A Collection of Hopes by Brenda Leyland

 

Image by Gizelle Kei from Pixabay

With summer gone by in a blur and September nearing the end of its allotted 30 days, this last quarter certainly has arrived in a hurry. And, in keeping with the pace, I am writing this post on the fly, as I don't have much spare time these days to ponder or plan more thoughtfully. Still, there is just enough room to squeeze in a '90-day project space' before Christmas (Sep 23 to Dec 21). It's long enough to achieve something, yet short enough to see the end in sight with a good chance of not losing all momentum.

So what do I still hope to accomplish before the year's end? My list is a loose, slightly incoherent, collection of hopes for tiny steps forward.

1. Help Mom settle into her new home where she won't have to cook for herself ever again—which makes my almost-91 year old mom (and all our family) relieved... and happy. Continue to tie up loose ends from the move and sort out unexpected glitches (of which there has been a pile to deal with). Continue to support and lend a hand and ear when and where needed.

2. Walk every day with my hubby. Being sure to enjoy the beauty of Nature around me as the season changes: watching the leaves flutter down like butterflies; crunching through the murmuration of leaves skittering across the road in shifting gusts of wind, spying glimmering vees of geese or a harvest moon on a clear night.

3. Make earnest strides to slow the alarming loss of muscle mass happening in my aging body. I do cardio every day but now I'm definitely adding resistance, core, and strengthening to my routine.

4. Clear the clobber. From my desk; from my online files and social media; from the corners, cupboards, and rooms of my house (not to forget the basement and garage). I first stumbled across the word "clobber" in British novelist Rosamunde Pilcher's book, Winter Solstice. The person using the word had been referring to the collection of someone's life stuff left after they'd passed on. That word "clobber" tickled my funny bone. Although it wasn't quite so funny after having helped dear friends and my 90-year-old mom dismantle their homes this year as they prepared to move into small suites in assisted living facilities. The pressure and the stress of decision making for them, as well as those who came alongside to help, make me eager to get on with my own clobber decluttering.

5. Read. For relaxation, comfort, and calming of my mind from all frets, worries, and to-do lists. I enjoy seasonal and historical novels. Nature anthologies. Poetry. Mysteries. Memoirs. Plus, I wouldn't mind focusing more on my ever increasing collection of  books 'Yet Unread'.

6. Begin the dismantling of 50 years of journaling stored in over 200 notebooks. I saw someone recommending that people should, instead of endless scrolling on social media, dip into their own journals and notebooks for encouragement and ideas on what to write about. I like the idea of researching my own journals for writing fodder.  

7. Continue to write for my It's A Beautiful Life blog with the idea of perhaps transferring to writing on Substack at some point (still need to research that out). Continue to guest post here on the InScribe blog.

8. Think about how I could repurpose many of my blog posts (the number hovers now around 1500) to curate into a 'body of work'. Blogging has been my favourite place to share my writing—my blog has been home for my writer's soul for close to 20 years now.

9. Rest. I can't help anyone else if I don't take care of myself first. And listen for the word I need for each day: "Step here... and here... and here." Take things one day at a time when things get overwhelming. Not everything needs looking at, thinking about, or dealing with today. 

10. Remember to laugh. For the joy of the Lord is my strength. I remember years ago at work, when my office was piled high with photocopy boxes filled with incoming correspondence to deal with, I felt the Lord willing me, cajoling me to laugh at the piles. I also remember it was an effort but I felt Him smiling at me... willing me to try. And I felt a lifting of my overwhelmed heart. I knew He was going to be there to help me through it all. And He was.

Note: The memoir I was determined to finish this year is on hold. There are no plans to pick it up in the near future. Other needful things presently take up my time and energy.

Brenda writes from her desk by the window that overlooks her garden, the sky, and the birds. You can find her 'slice of life' writing on her It's A Beautiful Life blog. She is also on Facebook and Instagram (under Bren Leyland).

 

 

Beauty and the Writer by Brenda Leyland

The Lord God made to grow every tree

that is desirable and pleasing to the sight

and good (suitable, pleasant) for food.

Genesis 2:9 (AMP)

It's been raining in our corner of the world. As we've had drought conditions and threats of wildfires over the past few seasons, we are more than enjoying this wetter one. Mine eyes dazzle to look out and see how alive and vibrant and green my garden looks in the diffused light. Do you think green is God's favourite colour? Such a beautiful world God has created for us to live in. According to ancient texts, there were all sorts of wondrous things in the original Garden, including trees that were beautiful, and pleasant, to look upon. Our world had not been created only with utilitarian efficiency and function in mind but also with beauty for our wonderment, pleasure, and well-being.

How often had I read that portion before actually noticing that tiny phrase 'pleasing to the sight'. I felt elated. However it first came to reside in my belief system, I grew up with the vague sense that a utilitarian way of life was the more important way. Flowers and beauty were fine in their place but not truly necessary, e.g., planting a vegetable garden was essential but planting flowers was less important, even optional, according to some. But there grew a secret recognition of what I found pleasing to the senses in my child's heart of the pretty things around me—it sometimes came as a ping of the heart or as a delicious shiver down my spine. I fell in love with the clove-scented flowers in Grandma's garden; was in awe of a midnight blue sky filled with billions of stars that felt so close I wanted to reach up and pluck some with my hand; was ever delighted with that contrast of light and dark in the skies after a summer rainstorm.

So learning that, in the grand scheme of things, lovely trees had been created just for their beauty solidified something on the inside. God was not just okay with us loving the beauty in the world, he'd established it in the original designs for this planet and its inhabitants. I felt released to delight in the beauty and creativity all around me. It was not a waste of time, effort, or resources to make my life and corner of the world I called home as lovely as possible. I had come to see early on that beauty is what truly inspires and motivates me at the core of my being. If I can find the beauty in a thing or task, then I can do it with joy in my heart.

In our prompt this month, we were invited to peruse the account in Exodus 35 where we learn of God's intricate planning for the building of the tabernacle. And how he gave special skills and gifts to various artists and artisans so that his dwelling on the earth would be beautiful in every way. This glimpse of God working with mankind and mankind working with God to create beauty, isn't it thrilling?

So, when it comes to my writing, I love the idea of joining forces with fellow creatives to develop the creativity, ideas, and skills God has given to me, to us, to create. I love that lovely old line in Proverbs 25:11, "A word fitly spoken and in due season is like apples of gold in settings of silver" (AMP). A bit of graceful beauty from my pen to someone's heart. Written to fit the situation and then offered at just the right moment. To me, it's a beautiful thing. And that phrase "apples of gold in settings of silver", how much more lovely can that phrase be?

As a writer I rely on creating word pictures to show the beauty I see around me. And how I imagine the world might be when it's made perfect again. I write to offer readers what delights me in the every day things, all the while hoping they will find their own inspiration to live with beauty, joy, and creative energy. In honour of the One who dreamed it up as it was originally intended. I write to remind myself, and my readers, to keep watching for glimpses of heaven in unexpected places. These glimpses point us towards the Beautiful One, the one who made us co-creators with himself.

(Top) Image by Andreas from Pixabay

Brenda Leyland writes from her perch that looks out on the garden, the birds at the birdbath, and the sky overhead. You can find her 'slice of life' writing on her blog It's A Beautiful Life. She is also on Facebook and Instagram (under Bren Leyland).

 

The Writing Advice I Needed by Brenda Leyland

 

Photo by Ylanite Koppens from pexels.com

Hard-pressed to choose the one best piece of writing advice I've ever received, I finally gave up trying. Instead, I created this short list of sage words that inspired and shaped my early writing life. Each piece was the best at the time it came to me.

1. For the unsure writer...

Listen to the call within to write. If God has asked you to write, he has also equipped you with everything to get the job done. These words dropped into my heart as I sat listening to Kathleen Gibson during the 2002 Spring WorDshop—my first-ever InScribe event. I recently found them jotted in an old journal and remembered how I drank in the stories Kathleen shared of her own early writing experiences. I had already begun to sense stirrings in my own heart to write. I felt the tug. That's why I signed up for the event. Though for someone who'd never forgotten her aversion to essay writing in school, this almost yearning came as a considerable surprise to me in adulthood. At first I wondered, "Are you sure you're talking to the right person, dear Lord?" 

2. You don't need permission...

You have the right to write. Really? I didn't quite believe it. Surely I needed someone wiser to encourage me along this path. I always thought 'real' writers knew since they were five years old that they wanted to write. That certainly wasn't true in my case. I was glad, therefore, for two fine books I believe providentially crossed my path (the first was suggested to me by my husband's aunt) that addressed the issue: The Right to Write by Julia Cameron and If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. Both books became well-thumbed staples in my own library. With many statements starred and underlined, and margins filled with notations, I soon considered the authors my writing mentors. Their words reached down from the bookshelf to steady the faltering steps of one timid, aspiring writer.

3. On giving up the habit to put it off...

Stop not writing. No one cares if you write or not, so you’d better. Sit down at your desk and keep your butt in the chair. Write one passage, conversation, and let yourself do it badly. Oh, I loved these words attributed to Anne Lamott (another cherished writing mentor). I loved the twist of that first sentence, the phrase 'stop not writing'. It made me sit up and take notice... made me listen to what she was saying.

4. On getting down the first draft...

Anne Lamott notes that almost all good writing begins with 'sh*tty first drafts'. And believes these dreadful first attempts are necessary to produce quality work. Her cheeky advice released me from the unrealistic tension to get it right the first time. I could, in fact, scribble down those barely formed first thoughts, finally understanding that the Editor/Critic peering over my shoulder should go wait her turn somewhere else. Author Jodie Picoult's sound advice made that clear to me: You can always edit a bad page but you can't edit a blank page.

5.  Creativity begets creativity...

"I learned . . . that inspiration does not come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving, but it comes into us slowly and quietly and all the time, though we must regularly and every day give it a little chance to start flowing, prime it with a little solitude and idleness." Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write, p. 42-43

These words connected at some level and helped me to recognize that, through my own experiences as a young Sunday School teacher years earlier, I didn't have to work up the inspiration or rack my brain for ideas. The more I used my creative juices to make the lessons come alive for my students the more the creative ideas bubbled up. Creativity begets creativity. Use the idea you have and it will call forth the reserves for the next step. What a great reminder for my writing.

6. On establishing your work standard...

Aim to write your best work every time. Although I no longer recall who shared this advice, the words really struck a chord. And they still shape my writing to this day. Whenever I sit down to write I am compelled from within to give it my best effort. No 'sloughing off ' and no saying, well, this is just a blog post or a little article or there's no remuneration for this, so it doesn't really matter if I slapdash this together. No, no, no....

We've all been forewarned that whatever we send out into the world, particularly in cyberspace, is out there. Forever. Ever giving readers a glimpse of who we are and to Whom we belong. And me being a person who longs to reflect heaven's light and beauty in all I do and say, hoping to create little patches of heaven on earth in my corner of the world, this is specially true in my writing.

7. On giving yourself some slack...

Alongside #6 above, this is my own advice to myself: There will be days when I know it isn't my best work, but it's the best I have to give today. Life happens around us, and sometimes we don't have time or energy or we aren't skilled enough at this point to shape our work into something more polished—and sometimes we have deadlines to honour. Although I still don't want to be slipshod about anything I write, I know there will be days 'when good enough is good enough'. And on those days, when I can't quite find the best words to say it, I can at least spell them correctly and with proper grammar in place.

To wind up, here is one more bit of advice that gives me self-confidence to keep writing, whether or not someone leaves a comment (wink): "Confidence is knowing you [or your writing] are not everyone's cup of tea and being okay with it." as shared by @wiseconnector on X

Brenda writes from her desk by the window that overlooks her garden, the sky, and the birds. You can find her 'slice of life' writing on her blog It's (Still) A Beautiful Life. She is also on Facebook and Instagram (under Bren Leyland).

 

A Joyride in a Journal by Brenda Leyland

"I've always been a journal keeper. I've always

tried to write about how I'm experiencing life,

and my feelings and thoughts."

Sue Monk Kidd

My journals are 'sacred' pieces of myself penned on paper. I think best with a pen in my hand, and journaling has always felt like that 'meant to be' place for writing out what's on my mind and heart.

In the photo above, what you see is the wildflower-sprigged cover of my current journal—Volume 199. I know, it's hard to believe I've 'felled' that many trees and filled that many notebooks. But it's been nearly forty years. And yes, if you're wondering, I still have every volume—all neatly stored in my study closet in seven banker's file boxes. If I had shelf space, I'd set out the most recent volumes and dip into them more often. My later volumes are a lot more fun to reread than the early ones. Simply because I'm a better writer, and I'm a lot more playful and creative in decorating my pages (stickers, leaves, calligraphy, sketches, etc.). Plus, I've gleaned a host of ideas from other writers of what I could explore on paper. I'm much more verbose at this stage of life (perhaps I have just become more opinionated, haha, and so my diaries hear about it). I fill about four or five notebooks a year.

How It All Began

It all began many years ago when I discovered Lucy Maud Montgomery's published journals in the 1980s. I felt I'd unearthed a treasure. By then, I was a devoted fan of her novels and poetry, and I gobbled up anything I could find about her life and work. She was my inspiration for finding the beauty in life and writing about it. I took notes. And paid attention to what made her journals interesting for me to read. She shared so many aspects of her life - growing up in her grandmother's home, her involvement in her community on Prince Edward Island, her friendships and amusements, what she read, what she wrote, the joy she took in the seasons, sunsets and flowers, not to mention kitty cats. She shared her woes and mental sufferings... along with her many joys and pleasures.

In my own youth and early adulthood, I had an odd assortment of notebooks for things I wanted to keep or remember. It was all a bit haphazard. Boxes of bits and pieces easily go astray—and sometimes they did disappear. But, since that day I opened a floral clothbound notebook and wrote the date across the first page—January 1, 1987—I have pretty much been dedicated to the art and discipline of writing in my journals. And except for the occasional season throughout the years, for the most part, it's been a daily part of my life.

Discovering What Worked Best

I eventually learned that it was best for my brain and personality to keep everything in a single journal rather than keeping various topical notebooks. Keeping more than one meant I was forever looking for the one I wanted. It didn't help me be organized; it just made me irritated. My journals are a motley collection in size, pattern, and style. I eventually decided against coil-bound notebooks—how would I label the spine with volume numbers and range of dates? My most recent favourite style of notebook is one put out by Nota (I find it at Indigo). It has an open spine exposing the decorative 'Coptic-stitch binding', which I really like, the spine of books usually being hidden by the cover. The pages easily lay open while I'm writing, and when it's full, its spine makes for easy labeling.

What's In Them

My journals hold all manner of information. Bits of diary—which can include tracking the weather or moon patterns, how well I slept, some to-do lists, what we're up to for the day. I often chat to myself about the books I'm reading, jotting down lines I want to remember. As well as trying to peg down why I like a certain book and not another. (Which helps when I need to write a book review). I write about what's going on in my inner life, emotionally or spiritually. I'm often writing out Bible verses that comfort, encourage, and nourish, along with prayers and gratitude reports. My journal is quite often my first-place dump for ideas—or for writing down a perfect opening line that appears out of the blue—which can often end up in a blog post and other writing.

And then, like LMM, there are all those beautiful moments in life that I don't want to forget. Those tiny moments that make a day suddenly feel alive with hope, even when the world is wildly insane. You know those glorious moments, when your heart zings with joy as you stand and watch a rainbow form after a summer shower. Or, when you sit in the garden where the air is sweet with perfume and the birds chatter companionably, and our neighbourly Orange Kitty wanders in for a quick visit and a quiet snooze in the shrubbery. Where you are just glad, glad, glad to be alive on God's green earth. Descriptions of this sort written in my journal will often nose their way into my blog posts.

Though my journals are not works of art, per se, they do resemble my personality and nature. My soul sits there on the pages—I recognize her amongst the words. Sometimes my handwriting is neat, other times not so much. Sometimes my soul is bright with hope and sunshine, other times she can grouse with the best worst of 'em. These journals are scribbled layers of thoughts, feelings, and impressions—the extraordinary moments mixed in with ordinary ones. Looking back, in many ways I wish I could have written a neater story within these pages. But a journal, I believe, is meant to house what bubbles up, unedited, our thoughts and ideas untangling as we "scratch them out on paper" (Sarah Clarkson, p. 86, Reclaiming Quiet).

Three Journal Side Trips

As I already mentioned earlier, a single journal with many volumes has companioned me over the years. But there have been short seasons when I did keep a separate notebook for a specific purpose. My Gratitude Journals in half size notebooks, for one. Sarah Ban Breathnach's book Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy (her January 14th entry) was my inspirational first intro to such a lovely exercise. It helped me to establish the lifelong habit of living a life in gratitude. I think there are three such notebooks on my bookshelf; every once in a while I revisit those old lists from another life time.

And then there was the season when I discovered Julia Cameron's ritual of Morning Pages. It took some years to recognize that this could be something to use when I needed to blow off steam, vent hidden frustrations, anger, and pent-up pain (all part of pouring it out to the Lord in three pages). I have never wanted my ‘insane’ ravings and laments to be a permanent part of my journals. For I never wanted to revisit those traumatized moments, not did I ever want someone to stumble upon them. So, I used up old scribblers and notebooks as temporary depositories where I wrote it all out…down to the last tiny ‘huff and puff’ of the abating squall. I don't reread them—the scribblings are destroyed, either at that point or when a notebook is full. And should there come out of those ramblings a few lines worth keeping, those are transferred into my regular journal. Morning Pages has been such a helpful tool for releasing brewing emotion and pain. In writing it all out in this safe place, I'd feel a lightness in the emptying process. I felt heard. I felt release. I slept better. Most importantly, I felt peace in my heart.

Most recently, since January 1, 2022, I have been keeping a small Five-Year Commonplace Diary. Which was inspired by author Austin Kleon who uses this diary to jot a favourite line he comes across in a day. This year I started Year Five, and by the time I write my last quote on December 31st, I will have curated a collection of 1825 quotations—how is that for one tiny diary. What I have found as I watch the pages fill with quotes over the weeks, months, and now years, I often can identify my frame of mind and what might have been going on in my life or in the world at large. So in reality, it's a journal that has tracked my life in quotations.

I have loved writing in my journals. It has been a wondrous experience. A true delight. It's one of those 'hobbies' I have never grown tired of—it's right up there with reading. I have never felt pressured to write in them. I do it because I want to and look forward to opening each day's fresh blank page. It's been a joyride in a journal. I have no plans to stop. 

Brenda writes from her perch by the study window that overlooks her garden and the birds. You can find her writing on her blog It's A Beautiful Life. She's also on Facebook and Instagram (under Bren Leyland).

 

  

 

Whispers of Tissue and Chiffon by Brenda Leyland

 

Me and Little Sis in our velvet and chiffon dresses

The whir of Mom's Singer sewing machine was a familiar sound growing up in the little farmhouse we called home. A young wife and mom, Mom often had some sewing project under construction—garments for her growing family, draperies, craft projects, bridesmaids dresses, quilts, etc. Of all the things she sewed, my favourites were the Christmas dresses she made for me and my sisters.

With the approach of December a sense of anticipation would begin to fill the air. Mom would study the Eaton's and Sears catalogues looking for ideas of what to make. Then came the time for Mom to visit the fabric store. Sometimes we tagged along with her; I always loved that starchy smell that greeted us when we walked into the store. Amazed at the bolts upon bolts of fabric in every colour and weight in tidy rows from floor to ceiling. Not to mention the dazzling array of buttons, ribbons, and laces. The cabinets were bursting with patterns... the possibilities seemed endless. There was so much to look at—but please don't touch—that we were rarely bored while Mom sat studying patterns, musing over  fabrics and colours, feeling this cloth and then that one. Should it be floral or plain? Satin, jacquard, or velvet? This shade of evergreen or that holly red?

Back at home, the big day arrived. The kitchen table was cleared. Amid scissors, tape measure, and stick pins, sheets of ecru tissue rustled as each pattern piece was carefully laid out on the fabric. Putting it this way and that way to find the best fit before pinning it down. There'd be that moment of slight tension—just before Mom made that first scissor snip through tissue and fabric. Before long, threads and fabric bits littered the floor, and there'd be the hot whoosh as the iron pressed damp cloth against newly sewn seams.

Trying on the dresses while some seams were still held together with stickpins created a balancing act. Arms held over our heads, Mom gently slipped the emerging garment over our shoulders. My little sisters and I would try not to wiggle, turning s-l-o-w-l-y like a stiff mannequin atop a chair, while Mom adjusted seams and checked hems for length. Finally all the pins were gone and we stood in our finished dresses. One last twirl. The wonder as we stared in the mirror. It was such a proud moment to stand in our newest finery on Christmas Eve with our Sunday school class, reciting mostly memorized verses and warbling partly familiar carols.

Many holiday outfits passed beneath the pressure foot of that old sewing machine. The holly red velvet dress trimmed with lace, the swirly skirted green taffeta with three-quarter sleeves, a jacquard textured royal blue shift offset by a white pleated organdy collar (a bit reminiscent of those Queen Elizabeth I fancy collars in her 16th century portraits—not that I knew anything about her in those days). And of all the dresses made through the years, it was the pretty peacock blue velvet with a skirt of whispering chiffon that ended up being my forever favourite outfit of my early childhood.

No matter how many Christmases come and go, recollections of pretty handmade dresses and annual concerts in the old country church are as carefully bundled in filmy memories as any treasured holiday ornament. The wonder of it all is that these gifts of love were wrapped in the celebration of the One who came to express the love of a generous God to our world. Who would have thought that the whisper of tissue paper on velvet would echo that great love to three little girls?

Photo above from the family archives

Growing up Brenda could never decide whether it was her birthday or Christmas Eve that was her most favourite day of the year. Some things never change, she still can't decide. She enjoys writing on her blog It's A Beautiful Life and here on InScribe. She can also be found on Facebook and Instagram.

 

One Unfinished Project: Starting Again by Brenda Leyland

"To do it, you have to do it."

Susan Branch

 

There's nothing quite so daunting as picking up an old unfinished project. The word 'unfinished' gives our inner gut an unsettled feeling. And staring at a listless dog-eared pile (paper or digital) certainly doesn't encourage any kind of inspiration. If you've ever left a craft project undone, like counted cross-stitch, you'll know what I mean. You reach in the bag to find a jumble of supplies of thread and yarn (you're certain you never left it in such a state). First you peer with squinty eyes at the pattern to figure out where you left off, then you try to locate the exact spot on your half-stitched canvas where to ply the needle. It's doable. Just starting is half the battle.

We all know it's no easier for writers to pull out an old project with its various drafts and piles of tattered notes. Even if we might still have a desire to finish it, we've probably lost that first flush of excitement. In our mind's eye, it's old hat. As my dear friend's daughter Karla said, "[We] have to be reinspired to see the old content in a new and fresh way".

I need to be reinspired for a certain project that comes to mind.

In my last post HERE I mentioned a memoir that had percolated in my heart for numerous years before I started it the autumn of 2013. I had read Lisa Dale Norton's memoir writing book Shimmering Images, contacted her in California and signed up to take her memoir writing course. I learned a lot. Looking back, what I should have done at that point was to take advantage of her editorial services and further instruction. But I unwisely thought I could do it myself (resources being at a premium at the time). I spent 30 days gathering the memories and writing them down, also doing research from old journals. I had around 40,000 words. In May 2014, I went on a writers' retreat to work on it and received encouraging support from other writers. On my own, indecision, still unclear of what all I would include, and never settling on how to proceed got me tangled up (like those yarns and threads I mentioned earlier). I worked away on it here and there but having never undertaken such a large writing project—I was a blogger at heart—it all felt too big.

Until 2018, at which point Joy Bailey and I joined forces and became writing buddies. We were going to help each other get our writing projects done. We used as our how-to manual the book by Cary Tennis and Danelle Morton Finishing School: The Happy Ending to That Writing Project You Can't Seem to Get Done. Work plans were made; due dates were scheduled. We agreed to check in with each other once a week. Reviewing each other's work wasn't part of the plan, it was just to have some accountability to one another. Oh, and we'd send text 'pings!' when we started each day's work. We were on a roll. We met our writing goals. We were making progress. In this new restart, by this time I had mulled enough on my memoir that I had a clear idea of where I was going with it. I had chapter outlines, and several chapters had good drafts now done. It should have been clear sailing, right?

Then other things crowded in, those life events that happen to many of us; plans got railroaded. Joy and I still made weekly goals, but they grew smaller as we tried to fit our writing around all the other needful things going on. Things like health issues for ourselves and for family members, moving and building a new home for one of us, living through a global pandemic, family emergencies. Sometimes all the energy we had on check in day was to say, we got little done, but we're still here, hoping for better writing days ahead.

By this time it's 2022 and the project was on a slow burn to fizzling out. The desire to keep working faded. Maybe it had disappeared into the pandemic ether. Although the lockdowns and different life patterns during this time inspired many people to create new work, I was not one of them. Inspiration was near zero, as was the sense of urgency to get written what had lived bright in my heart for nearly a decade. Whose idea was this, I never really wanted to write a book, did I? I finally admitted to Joy this last spring that maybe the season to write this memoir had passed, and I didn't know if I wanted to start again.

But God... (as Connie Inglis has been known to say).

Fast forward to August 2025. Our blog's writing prompt happened to be about the seasons of life and writing. I hadn't planned to write a guest post for it, but I felt drawn to consider doing so (it's the one I mentioned earlier HERE). Publishing the post and receiving kindly feedback from readers, I have been feeling a rising interest...with gentle tugs at my heart to revisit this stalled project. This will make it the third or fourth restart since my first attempt. As autumn surges in on the refreshing breezes, it comes with a sense of hopefulness that maybe I can start again... again. I chatted with Joy to see if she'd be up for reconvening Finishing School. Yes, she was feeling a similar resurgence of zeal. Perhaps the pair of us joining forces once again, facing the 'elements' together, we'll achieve our goal of projects finished. We pulled out the Finishing School book to refresh our minds on how to proceed.

Now, I'm asking the good Lord to reinspire us, as Karla had suggested was needed. And to give us a fresh vision on how to go forward in this current season of our lives. You see, Karla after reading my last post said she knows people who would be encouraged by my story... should I feel His urging to start again. 

This time next year, perhaps someone here will ask, "Did you finish that memoir you were working on last September?" I would like to respond, "Yes, I did!" And, maybe, even hand them my book. Fingers crossed.

(Top) Photo credit: Image by Mark from Pixabay

Brenda has been a longtime member of InScribe and is glad for this company of writers with whom she can share the writing journey. At the present time, she guest blogs here and writes regularly on her own blog It's A Beautiful Life. She can also be found on Facebook, Instagram, and BlueSky.

 

The Season for Gathering Memories by Brenda Leyland

Everything has seasons, and we have to

be able to recognize when something's time has

passed and be able to move into the next season.

Henry Cloud

found on BrainyQuote.com

Little did I realize that I had been waiting for the season when I'd turn 60. Having reached this stage (successfully finishing 60 trips around the sun), I had some inner sense of having 'made it'. I'd come safely and reasonably happy through my childhood, young adulthood, and now middle age—and all that went with these various stages of life. It had been—and still is—a good life.

At the outset of this new decade, there were lots of things I didn't have to do anymore. By this time, I'd now lived the major portion of my life. I was no longer setting down roots for my future or laying foundational blocks, learning how to live the life God had given me or trying to carve out a lifestyle based on my situation, passions, and needs. But as a bit of a late bloomer—not having married until I was forty-one and never having dreamed of being a writer until I was older—I was well into my forties when I attended my first InScribe event around 2002. As the desire to write grew, I knew I wanted to write about life from my corner of the world, using my own life experiences as fodder. Somehow I came to recognize that I had had to live my longish life before I could write about it. I needed time and distance to see how God’s faithfulness, loving guidance, and grace had umbrella-ed everything that had ever happened to me. When I approached 60, it signaled something on the inside that this was the time the writer in me had been waiting for, and the season would start with a lot of rearview mirror gazing and gathering in the memories. 

I began curating my personal history, organizing the motley collection of photo albums, journals, yearbooks, scrapbooks, and multitudinous touchstone keepsakes. It was the season of gathering the fruit—stories, experiences, lessons—of my life. And putting some order to it. Based on the advice from Natalie Goldberg, or was it Julia Cameron, I created ten-year increments of 'Just the Facts' timelines, of my life from birth to present day. From there, I took the barebone facts and began creating a more detailed narrative timeline. A lifetime in a timeline. I felt so organized and orderly (smile). 

It was a such a satisfying season. Some things got wrapped up, some got sorted. Other situations remained shrouded in mystery and no answers to the whys of life but it was okay to let it be. Some things were dusted off as I paid close attention to which memories shimmered and begged to be told. Quite often bits and pieces of this material worked its way into essays for blog posts and anthologies. I self-published a magazine through Blurb that housed my simple but cherished childhood Christmas memories. Which made lovely Christmas presents one year and I was amazed at how much interest it garnered in sales from strangers.

From the start, I wanted to write about my lost dream to marry and become a mom early in life. My twenties disappeared as did my thirties; I was still single and earning my own way in an unchosen but good career for years. It wasn't the plan at all. It would be years before I'd meet my partner. I even thought about a working title for this memoir "The Journey Between a Prayer and a Proposal: Twenty Years of Waiting... and Living". I never realized until I started looking back that I'd been composing possible chapters in my head for years, ever rehearsing those touchstone experiences till they were etched in my heart of how I had learned to let go of my expectations and invite God to show me how to create his beautiful life for me. I had lived the story for years; the time had come to get it down on paper. I took a memoir writing course with Lisa Dale Norton and loved her book Shimmering Images on the topic. The first draft got done, but I never quite got up the courage, and energy, to push through and finish it. It's still a work in progress.

Turning another corner

That was several years ago now. The gathering season ended. The pressing need to collect those memories and record them was over. I just came across a line I'd jotted in my journal in 2023 which summed up my feelings at this time: "I don't want to keep living my old memories - I want to make new ones." My soul was longing to once again start looking forward and make some new memories. Some people use their retirement years to travel. I have traveled some, and I enjoy going away on holidays. Truth is, I'm really a homebody, where I'm happy in the heart of my home, near my writing desk, computer, and windows overlooking the garden. Where I can read books stacked up on shelves. And spend time with family and friends. Stay in wonderment and curiosity as I wander, wait, listen, pray.

I still want to share my life through writing... whether it's on my blog (my favourite place to write for these past 17 years), curating some of my favourite essays into small book collections, or finishing a memoir or two. I have known God's faithfulness and great grace through every stage of my life, including my writing life. Now as I edge toward my 'elder' years, a line from a song* Sandi Somers mentioned in her latest post seems such a lovely reminder: "In ev'ry change He faithful will remain". Amen.

_______________________________

Top Photo credit: Image by CongerDesign from Pixabay
*Be Still My Soul

Brenda is living her beautiful life in slower mode, having time to watch the world go by, sit in her comfy spot by the bay window, read, walk, watch the birds and clouds and flowers grow. And she enjoys writing on her blog It's A Beautiful Life and here on InScribe. She can also be found on Facebook, Instagram, and BlueSky.

 

 

An Interview: My Reading Life by Brenda Leyland

Reading and writing cannot be separated.

Reading is breathing in: writing is breathing out.

The Language Nerds, as seen on Facebook

In our writing prompt this month, Lorrie Orr poses a few questions regarding our reading practices and how our reading influences our writing. I have turned these questions into an interview-style post which I hope you will enjoy.

What do you enjoy reading?

Reading is, perhaps, the great joy of my life. I enjoy many things, but I have loved books from the earliest beginnings of my time on earth. I feel most 'at home' in my skin when there's a book in my lap and a stack of them waiting on my bedside table. I read to escape, to learn, understand, remember, imagine.

I enjoy reading...

– For pleasure and adventure. For the sheer joy of holding a physical book in my hands, turning the pages that pull me into stories and descriptions that grab my imagination. I love 'meeting' heroes and heroines in books who are braver and more adventuresome than I—vicariously grabbing their skirts and shirt-tales to discover places and experience things I'll probably never do or see in real life.

– To expand my knowledge of who I am as a person and who I am in the Lord. I no longer chase for answers as I once did. I had so many questions as a young woman, which is really why I read in the end. Novels of all sorts, how-to and advice books, spiritual books, magazines, backs of cereal boxes, whatever I could lay my hands on. I was ever on the look out for what were the 'secrets' to a happy and successful life.

– To fill in the blank spots of my knowledge of world events - events that were a blur in my mind when I was young (WWII, Cold War, Vietnam, why the town siren blew every day at noon...). As I read about these various events, global and local, light bulbs go off, 'So that's what that was all about.' It's so satisfying a feeling to finally know. That's why I love historical fiction. Because even though the story itself is fiction, a good author will have done her homework so that she gives her readers as accurate as possible a sense of that time and experience.

– For companionship and for connection to other people and their stories, especially in memoirs and biographies. I like discovering how other people lived through their own challenges, how they faced their life-threatening situations. To be encouraged that I, too, might overcome my own life issues. James Baldwin once said, "You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read." Oh, yes. I read to know I'm not alone.

What genres do you prefer?

For pleasure and adventure, I most often reach for mystery/thrillers, literary fiction, historical fiction, some fantasy, and children's classics. For human interest, I enjoy memoirs and history. For heart and soul nourishment, I often turn to nature writing (essays, poetry), spiritual inspiration, books about art, writing, and creativity. 

Who are your favourite writers?

I have so many favourites, I'll just mention a few. Lucy Maud Montgomery and Alexandra Stoddard are forever favourites; both were early mentors in showing me how I could live life more beautifully. Lucy Maud also stirred my love for descriptions of nature and beauty. Favourite mystery writers include Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Donna Leon. Favourite poets are Mary Oliver, Naomi Shihab Nye, Billy Collins, and Stephen Berg.

C.S. Lewis was my first literary spiritual mentor, and I devoured everything I could find of his writings in my young adult years. Other authors came along like Luci Swindoll, Brother Lawrence, Henri Nouwen, Francis and Edith Schaeffer, Anne Lamott, Madeleine L'Engle.

Because everyone I know loves a book list, below you will find a short one mentioning a few of my favourite writers - the titles are a mix of forever favourites and current favourites.

Nonfiction:
- A Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
- If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland
- Heaven, the Heart's Deepest Longing by Peter Kreeft
- A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken
- Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
- Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen
- Call Us What We Carry (Poems) by Amanda Gorman
- The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence
- This Beautiful Truth and Reclaiming Quiet by Sarah Clarkson
- Common Prayer by Shane Claiborne, et al
- Steal Like An Artist by Austin Kleon
- Women Holding Things by Maira Kalman
- The Lives We Actually Have, 100 Blessings for Imperfect Days by Kate Bowler, et al
- Things to Look Forward To, 52 Large and Small Joys... by Sophie Blackall

Fiction:

- Anne of Green Gables (series) and Selected Journals (series) by L.M. Montgomery

- Little Women and A Rose in Bloom by Louisa May Alcott

- Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion by Jane Austen

- Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

- The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis

- At Home in Mitford (series) by Jan Karon

- Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim

- Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher

- Pilgrim's Inn by Elizabeth Goudge

- A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

- The Rose Code by Kate Quinn

- The Beautiful Mystery and All the Devils are Here by Louise Penny

- A Time for Mercy by John Grisham

- Brother Cadfael's Penance by Ellis Peters

- Once Upon A Wardrobe and Becoming Mrs. Lewis by Patti Callahan Henry

Do you follow a reading program, or read whatever books come your way?

I don't follow a reading program and tend to read whatever books come my way, either by recommendation, book lists, or when a gorgeous cover beckons as I walk into the library or bookstore. Since I don't have a reading program to share, perhaps I could give a few of my reading practices.

– Sometimes I like to read aloud, especially when I'm reading poetry or when something is so exquisitely beautiful or truthful I need my ears to hear it. I do enjoy reading aloud to my husband; that's most often for shared laughter over humorous passages.

– I read every day. It's never a chore, bore, or duty. When I don't read even a few pages somewhere in the day, I feel a deep unsatisfied yearning on the inside.

– I listen for little nudges and I will sometimes ask for guidance about what book to choose. This was more so during my younger years when I was eager in my learning, growing, and maturing. The first time I remember this happening, I was in the Canadian Bible Society bookstore on Jasper Avenue. I wanted to spend my money wisely. What to choose, what to choose. So I sent up a little prayer. Walking around the store, I felt drawn to a paperback which turned out to be 'perfectly' suited for me, a single young woman-in-waiting. And years later, there was a season when I wondered a lot about heaven and why there was this kind of homesick feeling way down deep inside. At the library, there 'gleaming' on the trolley of books to be reshelved was Peter Kreeft's Heaven, the Heart's Deepest Longing. I took it home and devoured it, feeling His pleasure in my pleasure as I read.

– I am a staunch believer in there being seasons for some books—divine appointments, as it were, to read specific books in the right time. Books out of season (and I don't mean winter, spring) are often a disappointing experience because the words can remain dull and uninspiring on the page. But when drawn in some mysterious way back to a book at another time, even though it's the same book with the same words, I have experienced where it suddenly feels alive, fresh, and nourishing. It was the right time, and then I'd be so glad I hadn't given it away earlier thinking the book wasn't for me. 

– Generally I can read quickly but there are times and books where I slow read. Paying attention to the story, to the descriptions, staying longer with favourite passages, letting them soak in. I find real joy in slow reading - there's a real pleasure in discovering the nuances and the subtle layers in the writing. As a youth always in a hurry to learn how a story ended, I'd skip past lengthy prose and descriptive passages—who cared how the sunset looked over the hills on a summer's eve? Little did I realize that one day I would take delight in such scenes. It started in my twenties during my reading infatuation with C.S. Lewis (I think I was a little in love with the man) when I found one of his books at the library called An Experiment in Criticism.* In it, Lewis described the mark of a literary person versus an unliterary person. Of course I wanted to be thought a literary reader so I checked out his advice (see End Note at the bottom of this post). I took out a lengthy novel from the library, Michelangelo by Irving Stone, and charged myself to read it word for word, slowly and carefully, paying attention to details, looking up words for which I had no definition. It was an amazing experience. Although I never read the book again it stayed fresh with me for decades as a touchstone reminder of how I want to read. I saw that finding out how it turns out isn't the only goal for reading a book. In turn, I have become a better describer of my own world when I try to share the beauty of it with my readers.

Are you part of a book club?

No. I don't want to spend my time sitting around 'patiently' waiting for a chance to share my thoughts about books I enjoy. And I don't like being in the 'spotlight' in a group setting. I prefer talking about books 'one on one' with a like-minded soul. In that case, I can get quite animated. I guess this could be considered a casual book club for two (for introverts).

How does your reading life influence your writing life?

I think it's Stephen King who said if you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Books are my tools. I can't tell you how many times I find what I need—an idea or phrase or word—that clarifies what I'm struggling to find words for. I learn so much from other writers, whether they write about writing or about another topic entirely.

Since my youth, I am an avid collector of quotations and favourite book passages. These gems of wisdom by other writers usually resonate because they are snapshots of my own views, beliefs, and what I value. And they startle me with their eloquence. Many quotes have become lifelong guideposts (including what I read in Scripture). They inspire me to carry on and to stay the course. They are also a great resource for my own writing—often jumping off points for blog posts, essays, and articles. 

I love elegant writing, and am inspired by the language different authors use. Enthralled by their unique turns of phrases and ways they describe things, I am spurred to find my own 'perfect' way of describing my life around me.

I enjoy seeing how some authors experiment with different ways to present their material. Years ago, I read Eat, Pray, Love, and I loved how Elizabeth Gilbert wrote her bestselling memoir using short vignette chapters, sometimes no more than a page or two in length, describing one small scene or event in few words, and then moving on. It lifted a weight off me as I realized I didn't need to write pages upon pages of details to tell my stories. I'm still learning how to write in that succinct, delectable way.

My writing is richer and more thoughtful because I read. Books and their authors are my mentors on a bookshelf. I couldn't do life without them.

_________________________

* End Note. An Experiment in Criticism is a 1961 book by C.S. Lewis in which he proposed that the quality of books should be measured not by how they are written, but by how often they are re-read. Lewis described two kinds of readers: the 'unliterary' reader who tends not to reread a book and the 'literary' reader who does.

In case you are interested, I found my notes of Lewis's list in my 1988 commonplace book in which he describes the mark of an unliterary person vs a literary person:

1. An unliterary person never reads anything twice. | Literary people read great works over and over.

2. An unliterary person doesn't set much store in reading, it's a last resort. | Literary people look for leisure and silence to read with their whole attention. They feel impoverished if they are denied this opportunity.

3. There is no sign of change upon reading the book. | The reading can be a great experience; a reader changes, sees things differently.

4. Never thinks or talks about what they've read. | Literary people mouth over favourite lines and stanzas in solitude. Scenes and characters provide them with an 'iconography' by which they interpret or sum up their own experiences. They talk to others about what they've read.

5. Books are only a marginal ingredient of their lives. | To literary people it is a main ingredient of their well-being.

6. Unliterary people are indifferent, not only to literature, but to other art forms and natural beauty.

(Top) Photo credit: Image by Nick Stafford from Pixabay

Brenda's sweet spot places for reading are on her bed, on the couch by the bay window, or in a comfy chair in the garden where she can look up to see birds and trees and flowers and blue skies. When she's not reading, she loves blogging at It's A Beautiful Life and here on InScribe. She can also be found on Facebook, Instagram, and BlueSky.

 

Bumping Into God's Kindness by Brenda Leyland

"The kindness of God leads us to repentance."

Romans 2:4

It took me a long time to come to a place where I believed that God was kind. And that he would be kind to me. Many of the sermons I'd heard growing up seemed to focus on our sins, which led me to the mistaken belief that he was ever ready to punish us for our mistakes, and for some reason I imagined a big baseball bat at his side. It took me years to truly trust that He so loved the world. That Jesus had taken care of the sin issue for every situation. And that he is good, perfect, and kindhearted towards his created beings, including me.

I will never forget the day, one Sunday morning more than 40 years ago, when a guest speaker at church spoke about Peter's denial of Jesus before the crucifixion. And this speaker told us he imagined Jesus looking across the courtyard at Peter, his eyes filled with kindness rather than anger, rejection, or disgust. At the speaker's encouragement, I hid that image in my own heart and went home a changed person. Whenever I thought I'd blown it, I'd imagine Jesus looking at me the way He looked at Peter centuries earlier. And I'd whisper to myself, He looks at me with love and forgiveness in his eyes. Instead of feeling shame and his wrath, I felt his lovingkindness and forgiveness.

Fast forward to another day several years later, I was sitting under the ministry of another good preacher who was encouraging his listeners to quit beating themselves up when they missed the mark, and instead of running away from God, run to him. I took those words to heart and have been running to him ever since. Confirming once again that, no matter what I mess up, he will welcome me and be kind in his dealings with me. No baseball bats in sight. He often uses humour to show me a mirror of myself in various situations which somehow makes it easier to admit the error of my way. Bringing me to my senses without shame or guilt.

Then I bumped into the line in Romans 2:4 confirming what I'd been discovering about God's kindness. It's true what that verse says, how the kindness of God leads people to repentance. Imagining his displeasure or anger had never drawn me to himself, nor did it positively influence me to want to change my ways. When I thought he'd be mad or angry at me for failing, it made me want to hide, as Adam once hid. But it's his kindness, his forbearance and patience that drew me, and ever draws me towards himself.

I must tell you about the kindness I experienced when my best beloved Miss Kitty was seriously ill. She wasn't getting better, and I worried about her, asking the Lord to help me. There I was sitting at a concert listening to beautiful music, still very much aware of the sorrow I felt, when I had a picture come into my mind. I saw Jesus holding Kitty in the palms of his hands and tenderly looking at her. And I also had the sense that Kitty knew she was safe with him. I was so comforted in that moment. He had reached out to me with such kindness about my sweet kitty. I have never forgotten it. (Kitty left us the day William and Catherine wed.)

And now there is the beautiful line I have been living with ever since Lorrie Orr shared it in her post last week (click here if you missed it). It was a line she heard a pastor say: 'God is the kindest person you will ever meet.' I could have wept with joy in those words. Because from my own experience I know that to be true. My heart responds to his kindness; it expands with love for him because of it.

And my response to God's kindness is that I yearn to return the favour. To be like him and reach out to others in kindness. In our upside-down-tilted-sideways world that's fraught with hard, unkind things, more than ever we need this fruit of the spirit growing in our hearts. As it falls like ripe fruit into the lives of others, hopefully they, too, will experience the exquisite bumping into his lovingkindness.

There's a quote that goes around on social media, 'In a world where you can be anything, be kind.' I say, yes, yes, by his grace, that is what I choose.

Photo credit: (Top) Image by Chil Vera from Pixabay

Inspired by the beauty of God's world around her, Brenda loves shaping words into beautiful thoughts for good. Her sweet spot 'place' for writing happens to be on her blog It's A Beautiful Life. 

 

What 'Place' Means to Me by Brenda Leyland

'Polish Spirit' clematis

When I say, 'a place means something to me',

the place is often a location that holds significant meaning,

often tied to strong memories, emotions, and a sense

of belonging... whether it's a childhood home, a favourite

holiday spot, or a quiet corner that provides peace and comfort.

UNKNOWN

Place matters in life. It matters to people, to plants, to stories. We all know there are places where we flourish and settings where we'll shrivel. Of course, we know where we live shapes how we see and experience the world. And we also know the community and culture in which we grow up fashions our values, beliefs, and our own traditions. It certainly influences how we choose to spend our lives. Which makes me glad for this month's prompt. For it has been gratifying to explore the significance of ‘place’ as it relates to my own life. I'm keen to share my discoveries with you and hope something in these musings will resonate as you think about your own place in our world—maybe grab a cup of tea as the piece is longer than anticipated.

The place where I grew up. Born in the late 1950s, I grew up not so far from Edmonton, Alberta, in a farming community of families who mainly emigrated from Europe, and where many kept up their favourite traditions from the 'old country'. If you look closely, you'll probably find a 'peck' of prairie dirt mixed in with my German-Polish genes. I was certainly shaped by the rural landscape and the 1950s mindset that still influenced us well into the '60s. Our family life revolved around the church community which created not only a religious framework but a social and cultural one as well.

We often love what we first know, and I loved the freedom of farm life. My parents worked hard, but their lives were their own. As kids, after school and when our chores were done, we enjoyed playing with playmates from neighbouring farms, tromping amongst trees and rock piles, fields, meadows, and down by the creek. For me, the freedom of living on the farm became the benchmark of what I wanted for my life—to have the freedom of being a stay-at-home wife and mother like my mom and working for oneself like my dad. When he started working full-time off the farm (I was in my early teens), I couldn’t have expressed it then, but I felt a deep loss in that change of life for our family, even though it got better economically. He had to go off every day to work and his time wasn't his own anymore. Even as a child, I missed that for him. When I moved away, it took a while to adapt to living in a city, where people lived not by the seasons of planting and harvesting but by the clock and a definite work week: what time you had to start and when you could go home; when you could take your lunch break or go on your annual vacation. I did love my new city life, but I never stopped missing that old freer way of life.

Places that surprise with joy. American naturalist and photographer Edwin Way once said that some places make an instant and indelible impression. How true. And how often do these unforgettable places shape our lives at a level deeper than we’re conscious of. They fill us with startled joy, with longing, with a homesick feeling we're not sure about, and sometimes with an overwhelming sense of wellbeing. I have always loved the Rocky Mountains for the sense of peace that comes to me when I travel through them. Coming face to face with those grand, snowy peaks, being in that mountain air, makes my heart swell with delight. As kids, traveling with my parents, my siblings and I would 'race' to see who would spot them first, and who'd be the first to yell, I can see them, I can see them, as our car sped along. First glimpses of cherished places like the mountains... or the ocean... or the wide open prairie skies never cease to create frissons of joy in my heart.

The right place in a garden. We had high hopes that our 'Polish Spirit' clematis would, to quote the well known adage, bloom where she was planted. We wanted her to climb wildly up trellises along a west facing fence which got late afternoon sunlight. Every spring it started out hopeful as she grew new tendrils and formed new flower buds. And every summer it brought the same disappointing result: a handful of flowers on a plant that barely grew three feet tall. Then my husband built a new trellis on the south-easterly corner of our house and set Polish Spirit in that spot. What a difference! She bedazzled us by quickly establishing herself and climbed not only the trellis but soon reached for the eavestroughs. The photo on the right isn't a great shot but you get the idea how she flourished once we set her in the right place. So yes, place matters, even in a garden.

Places in stories. As writers, we use our settings to let the reader know where the story takes place and in what era. It creates authenticity. It also creates an atmosphere so real as to become a 'character' in the story. I vividly remember hearing Anne of Green Gables read aloud by my Grade Four teacher. It was the first time I'd met Anne... and her creator's lively descriptions of the orchards in bloom and the red soil in a place called Prince Edward Island stood out in my imagination. I wanted to be there, it was so real. And I'd feel a little dazed, when my teacher closed the book, to realize I was back in my school classroom. Back in my own small town farming community that was not nearly as charming as Prince Edward Island by the sea, in my child's opinion, where we didn't have cherry blossom orchards to walk under, or lakes of shining waters to dream over. But I knew how to romanticize and envision myself inside a story and feel it around me even as I lived in my own surroundings. I loved Anne, whose love for beauty in nature in a place called Prince Edward Island, wooed me into loving beauty in nature right here in my own world.

Places that inspire creativity. As creative beings, the places where we live (or visit) can often inspire our creative choices of what we will do with our hands, minds, and lives. When I visited the Lake District area in England years ago, I could see why well-known poets and artists drew inspiration from its landscape. It was beautiful. I went in search of the famous poem and memorized 'The Daffodils' by William Wordsworth. And I wondered whether he would have been the inspiring nature poet we know today if, instead, he’d lived in some drab coal mining town in England's Midlands. And I wondered if Beatrix Potter's work as a children’s author/artist would have been so endearing and rural if she’d lived her entire life in stuffy Victorian-Edwardian London. Venturing a guess – perhaps, but maybe not.

When I visited Oxford in England for my 60th birthday, something deep inside responded to this ancient of places with its romance of architecture, history, and 'dreaming spires', not to mention the beloved authors who once lived there, like C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. I knew, as I walked those old streets and breathed its air, that I was standing in the 'home of my soul'. And when I read that Sarah Clarkson, a favourite author, lives in Oxford with her family and writes her thoughtful, gorgeous books in this awe-inspiring place, I felt so happy for her. She is in her element. 

In a different world, in a different life, I would choose to live there, even if it was for only a season. While I cannot live there in person, I do let it inspire me from afar. For, I still have that God-given imagination I had in Grade Four where I can imagine myself into that place even as I live a less romantic but precious life this side of the pond.

The place where I write. My room with a view, as Virginia Woolf once coined the phrase, is a former child-size bedroom where its original windows were set so high on the wall only a tall person could look out. When upgrading our windows, we decided this north facing room needed longer, taller panes of glass. Which made all the difference. Instead of a stuffy little room with poky windows, it became the place where I love to sit at my desk peering into the backyard where spring bulbs bloom and birds congregate at the birdbath. Where I muse and watch clouds wander by. Surrounded by things that make me happy—books, flowers, artwork, meaningful objects like my Oxford coffee mug, and treasured photos—it's where I love to create.

My place in the world. It took me years to feel 'at home' in this world. I found it nerve-wracking trying to fit in at school, at church, at college, at work. It was during my 20s when the Lord began to show me that he had indeed prepared a place for me here on planet earth. That I belonged in this time in history. That I had a right to breathe and use the resources at my disposal. To be at home in the corner of the world where I lived and moved and had my being. One day I want to go to that place called Heaven where the Lord will welcome me. But he first set me in this place to live my life. To set down roots and do my utmost to make my corner of it 'a bit of heaven on earth' where beauty, freedom, love, and peace reigns.

How do I know when I'm in the right place? To use the proverbial phrase, it’s when I don't feel like I’m a square peg in a round hole. And when I feel in tune with my God-given gifts, using them to do work that is both beautiful and useful. When I feel I am in that ‘spacious place’ as mentioned in Psalm 18:19. Where I am... at home.

Photo credit:
Clematis photos by Brenda Leyland

Inspired by the beauty of God's world around her, Brenda loves shaping words into beautiful thoughts for good. Her sweet spot 'place' for writing happens to be on her blog It's A Beautiful Life.