“Unequivocally”
Our dog died of pneumonia in the winter of 2016. Let that one event stand in for all the happenings of a season that felt uniformly grey and burdensome. On April 20th, I wrote in my journal:
“I am so utterly depleted!”
After pouring out my feelings in my journal that day, I called my husband at work. I told him I wanted to get away for a week - a writing retreat. We talked about what that would look like, and I finished off the conversation with, “Just a wild idea. Think about it for me.”
He responded immediately:
“I’ve already thought about it. I think you should go.”
Two weeks later, the first week in May, I found myself alone in a cheap, off-season vacation rental in Canmore, Alberta. Andrew took a week off work to take care of the family. I kept my phone mostly off, and didn’t connect to the condo’s wifi at all. The only books I brought with me were my scriptures and a thesaurus. I walked, cycled, ate far too many yummy snacks, and wrote pages and pages of my “silly 19th century novel” at the kitchen table, on a park bench by Policeman’s Creek, on the cozy couch, and on the condo patio.
There was an hour on the first evening, and one later in the week, when I got a little desperate and wondered if I could survive on just my own thoughts for a week. Mostly, it was wonderful. Some of the best parts involved staring at the wall and doing nothing at all. Not to mention the view outside the condo. I wrote, “Do you think all the worlds Heavenly Father created look the same? Because I can’t imagine anything more perfect than this one.”
And in one week I got halfway through the first draft of the novel I’d been scribbling away at in my spare time.
My dad died in the summer of 2019, after six gruelling months in hospice care. It was beyond exhausting for our whole family. I had a trip to England booked for the first week of May: research for my book. Leaving him was wrenching. Would he still be there when I got back? But Dad had been so supportive of the idea of me going - of course I needed to see the setting I was writing about. The day before my flight was booked, I visited him.
“Dad,” I said, “You know I have this trip planned for England. I’m leaving tomorrow.” He nodded. “Do you think I should still go?”
He responded immediately:
“Unequivocally!”
It was a big word for a man whose brain was so addled by illness and morphine that he wasn’t always clear on whether it was noon or midnight. And a beautiful gift for me. I went, guilt-free. I cycled around Dedham Vale, walked through Hyde Park, toured old mansions and the Inns of Court and Westminster Hall.
There was a moment of panic when I walked into the airport. I had never left the North American continent before, and I was travelling alone. There were hours of exhaustion, during and after the trip: I am not a high-energy traveler. Mostly, it was exhilarating. I fell in love with England, and walked where my characters had walked. And I returned, rejuvenated, to be a part of those last painful, precious months with my father.
In May of 2022, I finished the third draft of my novel. It is complete, and I am proud of it. This is a post of celebration and gratitude to two of the many people in my life who have supported my writing - unequivocally.
