somebody would turn them into puzzles. I loved that.

As we wandered farther into the museum grounds, the displays became increasingly elaborate. There were enormous dinosaurs formed from glowing pumpkins, towering above the path. They were impressive, but the creature that really captured my imagination was a massive sea serpent weaving through the darkness. It seemed to rise and fall as though it were swimming through the night itself.

Somewhere in the pumpkin patch, a sea serpent took a wrong turn.

Oddly enough, I rather like the blurred photograph. The creature looks as though it's moving, shifting in and out of the shadows. Not a perfect picture, perhaps, but it captures something of the feeling I had standing there. And sometimes that's better.

Another display that caught my attention was a story told across four illuminated panels. It involved a couple of witches who turned another witch into a cat. The images changed quickly, and I was determined to capture the entire sequence. That turned out to be easier said than done. I did eventually get all four panels photographed, though, and later managed to stitch them together in the correct order.

Three witches, a little magic, and suddenly we're down to one cat!

There was something satisfying about that. I'd brought home a little story hidden among all those pumpkins.

Then there were the famous paintings.

Who knew the great masters worked in pumpkin?

The detail in these pieces was remarkable. I kept thinking about the patience and hand-eye coordination it must have taken to create them. It was one thing to carve a face into a pumpkin. It was quite another to recreate a recognizable work of classic art.

One of the largest displays was a train loaded with pumpkins. It had three cars and a caboose and must have been something like six feet high and ten feet long. There were so many pumpkins that it was difficult to take it all in at once, but again, the detail was fantastic.

All aboard the Pumpkin Express! Next stop: who knows where?

Apparently, even in Pumpkinland, the train is running late.

Along the trail, we also encountered several costumed villains. The first was a mad scientist, and I immediately wanted a photograph of him standing beside Rob. His wild hair reminded me of what Rob's looks like when he lets it grow out. We also met a long, white-faced phantom and a pumpkin-headed character who managed to sneak up on me. I nearly jumped out of my skin!

He sneaked up on me. I think he was rather pleased with himself!	I'm not entirely sure what the Mad Scientist had planned for Rob, but I wasn't volunteering!”
Some people will do anything to get into a photograph.

Not all the pumpkins were frightening, though. One display, for some reason, reminded me of a pumpkin school, with the big pumpkin in charge and all the little ones gathered around.

“Class, pay attention! I don't want to have to carve this lesson into you!

I have no idea whether that's what the artists intended, but it's the story I saw. And that's half the fun, isn't it? Sometimes the artist gives you a story, and sometimes your imagination supplies one of its own.

As we neared the end of the trail, we encountered a set of motorcycles, complete with sound effects, and finally a sweet goodbye carved into pumpkins.

We returned through the tunnel, where a different song was playing. It still made me smile, and once again I forgot to photograph it. Then we headed toward the tent where the maze was waiting.

I think it may have been my first experience with a 3D maze. There were some fantastic images on the walls, and I remember being completely caught up in the experience. We found ourselves at several dead ends, at least three that I can remember. Looking back, I wonder whether they were meant to represent prison cells, since the whole maze was built around the Blackthorne Prison story.

I did manage to take a few photographs near the entrance and toward the end, but mostly I was too busy finding my way through the maze and admiring the artwork.

Welcome to Blackthorne Prison. Checking in is easy. Checking out? Not so much.
I'm sure the entrance was here a minute ago…	Management assures us that everything is under control. Management is also made of pumpkins.

By the time we finished our one-kilometre stroll, our hands were thoroughly cold, but our spirits were bright.

It had been an evening filled with little stories. Some were created by the artists, some appeared unexpectedly in our photographs, and others existed only in my imagination. There were photographs I was delighted with, others that didn't quite work, and moments I never photographed at all. And I wouldn't change any of it.

For a little while, we'd stepped out of the ordinary world and into one filled with light, colour, humour, and imagination. What a wonderful way to spend an October evening.

The Price of Curiosity

I was looking forward to visiting the Art Gallery of Ontario. There were several exhibitions I wanted to see, and I thought it would be a lovely way to spend a couple of hours.

Then I discovered that admission was $30.

 Thirty dollars! For a visit that would probably last two or three hours at most. I know my limitations, and wandering around a large gallery for an entire day just isn't going to happen. Rob and I talked about it, and we decided not to go this time. Instead, we might make a visit together in December, when we can plan a proper outing rather than trying to squeeze the gallery into a couple of hours.

But it bothered me. In fact, it made me downright angry.

I know they have expenses, but it wasn't just the price that upset me. You see, you can get an annual membership for $40. While it pays for itself quickly, it seems like a waste if you don't live in the city and don't know whether you'll visit more than once a year.

It just seems so ridiculous. I would have accepted $10–$15 for a single visit. This, this just doesn't make sense to me. It's almost as though they're discouraging ordinary people from coming in to see what's on display.

Now, here's the thing. I could have gotten in free because I'm Indigenous. Anyone under 25 can also visit for free, and I appreciate that these opportunities exist. But what about everybody else? The ordinary visitor who lives out of town, who might only make it to Toronto once a year, or who simply doesn't fall into one of those categories?

I don't begrudge anyone their free admission. Quite the opposite. I just wonder why making art accessible has to depend so much on who you are, how old you are or how often you can visit.

Here in Peterborough, our museum and art gallery have a pay-what-you-can policy, with a suggested donation of $5. You walk in, have a look around, enjoy yourself and contribute what you can afford. Nobody is standing at the door telling you that you need thirty dollars before you can see what's inside.

Now, I know the AGO and the Royal Ontario Museum are much bigger institutions. They have enormous collections, expensive buildings to maintain and staff who need to be paid. I understand all that.

But since when did cultural education become a luxury item?

I looked into the free admission opportunities, too. The AGO offers limited free hours on the First Wednesday of the month in the evenings. That's fine if you happen to live nearby and can arrange your life around their schedule, but what about the rest of us? By the time you've travelled into Toronto, you've already spent time and possibly money just getting there. A few hours in the evening aren't necessarily much use.

And that's what really gets under my skin.

We're talking about places filled with art, history, science and stories about people and cultures from all over the world. Places where you can learn something without sitting in a classroom, where something you see might spark an interest you didn't even know you had.

Shouldn't that be available to everyone?

I'm not suggesting these places can operate without money. Of course they can't. But surely there's a better way to balance paying the bills with making people feel welcome.

Maybe Peterborough has spoiled me. I've become accustomed to being able to wander into a museum or gallery simply because I'm curious about what's inside. Sometimes I stay for an hour, sometimes longer. Sometimes I find something wonderful, and sometimes I don't. That's part of exploring.

I don't want every outing to become a calculation of whether I'll get my money's worth.

I just wanted to go and look at some art.

Is that really too much to ask?

Passing the Threshold

Some words have a poetry and music to them that our everyday language seems to have lost. Threshold is one of those words. We don't talk about crossing thresholds much anymore. We open doors, walk through entrances and pass through gates. Practical words for practical things.

But a threshold is more than a strip of wood or stone beneath a doorway. It can also be a beginning, the point where the familiar ends and something new waits to be discovered.

I've passed the Art Gallery of Peterborough more times than I can count. It's right beside Little Lake, and I've often wondered what was inside, but somehow I never got around to going in. This time there was an exhibition called The Pinks and a guest speaker, so I decided it was time to satisfy my curiosity.

I hadn't even made it to the front door before I discovered something. Along the path from the parking lot were the markers for the Peterborough Walk of Fame. I'd heard about it, of course, but I had no idea where it actually was. I stopped to read some of the names and recognized quite a few, including Peterborough's only woman mayor. I've lived in this city off and on for more than forty years, and I'm still discovering things that have been right under my nose.

Just inside the first set of doors was a little vestibule with a rack full of brochures about local attractions. Well, that was a promising start! I was barely into my first Venture and here were all sorts of possibilities for future outings. I made a mental note to have a proper look on my way out.

Through the next set of doors was the reception area, and I was surprised by how comfortable I felt. It wasn't quite like coming home. It was more like running into an old friend, that lovely feeling of being somewhere you belong without having to explain why.

The woman at reception was very welcoming. She pointed me toward the exhibition and mentioned the gallery shop behind me, then left me to explore.

The exhibition was down a ramp, but there was plenty to see along the way. Two pieces in particular caught my attention. One was an intricate metal sculpture with a weathered surface full of colour and texture. It reminded me of leaves or lichen. The other was an art quilt showing rolling fields, fences and wildflowers. I could have spent ages looking at the details in both of them, but I wanted to see The Pinks, so I continued down the ramp.

Near the entrance were six pale pink soft sculptures, and I remember thinking it was rather odd that there were only six. From the name of the exhibition, I'd imagined art dolls perhaps, or different ways of using pink in artwork. I wasn't entirely sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn't what I found.

Inside the main gallery were illuminated frames containing animated versions of those strange pink figures. Each one had its own movements and sounds. They seemed almost alive! I stood there watching them perform their little routines, completely fascinated. I'd never seen anything quite like it, and I wanted to know how on earth the artist had managed to make them move and sound the way they did.

Unfortunately, the lecture wasn't quite what I'd hoped for.

The artist began by showing us her earlier work and explaining how she'd arrived at this point in her career. A lot of it was very abstract, large fabric constructions inspired by the human body. At first I couldn't see the connection at all. Looking more closely, I could begin to make out suggestions of human forms in the circles and elongated shapes, but minimalism has never really appealed to me.

I understood why she was taking us through her earlier work, but I wanted to hear about The Pinks. How had she gone from those large, static fabric pieces to these wonderful little animated creatures? How did she make them move? Where did the sounds come from?

After about half an hour, I decided I'd had enough and quietly slipped out. Perhaps she eventually got around to explaining it all, but I wasn't prepared to wait any longer.

On my way back up the ramp, I took more time to look at the artwork displayed along the walls, and I'm glad I did.

One piece, called Shining Desire, was covered in colour, beads and all sorts of little embellishments. There was so much going on that it took me a moment to recognize the heart at its centre. I loved it. Another piece, Detachment, combined painting with tangled strands that extended beyond the edges of the canvas. I found the mixture of materials fascinating.

But the piece that stayed with me most was a sculpture displayed in front of a window overlooking Little Lake. It was a tangle of metal and wire, with chains hanging from it. 

I didn't notice its title at the time, and I had no idea what the artist was trying to say. I only knew that it reminded me of prisoners, and seeing those chains against the open water of the lake made me terribly sad.

Later, when I looked back at my photographs, I discovered it was called Detain. No wonder I'd thought of prisoners. To me, it reflected what has been happening at the US border.

What surprised me even more was discovering that all these pieces were created by young artists taking part in the gallery's Youth Art Mentorship Program. Kids! I was amazed by what they'd accomplished. It wasn't just the technical skill, although that was impressive enough. It was the imagination, the different materials they'd chosen and the feelings they managed to express through their work.

I'd gone to the gallery expecting The Pinks to be the highlight of my visit, and I certainly enjoyed the exhibition. But those young artists made just as much of an impression on me, perhaps even more.

Before leaving, I stopped at the gallery shop. I hadn't brought any cash for the donation bowl, and I wanted to contribute something, so I bought a little portable paint set made from natural materials. It seemed an appropriate souvenir of my first visit.

For years I'd walked past that building wondering what was inside. Now I'd finally found out, and it wasn't at all what I'd expected. There were things that delighted me, things that fascinated me, a lecture that bored me and a sculpture that made me sad. Quite a lot to experience in one afternoon.

And all because I decided to cross a familiar yet new threshold to see what was behind it.

Introducing Cherylann 8.0

 

I spent September looking back over the year I had actually lived. Not the year I planned, or the one I thought I should have lived, but the messy, interesting, sometimes difficult one that really happened.

Apparently, all that looking back produced a new release.

Introducing Cherylann 8.0.

Not new and improved. There are no exciting upgrades, and I’m fairly certain several bugs remain unresolved. This is simply the latest version—the one carrying everything the earlier versions learned, tried, abandoned, discovered and occasionally got spectacularly wrong.

And she has a new word: Venture.

The first venture is deliberately small.

October is Close to Home.

I’m not heading off in search of somewhere exotic. I’m starting with the streets I already walk, the buildings I pass without really seeing, the paths I haven’t followed and the doors I’ve never opened. I want to find out how much of my own small corner of the world I’ve been overlooking simply because it is familiar.

There are no goals to check off and no carefully planned itinerary. The question for this year is much simpler:

What will I find?

Cherylann 8.0 has a cane when she needs it, a wee backpack, a camera and a tendency to wander off course when something catches her eye.

That sounds like enough to begin.

Reshape: The Point Is To Go Looking

When I began this process at the beginning of September, I expected it to go like most of the December ones. Look back on the year, decide what worked and what didn't, then make a comprehensive plan for October 2026 to September 2027. A set of goals—self-improvement ones, of course.

But that is not what happened.

Oh, the look back was about what I expected, except that some of the things I thought had happened this year were different from what actually happened. Memory is funny that way. Looking at the year I actually lived gave me a slightly different story from the one I remembered living.

From there, I went looking for the motivation behind my life as it is right now. What makes me tick? Again, curiosity came out on top, which wasn't exactly a surprise. But the other things had never really been written down in concrete form before. I found five things that seem to make my life the life I want to live: discovery, purpose, momentum, flexibility and evidence. Each one underlies who I am and what I need in order to live my best life.

The third step didn't do at all what I expected.

For most of my life, I've said at one time or another that I wanted to be “normal.” By normal, I meant all those unwritten rules society seems to have about how we're supposed to live. You're supposed to have a best friend. Home cooking is always better. There are certain things adults are supposed to do and certain ways a good life is supposed to look.

What I wanted was to be just like everyone else. What I actually needed was to be my own unapologetic person—someone who has rules, certainly, but doesn't necessarily follow conventional ones.

During this assessment I discovered that I'm actually happy without some of the things I thought I was supposed to want. I'm a loner and an introvert whose strongest relationships centre around my family. That's me. None of this was particularly unexpected. It was just odd to finally see it written down and realize there wasn't actually anything there that needed fixing.

My first attempt at applying all that knowledge went completely off the rails. What I ended up with was a process better suited to managing an elderly adult or a disadvantaged child. There was no flexibility in it. It was directing me through daily routines and telling me how to manage my life.

Not my cup of tea at all.

I don't like to be “managed.” It irritates the shit out of me when other people direct me down the path they think I should take instead of letting me find my own. And oddly enough, that was the thing that finally pointed me toward the year I actually wanted: let me find my own path.

That thought drove me outward.

I've done the internal reviews and walked the self-improvement path for more years than I care to admit. In this past year, I've been having a great time on my little adventures, wandering wherever my feet take me, photographing what catches my eye and coming home curious about things I didn't know existed a few hours earlier.

So this year I chose something different, something that plays to the way I actually operate.

 Venture.

When I first found the word, I thought of it as a larger version of Try. I still do. But there is also a little bit of a dare hiding inside it to stop dwelling quite so much on the internal landscape and venture farther into the world on my own.

I want to relearn some independence and courage. I want to test my limits without doing anything extreme. I want to indulge my curiosity and see what happens when the question becomes “What will I find?” And I want to put my camera to work even more because I like seeing the world through the lens.

That became the metaphor for my twelve themes this year. Each one is a different lens into the world beyond my usual limits—a curiosity-led exploration of what is outside my door.

Close to Home. Traces of the Past. Colour, Shape & Light. The Ingenuity of Easier Living. Canada Through Many Cultures. Gardens & Growing Places. Food Before the Grocery Store. The Past Made Present. Exploring My Roots. Wild Things. Neighbourhoods. Street Art.

Some will keep me fairly close to home. Others may take me farther away. Some will send me outdoors, some into museums or neighbourhoods, and some down research rabbit holes after I get home. My camera will come along for much of it, and what I discover will find its way into the Daybook, the blog, Instagram and Pinterest when there is something worth sharing.

But these aren't twelve assignments I need to complete.

The point is to go looking.

I will no longer sit at home hoping to be invited to go somewhere or do something. I'll take myself there, and I will enjoy myself while doing it. I'll feed my curiosity and strengthen my wanderer's soul.

Who knows? I might even learn a thing or two.

Reimagine: A Life That Fits

When you are asked to re-imagine your life, it can be a big challenge. At least, it was for me.

I have spent much of my life trying to be “normal,” so that was where my mind went first: to what a normal life is supposed to look like according to society’s rules. I already knew that picture didn’t fit me, but it was surprisingly easy to fall back into imagining what was expected rather than what might actually work for me.

Once I began looking more closely, guilt arrived too. I wanted—or needed—things that seemed different from what I was supposed to want. I have written before about wanting a normal life, but many of the things I meant were simply things other people appear to take for granted. Re-imagine made me realize that I needed to stop measuring my life against that idea of normal before I could see what I genuinely wanted.

The first wants and needs were ordinary enough.

I want the courage to walk outside during the winter. I have a strong fear of falling on ice, and while that fear is not unreasonable, I don’t want it to keep me indoors for an entire season. I want to find safe ways to continue wandering, keep my curiosity alive and keep my body moving.

I want food that does not require elaborate preparation but is still healthy enough to eat regularly. I want a cleaning routine that does not disappear because I have been away from home for a few days. I need something that can survive interruptions and show me how to begin again after a longer break.

I want to do simple things such as showering and brushing my teeth more regularly. Those are not habits I grew up with. I lived without running water, electricity or indoor plumbing well into my teens, so these routines were not embedded in childhood. Learning them later has been a struggle, and even now caring for my body in those ways does not happen automatically.

I want to keep walking. I want Aquafit, or some other form of outside exercise, to remain part of my life. I also want companionship—people I can talk with, laugh with and practise being social around without every connection having to become a deep friendship.

These may be things many people take for granted, but for me they remain difficult. That does not make them too small to belong in a vision for my life. It makes them honest.

Then there was the question of organization.

I do not do well with a strict schedule. A day divided into fixed times quickly becomes boring and restrictive, and eventually I fight against it. But I don’t do well with broad categories and completely unstructured time either. “Do something creative” offers so many possible directions that I may choose nothing, or follow a fascinating rabbit hole for hours without finishing anything I meant to do.

I need something between those two extremes.

A clear starting point helps. So does a recognizable stopping point—but not necessarily a time limit that says I must work for two hours. Sometimes a piece takes twenty minutes, and sometimes it takes several days. These blog posts are a good example. I try to publish once a week, but sometimes the central idea takes longer to reveal itself. A rigid deadline cannot make that discovery happen faster.

What I eventually found was that a life that fits me needs five things working together. It begins with discovery—something I have not already mastered, seen or understood that charges my curiosity and makes me want to explore further. For that interest to last, the discovery must connect with something meaningful to me. It also needs momentum: the initial thought must lead into something I can continue exploring or give form to, such as a Daybook page, a blog post, a series of photographs or another question, rather than ending as a short mental exercise. I need enough flexibility to change the time, method or direction when circumstances require it. Finally, I need recognition: some way to understand what the experience added to my life, whether I completed something, learned something, felt something or simply enjoyed where it led me.

Those five conditions gave me something more useful than an idealized picture of the future. They gave me a way to tell whether a plan might actually fit.

What I am taking into Reshape is a small set of principles.

The plan must support the life I actually lead, not an imaginary perfect life. It must make ordinary things easier without turning my days into a timetable. It must provide fuel for my curiosity through small adventures and opportunities for discovery. It must make room for casual connection through things such as classes, tours, activity groups or coffee and conversation.

It must also give me specific places to begin without deciding every detail for me. It needs enough flexibility for low-energy days, foggy days and days when I simply do not feel like doing what I thought I would. Most importantly, it needs a way for me to return after illness, travel or interruption without treating the break as failure.

I began Reimagine believing I had to picture a different life. Instead, I discovered the conditions that would help me live my own life more fully.

I do not need a perfect plan or a conventional future. I need ordinary supports, continuing discovery, room for connection and enough structure to help me begin without taking away my freedom.

I do not need to become someone else to create a life that fits me.

Recognize: The Five Things My Life Needs

I’ll be honest: when Recognize was first selected as part of my Year in Review, I did not know what it was supposed to be about. Reflect made sense. I was looking back at the year I had actually lived. But what was I supposed to recognize?

As I worked through the questions, I realized I was describing a manifesto of sorts. Not a list of rules everyone else should follow, but the things I have learned about how I live my life and how I want to continue living it.

Some of them surprised me. Some of them didn’t. A few were things I already knew but had never admitted out loud.

In the end, most of what I discovered came down to five things:

Meaning. Momentum. Flexibility. Evidence. Discovery.

They are not another system I am supposed to follow perfectly. They are the conditions that make it possible for me to build a life around the person I actually am.

 

Meaning

What I am doing has to matter to me or give me something in return.

That may sound obvious, but there are plenty of things we are told we should do simply because they are good for us, productive or expected. Apparently, knowing something is worthwhile is not always enough to keep me doing it.

Aquafit stayed because I enjoyed it. I didn’t see results immediately, but it was fun enough to keep me going until the results appeared. Eventually there was the medium dress. I reached a weight below 200 pounds and stayed there. The activity gave me something while I was doing it and supported something that mattered to me over time.

Photography gave me joy almost immediately. It kept my mind and hands occupied, but it also brought my curiosity back into my everyday life. The more photographs I took, the more I wanted to notice, see and understand. It led me to new places, gave me more things to create and helped me reconnect with my roots through older photographs. Those photographs will also become part of the history I leave to my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Both activities gave something back while I was doing them.

On the other hand, if something only drains my energy without giving me anything in return, I will eventually stop. That doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t worthwhile. It means it is not worth the amount of energy I am spending in that form.

That last part matters: in that form.

Meaning, for me, is not about whether something looks productive from the outside. It is about whether I can connect it to something that matters in my actual life.

If something is going to remain part of my life, I need a reason to care about it and something that gives back along the way.

Momentum

I need to understand enough to see progress and know what comes next.

I don’t need to know exactly how everything will turn out before I begin, but I do need a foothold. Something has to click. I need to understand at least part of what I’m doing or be able to see that my effort is leading somewhere.

French is a good example. I wanted to learn it because of the proposed trip to Old Montreal, and I managed to continue for about a month. Eventually it became boring and too difficult. I think having a real person to speak French with would have helped. I would have been using what I learned instead of completing exercises without any connection to my daily life.

The creative summer class ended in a similar way. I had been away from that kind of creative work for too long. Many of the tools and techniques I once knew had changed, and the new ways of doing things didn’t make sense to me. I kept trying, but without anything clicking, frustration took over.

That doesn’t necessarily mean I couldn’t learn French or understand the new creative tools. It means those particular methods did not give me a way in. After several hours of trying, struggling and asking for instructions, continuing in exactly the same way becomes another drain on my energy.

Momentum also affects whether I believe I have accomplished anything. Notes alone don’t usually count for me. They are still subject to a dozen changes before the real work begins. A solid framework is different. It may not be finished, but the idea has become mine. I can see its shape and know what comes next.

That is when preparation begins to feel like creation.

I don’t need the whole path. I need enough of a foothold to take the next step and enough visible progress to know that my effort is leading somewhere.

Flexibility

The method has to bend with the reality of my life.

Some of you will understand this immediately and some of you probably won’t, but I need structure without rigidity. I like having a beginning, a direction and some idea of what comes next. What I cannot sustain is a system that expects me to do the same thing at the same time for the same length of time every day.

Popular productivity advice often says that consistency means following a fixed schedule until the behaviour becomes automatic. That assumes I will wake up with roughly the same amount of physical and mental energy each day. I don’t.

It may be a bad pain day, a low-energy day or one of those confusing mental days when the words and thoughts take longer to come together. Sometimes my energy changes within the same day. A plan that only works when I feel well is not a particularly useful plan for my life.

Aquafit taught me something about this. I began with a grand plan to attend three times a week. Fatigue, pain, illness and travel eventually reduced that to once a week, when I am well enough to participate fully. On paper, that might look as though I failed to follow the plan. In reality, doing less is what allowed Aquafit to remain part of my life.

The original plan did not survive. The purpose did.

Energy is also specific. I can walk thousands of steps while exploring somewhere interesting and then struggle to clean my kitchen. That doesn’t mean I am pretending to be tired or choosing only the fun things. An adventure and a household task ask different things of me. Being capable of one demanding activity does not mean I have enough energy for every supposedly easier one.

Recovery has to fit inside the plan too. I cannot put the rest of my life on hold until I am completely well because completely well may never arrive. At the same time, I cannot pretend recovery is unnecessary.

I need room for both.

Changing the method, reducing the size or moving the timetable is not abandoning the goal. It is how I make space for the goal inside the life I actually have. 

Evidence

I need to look at what actually happened, not only at how I feel about it.

My internal account of a day is not always accurate. I can complete necessary errands, attend appointments and deal with something important, then come home feeling as though I accomplished nothing because I did not create anything.

That happened recently after I met with the pharmacist for a medication review and went to ServiceOntario to update my identification. Both things needed doing. Both required time, travel, concentration and energy. Yet because I had not completed any creative work, the day felt unproductive.

I know maintenance matters. Appointments, paperwork, housekeeping and cooking keep my life functioning. Research and notes prepare the ground for future work. But they do not give me the same sense of accomplishment as taking an idea from my head and making it real.

This need for evidence extends beyond individual days.

I can become stronger and maintain a weight below 200 pounds while still living in a body affected by illness, pain and fatigue. My vulnerability does not erase the evidence of my growing capability, and my increased capability does not mean the vulnerability has disappeared.

But what remains undone is not the only evidence that matters.

When my feelings tell me I have done nothing or made no progress, I need to look at the life I actually lived before I believe them. 

Discovery

I need something I haven’t already mastered, seen or understood.

This was probably the most surprising thing I recognized because the pattern stretches much farther back than this year.

When I become competent enough at something, I often lose interest in it. Sometimes I stop suddenly and sometimes the interest fades slowly, but once the challenge is gone, I usually stop.

I learned to knit and purl well enough to complete a set of fingerless gloves, and then I stopped knitting. I figured out the mechanics of weaving and left my final project unfinished. I completed three miniature rooms without much difficulty, but when other people became interested in buying them, I stopped making them.

At first that sounds like I cannot stick with anything, but I don’t think that is what is happening. In each case, I stayed long enough to answer the question that interested me: Can I figure out how to do this?

Once the answer was yes, the activity felt complete. Making more of the same was no longer a challenge. It was repetition, and repetition became boring.

That creates a strange balance. Too little understanding frustrates me, but complete predictability loses me too. I need enough understanding to gain momentum and enough uncertainty to remain curious.

Photography continues to hold my attention because knowing how to take a photograph does not mean I already know what I will find. Every walk offers different subjects, questions and stories. Writing and design work the same way. I may know how to use the tools, but each piece asks me to make different decisions.

This is also where I recognized that I move through the world in a very particular way. The subject may change, but the process rarely does:

Notice → Wonder → Follow → Understand → Preserve/Share

I notice something that catches my attention. It makes me wonder. I follow the question through observation, research or conversation until I understand it well enough for it to become part of my world. Then I preserve or share it through photographs, writing, design, my Daybook or simply my own memory.

My interests are not as scattered as they sometimes appear. Photography, wandering, history, writing, design and research are all connected by the same curiosity.

The subject isn’t the organizing principle. My way of looking is.

I stay engaged when there is still something to discover. Once the question has been answered and only repetition remains, I am usually ready to follow my curiosity somewhere else.

What I Am Still Working On

Recognizing a pattern does not mean I have solved it. There are two things in particular that I know I still need to work on.

The first is compassion for myself. I have always found it easier to make room for another person’s needs, mistakes and struggles than my own. Boundaries were little more than a word to me when I was younger, but slowly I learned to build them. They do not mean I have stopped caring. They mean I am finally trying to include myself among the people worthy of my care.

The second is learning which problems are mine to solve. Some belong to other people, some have no clear solution and some of my own problems may remain problems for a long time. Caring does not make me responsible for fixing everything. Knowing what might help does not always mean I have the energy, ability or circumstances to make it happen.

I am still learning where responsibility ends, where acceptance begins and when continuing to push is doing more harm than good.

Recognize did not give me another system to follow. It gave me five conditions that help me understand why some things become part of my life and others fall away:

Meaning. Momentum. Flexibility. Evidence. Discovery.

What I do needs to matter. I need enough of a foothold to move forward. The method has to bend with the reality of my life. I need to look at what I have actually done, not only at how I feel about it. And I need something left to discover.

Together, they lead me back to one guiding principle:

I do not need a perfect system designed for the person I am supposed to be. I need a life built around the person I actually am.

That is not an excuse to stop growing. It is the ground I need in order to grow at all.