De l'espoir

Plus ça change, plus ça fait rien … L’espoir va et vient comme la nuit déplace le jour. Je veux que l’espoir devienne mon compagnon de vie, qu’on purge ensemble une peine de durée illimitée.

Samedi dernier (le 26 mai) était un beau jour ensoleillé. J’allai au parc du Mont Orford pour faire une randonnée pédestre. Avant de commencer la montée, je regardai vers le sommet. Je soupirai. Je me demandais si j’étais vraiment prêt à monter au sommet, situé à une altitude de 850 mètres. Etant donné qu’il me prit 25 minutes en auto pour me rendre au parc, et vu que j’étais déjà là, il fallait que j’allasse de l’avant. Alors à vos marques ! Prêt ? Partez !

Au cours des dix derniers jours, c’était la troisième fois que je parcourus les pentes escarpées au Mont Orford. Je ne profitais pas des sentiers moins abrupts. Non, moi je figurais parmi les plus téméraires, toujours prêt, comme je disais tantôt, à parcourir les pentes escarpées. La montée cette fois-ci semblait être un peu plus difficile qu’auparavant, et, souvent à bout de souffle, je m’arrêtai plusieurs fois pour respirer. Lorsqu’il faisait beau, et il faisait beau ce jour-là, la vue indescriptible des Cantons de l’Est en valait le détour.

Au sommet du Mont Orford, je ressentais un calme réjouissant. Dernièrement, l’incertitude me dominait, d’une façon accablante, comme si je ne savais pas comment aller de l’avant. Il était certain, que je n’étais pas au sommet du Mont Everest, mais là, au sommet du Mont Orford, je sentais comme si j’avais le monde sur le bout du doigt. Et l’incertitude refluait.

En fin de journée, j’avais un peu mal aux jambes, mais c’était un « bon » endolorissement qui me faisait rappeler du bon entraînement entrepris le matin, et de la beauté qui nous entourait. Et au coucher du soleil, je me souvenais de la beauté de ce jour, content que l’espoir m’accompagnât toujours !

A Thing Called Hope

Things change. Things stay the same. Hope comes and goes as the night folds into day. I try my best to hang on to hope, to let her rule me. Sometimes that’s easy, sometimes it’s not. On this day [Saturday, 26 May 2012], hanging on to hope feels easy.

With the warm May sun beaming into my eyes, I set off that morning for a hike. Standing at the bottom of Mont Orford, I looked up at my destination and wondered if I was really ready to make my way up to the summit, situated at an altitude of 850 metres. But I had already made the 25-minute trek by car to the Mont Orford Park, so there was no turning back. On your mark, get set, go!

In the last 10 days, this was the third time that I had hiked to the top of Mont Orford. I don’t take the “easy” route to the summit. No, I follow the path underneath the chair lift (Mont Orford is a popular ski destination in winter), scaling over large rocks, doing my best to be sure of my footing — and hoping that vertigo doesn’t kick in. It was a difficult climb, and I paused regularly to catch my breath. Then, at the peak, the spectacular view offered of the Eastern Townships made the whole journey worthwhile.

Standing on top of Mont Orford, there was an overwhelming sense of calm. Lately, I’ve been wrapped up in uncertainty, at times struggling to move forward. At the summit, while it may not be Mount Everest, I felt like I was standing on top of the world, and that uncertainty ebbed.

Late in the afternoon, my legs were sore, but it was a good type of soreness, reminding me of the great workout earlier in the day, and of the beauty that is this world. As the sun began to settle over the city, the beauty of the day remained, and so did hope.

Then and Now

This time I saw him coming. But that didn’t make a difference. By the time I thought to get out of his way it was too late. One quick, well-timed sucker punch and I was down for the count.

I’m talking about my recent rendezvous with depression. It sounds romantic when it has been anything but. It has been a terrifying and fantastic journey through ever-changing moods. Shackled in despair and longing to be free: those moments of indescribable panic when my hands shake uncontrollably, the constant tears in my eyes, the sleepless nights, the hyperactivity and the belief that I am absolutely worthless. And then teetering on the edge of a bold new vista at freedom’s heralding call: those moments of giddy happiness when I am wrapped up in life and all its beauty, boasting a tri-cornered smile.

Ah, depression — my friend and my enemy, my muse and my headsman.

The Trigger

It was Saturday, 2 October 2010. Restless. Agitated. Anxious. I woke up feeling that something was different in the world but I could not name that something different gnawing at my heart. The day started like any other. I showered, dressed, fed the cats, wrote in my journal. I was then ready to run a few errands — hit the stores before they became overrun with energetic shoppers. All of a sudden that feeling of something being different was back, stronger than before and swarming over my body. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, my hands shoved in my pockets, and stared abstractly at the badly refinished and chipped dark brown cupboards. I don’t know how long I stood there — it felt like forever. And then, as if finally coming into the truth of the matter, I snapped out of the trance-like state, grabbed my wallet, keys and jacket, and bolted out of the apartment.

Ambling down the aisles first at Wal-Mart and then at Maxi (a grocery store chain here in Québec), I was in a daze — disconnected not only from the world but from myself. I trembled. My heart raced. I fought back the tears rushing into my eyes. At the check-out, I held my gaze to the cashier’s mouth as it opened and closed (like watching TV with the sound off), paid for my purchases and left without saying a word. When I arrived back at my apartment, shortly after 11:00 a.m., I had no sooner set my shopping bags down on the kitchen counter when the phone rang. I went into the living room and said, “Hello,” into the phone.

“Hey, Marcus,” my sister Kim (visiting from Calgary) said, and continued, without missing a beat, “Are you sitting down?”

I swallowed hard and said, “Yes,” but was still standing.

“Mom’s in the hospital,” Kim said. “You have to come home now.”

I don’t recall much from the time I got off the phone with my sister to the time I arrived at the QEII Health Services Centre in Halifax later that evening. I staggered, and drew in a deep breath, when I walked into my mother’s hospital room in the ICU. There were tubes everywhere — in her arms, mouth, nose. She laid there still, absolutely still, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling. I wasn’t ready for that scene, and it was hardly the image of my mother who, earlier in the week, had been out volunteering and showing off her twin grandsons to her former colleagues. My mother had suffered an aneurism. The prognosis was not good. In a word: devastating. There was nothing the doctors could do. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took my mother’s hand in mine and, as the tears rolled down my cheeks, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I prayed.

The following morning, I sat with my mother, a god-fearing woman, and sang to her some of her favourite hymns and spirituals — Amazing Grace, Blessed Assurance, If It Wasn’t for the Lord (He’s Everything to Me). I hoped that she could hear me and know that I was there. And, then, surrounded by family, my mother passed away. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the moment the muscles in her face relaxed — her mouth drooping open, her head slumping to one side — and the limpness in her hand I was holding in mine, her chest no longer rising and falling. My mother was gone.

I come from a large extended family with nine children on my mother’s side and ten on my father’s. Family members were at the house every day. While you’re grateful for the support, it doesn’t leave you much time to grieve. I was exhausted, trying to cope with the acute sense of loss. But in the middle of all of this were Tony and Alex — my twin nephews — full of life, smiling and laughing, and reminding me of the beauty that is this world. And that gave me hope.

It was a Monday morning, the sky a dull grey — nine days after my mother’s funeral — when Kim drove me to the airport. As I lifted my suitcase out of the trunk, I saw the tears fill my sister’s eyes, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t check my own tears. Kim said, “If you need anything,” throaty with emotion, “just call.” We hugged, an embrace cementing our connectedness as brother and sister … as family.

“I’ll call you when I arrive,” I said as I pulled out of the embrace. I walked towards the airport terminal, blinking magnificently, my breathing shallow, a heavy grey weight bearing down on my chest — and wanting to believe that death was a beginning and not an end, as much for my mother as for those she left behind.

The Slide

I returned to my home in Sherbrooke, Québec, still carrying the shock of my mother’s death. For the first time in my life I was thinking seriously about God, mortality and eternal life. What is it that I am really doing here on this planet called Earth? Is there something beyond this life? Am I realizing my fullest potential — doing my best to achieve my dreams? All of these questions were swirling about my mind, and what scared me was the fact that I didn’t have any answers, no inkling of what to do or where to begin.

The ensuing days were long and restless. I moved about in a daze — here but not here. I couldn’t hold my concentration very long to any one task. When I made it to the piano, I stared longingly at the keys and, after a time, struggled through songs that once came so easily to me. I would stand in front of the easel for what seemed like an eternity, the blank canvas hypnotizing and transporting me to some other world. And putting words to the page … utterly impossible. That was the most terrifying of all — to believe that I had lost the ability, the will, to write.

And to make matters worse … I wasn’t sleeping.

I lay in bed at night, tossing and turning, checking the time at regular twenty minutes intervals. I was tired, exhausted actually, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t quiet my mind. I tried Dormex, an over-the-counter sleep aid recommended by the pharmacist at the neighbourhood Jean Coutu; it had no effect. I thought that I could “wait out” the insomnia, and that with time my sleeping would return to normal. But after three weeks of not sleeping, after three weeks of feeling drained, disoriented — like I had lost myself — I had hit a wall. I knew from past experience where a long bout of insomnia would lead: straight to depression. I didn’t want to go there.

It was a Tuesday morning, a little past eight-thirty, when I arrived at the Clinique des Médecins d’Urgence, a walk-in clinic. The waiting room was already full. I pulled a ticket from the red machine below the sign that read, “Please take a number.” My number was thirty; number two was being served.

Waiting for my named to be called, I pulled out from my knapsack the notebook I had brought with me. I was surprised, and relieved, when my hand sped across the page. I wrote and wrote and wrote until the doctor called me into the examining room. I felt a certain ebb and flow that I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was the first time since my mother’s death that I felt hopeful, like I was getting current.

When I left the doctor’s office, the unusually warm October air brushing against my skin, I had reason to feel hopeful. The doctor had listened to my concerns, offered solutions, and assured me that my sleeping would return to normal. I returned home, ate lunch, and then ran a few errands. A stop at Home Hardware, the bank and the dépanneur. On the way home I went into the neighbourhood café called Le Tassé, where I was greeted warmly by the owner. While enjoying a slice of chocolate cake with whip cream and an allongé double, I wrote some more. I grabbed a coffee to go and headed home again. The day was too beautiful to let pass me by, and even though I still felt exhausted, I went for a run along the Saint François River.

The day held promise, and the hope that, with time, life would once again return to normal. It was nice to feel the ebb and flow of life, of the life I was used to living.

The Fall

The fall of 2010 was a hectic period — a “good” kind of hectic. I had reclaimed the early morning hours for my writing and painting. The evenings were spent in part at the piano, in part writing or painting, or both. Sandwiched in-between was a full day at the office. The days were long but I felt on top of my game. I had inched my way forward, slowly but steadily, on the rewrite of a manuscript. My time at the piano produced a couple of new compositions. Painting daily, a new series came together quickly. Then there were public readings, a group exhibition, and my debut (in French) as a singer-songwriter. I was laying track. All of that despite the fact that I still wasn’t sleeping. I was running on empty, and desperate for some sort of refuelling.

Fall gave way to winter … The never-ending grey skies, the lack of sunlight, the bitter cold. Smouldering underneath the surface was a certain restlessness, sluggishness, ready to pounce, knock me down. This wasn’t just the winter blues. And when I saw my doctor on 23 December 2010, the diagnosis was in: depression. I was terrified of what that meant: finding a medication, and the correct dosage, that worked. Coping with the side effects. The stigma of mental illness. Dangling on the edge of a breakdown, and unsure if I would find my way back again.

I spent Christmas with my sister in the familial home, and there was something hopeful and uncertain about it. Hopeful because it was the first Christmas we spent together as a family without my mother, yet feeling her full imprint on our lives. Uncertain because I had lost my footing, lost sight of what mattered. You see, my mother had lived a good life. She was active in her community and in her church, doing the things she loved to do. There was a certain uneasiness now to the saying, “Here today, gone tomorrow.” There were new questions poking at me: Is my house in order? Am I moving confidently in the direction of my dreams?

I thought I was holding steadfast to my dreams, that I was living in the present. But I was stuck in a soporific job, and utterly unhappy. I was trying to establish myself in a city that I had only called “home” for a year. This wasn’t the life I had imagined. I am happiest when I am at my desk writing, playing the piano, painting. Spending eight hours a day in an office sucked the life out of me, left me wounded, but I did it because it was necessary — it put food on the table, shelter over my head. But returning to the office after the Christmas break was unbearable, insufferable, damning.

And then …

Sunday, 6 January 2011. About a half-hour before bed, I took the sleeping pill, Dom-Zopiclone, prescribed by my doctor. I didn’t sleep that night and crawled out of bed around quarter past five the next morning. I made myself an Americano and wrote in my journal. Afterwards, instead of getting ready for work, I climbed back into bed. I thought I was coping well, and that I had done the right things: recognize the signs, seek professional help, ensure I was keeping physically active, establish a support system among my circle of friends. But despite my best efforts, despite trying to stave off depression, my walls came tumbling down.

The next few days were a blur. My head throbbed with pain, my eyes half-open and heavy. I couldn’t do anything without feeling like I had run a marathon (without training!). I would drag myself out of bed to feed the cats, no longer able to take their incessant meowing outside my bedroom door. I had flat lined. Four days later, summoning all the courage and energy I could muster, I went back to see my doctor. When my doctor asked me how I was doing, I had to check my tears. I had switched to Cipralex just before Christmas, which was working slightly better than Citalopram, but my head, as was my heart, was still heavy. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through this difficult period. How had I arrived at this point? My doctor listened patiently to my litany of complaints. Together, we decided on a course of action.

I woke up the next morning tired, and still feeling a bit lost, but somehow hopeful.  I had to be patient, give the medication time to work. “And this, too, will pass,” became my daily mantra — determined that depression would not have dominion here.

Hope

The last few months have been more than an experience of trial and suffering, more than a mere dance with the winter blues. It has been an outright battle to remain sane, whole, unto my own. It’s an odd feeling — and often difficult to describe — to feel yourself sliding into depression. It’s kind of like the rough turbulence that rattles an airplane, tossing passengers about as baggage falls out of the overheard compartments. It’s like the back tires on a car spinning on ice and quickly going nowhere fast. It’s like having the wind knocked out of you and gasping for air in order to breathe normal again. But when you’re there, when you’ve crashed into that wall — when depression has you pinned down — everything falls apart.

When I broke down in early January 2011, I had not only lost interest in life but also in the things that I loved to do. I couldn’t drag myself out of bed in the morning. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to string words together to form a sentence. I couldn’t get myself to the piano to practice scales or show up at the easel. I was holed up in my apartment, away from the world I felt completely at odds with, trying to expel the heavy weight bearing down on my chest. I had lost hope, and faith.

Apart from taking my medication regularly, apart from my weekly sessions with a psychologist, my doctor encouraged me to get outside daily, even if it was just to go for a walk. Some days it took a lot of convincing to get myself out the door, but I did. After a 17-year break, I took up downhill skiing again, spending the mornings at Mont Orford. There was something about standing on top of the mountain, taking in the spectacular view of the region, that spoke to me. I had finally arrived at where the truth lies.

There’s no doubt in my mind that the insomnia that I’ve experienced since early October triggered my depression, at least in part. My mother died leaving things unsaid between us, and that too played a role. When I am honest with myself, when I am not afraid to face the truth of the matter, it was my mother’s death — its suddenness, and the fact that the world had lost an active and youthful person (my mother was sixty-five and nine months into her retirement) — that reminded me that I need to live the life I imagine for myself. This is my chance to make a mark on the world, to follow my heart, to nurture my dreams.

I was caught in a job I did not enjoy, in an environment that brought me down. And I stayed because staying is easier. But when I tumbled, fell completely apart, I knew things had to change. So I quit my job.

Depression creates uncertainty. With the right medication, keeping active, loving, understanding and supporting friends — and a strong desire for wellness — I hope for better days. There are good days, when life seems normal and on track. Like today. There are bad days, when I’m unable to get myself moving, once again held hostage by a certain restlessness that clouds the mind, dampens my spirits, has me, repeatedly, on the verge of tears. There are few bad days now.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but what I do know is that today I have to husband my dreams. I must keep on keeping on. I must love myself.

And, yes, depression does not have dominion here.

Encore: I Know This Much Is True

Originally published back in early March 2012 as a guest blog during the Freestyle Love Virtual Book Tour, I needed to hear this advice again in recent days so I've decided to share this blog post one final time. Lately I've been struggling with how to move forward in my writing, in my painting ... in my life. I'm looking for the next right thing to do. On many fronts I am feeling discouraged, but I'm doing my best not to let discouragement win the day.

I Know This Much Is True

The author of several short stories and essays, Freestyle Love is my debut novel. And as I have done throughout the virtual book tour over the past fifteen days, I’m not going to talk about my book. Why? I want the reader to form their own judgment without being influenced by any “insight” I may or may not provide had I talked about the inspiration for the book, or how it evolved. While I hope that people like my novel, I’m not naïve to think that everyone will. That is life in the arts. Now that the work is out there for public consumption, I’m getting back down to work. That is my focus.

An acquaintance of mine recently put this question to me: What are some things that you've learned along the way that would help other authors who are trying to publish their first book? I’ve learned that art is subjective. Some editors or publishers will like what I write and others won’t. Sometimes I get a personalized rejection letter, sometimes I don’t. Writers — all artists in fact — have to learn (and this was the hard part for me) not to take rejection personally. Rejection is part and parcel of being a writer. I’ve kept, and learned from, the rejection letters that contained a personal note from an editor saying I was on the right track, or that while they liked the story, it just wasn’t a good fit for their magazine.

As a writer, I’ve learned the importance of persistence. Sometimes I’ve had to submit a piece of writing many, many, many times before it was accepted for publication. But I believed in the work, in the story, so I became even more determined to find the story or essay a home with each rejection letter I received. I don’t let rejection overwhelm me and neither should you. I let rejection be a muse. Let it be your muse.

With Freestyle Love published, promoting my book also reminds me of how important it is for all of us to husband our dreams. There are days when discouragement will rear its ugly head, and we may, for a time, lose faith, but we must never give up on our dreams. Be committed. As W.H. Murray said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness concerning all acts of initiative and creation. There is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans; that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.”

Running Through the Pain

Last Thursday (19 April 2012) I went for a run. It was a bright and warm day, and when I left the house I thought I’d simply put in a short, 30-minute run as a warm-up since I hadn’t run for two days. When I returned home ninety minutes and twelve kilometres later, I knew that I would be sore the next day. It was my first “long-distance” run of the season and I hadn’t really built up to it. And, five days later, here I am still feeling the pain.

Today I tried running through the pain, and that wasn’t necessarily a good decision. The muscles in my legs were tense, and there was an acute pain in my lower back that made me stop and walk for about one-third of the route. I made it home, worn out as if I had actually run another 12 kilometres.

I wasn’t just trying to run through a physical pain. There was that. But I’ve been struggling lately, trying to find a way forward. This isn’t about my writing. I’ve learned to write whether I’m in the mood or not. I’ve learned to weather the rejection letter. I don’t read reviews — good or bad — of my novel, Freestyle Love. My focus is my writing, and I write, period. No, this is about something deeper, metaphysical — that I have, in a very frightening way, let myself be unmade.

Unmade. Maybe it`s not the right word, but I feel lost in a world that has, it seems, lost its humanity. Maybe that’s because, since moving to Sherbrooke, it’s been too easy to lose touch with friends, and it hasn’t been easy creating a new circle of friends here. Maybe it’s the disappointment of having lost people whom I thought I would always hang on to. But then again, it’s been a pleasant surprise to stay connected with the people I had met in my last year in Ottawa and with whom, thankfully, I have become good friends. Life is full of surprises.

Maybe it`s that I remember a time when you’d hold the door for the person coming behind you and there would be a meaningful, “Thank you.” Today I hardly hear a, “Merci,” and most people are apt to let the door swing closed in your face. I remember a time when people got dressed up in their Sunday best when they went out for dinner. Have you been to a four or five-star restaurant lately and seen how some of the patrons are dressed? I know that the clothes do not make the man (l’habit ne fait pas le moine), but … It just seems to me that in my parents’ day (which wasn’t that long ago) and in my grandparents’ day people had a certain savoir-vivre and savoir-faire. Do you know what I mean?

Nowadays, anything goes. Anything. You can’t go out to dinner or for a drink without someone at the table reaching for their iPhone or Blackberry every time it rings. Go to the cinema and watch as people scramble to send one more text message as the lights begin to dim; and then the number of phones still on with their screens lighting up the darkness. Do you remember what we did before cell phones and text messaging …?

Sigh. I’m struggling to find my way in this fast-paced, technological world, struggling to keep up. Maybe I’m just an old-fashioned guy because I’m not interested in internet or text message-based friendships. There is still something to be said, as far as I’m concerned, for the sound of a human voice, for your friend’s welcoming tri-cornered smile when you meet, and for the warm embrace shared just before you part ways. There is something human in all of that.

Climbing … Trying to Get Home

Today [Saturday, 14 April 2012] was a bright, sunshiny day, a little windy, and when I made it out for a run just before noon, it was 14°C. Lately, I haven’t been running as regularly as I would like, but completing a 7.5 km (4.6 mi) run today offered a great lift to my day. Running, for me, is like yoga to others. It is a time of meditation where I am able to block out the world, quiet my mind —attain a sort of perfect peace. It is usually when I am running that I can see the way forward through a problem or situation that has arisen. Running, I stumble upon the next right thing to do.

As I was mounting the hill leading back to my apartment this morning, I found myself thinking about a trip I had made to Quebec City just before Christmas. It had been a few years since my last visit, but it didn’t take long, roaming around the city on foot, to remind me that Quebec City is a city of hills. Moving between the upper part of the city housing the majestic Chateau Frontenac and the Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec (MNBAQ) and the Basse-Ville, home to the Vieux Port, was a challenge. And by the end of the afternoon when I returned to my hotel room, I was exhausted. But there was something about walking about a city that was both foreign and familiar that calmed, cleared the mind — helped me, in any case, to get at the core of things.

Taking in the exhibition of Jean-Paul Riopelle’s works at the MNBAQ, I was reminded that I was (and still am) in a unique place. I am in a position to chase after my dreams, to not let myself be discouraged. There are no ties that bind me to where I currently reside (Sherbrooke, Québec), nothing holding me here like the nails that held Christ to the cross. I am free to do as I please, to remain in Sherbrooke and flourish where I am planted, or to pull up stakes and go somewhere new, “start all over again.” Back in December, I felt more like I wanted to flee, but since then I have decided to stay in Sherbrooke and blossom, here, where I am planted.

Despite that decision to stay, I still feel, in a way, “caught” — like my wheels are spinning, like I’m going nowhere fast. It’s a difficult feeling to manage, to get past. In the meantime, I’m trying to do the little things to keep moving forward: writing daily, putting in time at the piano and in my studio. Sometimes, like today, I feel as though nothing is moving forward — not my writing, not my music, not my painting. I’m stationary, immobile, inert. I repeat, “Easy Does It,” but it is hardly comforting this time around. I want to once again be wrapped up in the flow of life where I’m moving along swimmingly, feeling each project coming smoothly into itself.

I need to take the long view. I need to remind myself that each time that I show up at my computer and write, my novel is moving forward. Freestyle Love wasn’t written in a day so why would I expect that the current novel I’m writing would be any different? I am trying to take it one day at a time, to not let myself be derailed again. Perhaps, when I am honest with myself, I just need to let myself rest, which is not something that I easily do. I have said it before, and I will say it again: Today, I will do my best to just keep on keeping on.

Godsends Revisited

It’s Sunday evening of the Easter weekend, and I am sitting on my living room sofa with Mendelssohn, my overweight attention-seeking orange tabby cat, curled into my leg. He’s snoring loudly, and content. Two of my other cats are curled up together on the ottoman, even though they don’t necessarily like each other. My forth cat (yes, I’m that crazy cat man) is upstairs sleeping somewhere. He’ll soon come running at the sound of the scoop digging into the cat food container.

The Easter weekend has allowed me to catch up with friends from Ottawa visiting in nearby Magog, and another friend back in Montréal for the holiday. It was great to see my friends, and it reminded me of a blog post I wrote for Bea’s Book Nook during the Freestyle Love Virtual Book Tour back in February. I thought I would share that post again.

Godsends

I am at the beginning. And it’s terribly frightening. I’ve been faithful to my writing ever since 2003, when my first essay was published. I was living in Ottawa, Ontario, at the time, and I had to sandwich my writing in and around my day job. Fluent in English and French, staying employed in Ottawa — the nation’s capital — was easy for me. When I moved to Sherbrooke, Quebec, in 2010, finding employment proved difficult despite my skill set. So I made the decision then to focus on my art — writing, painting, music. Was this providence at work? Maybe.

At the beginning, I’ve given myself over to the universe, no longer resisting the path laid out before me. The nine-to-five world never felt right to me, like I was immured in a dark abyss that day after day held me down, sucked the life out of me. But I did what was necessary to survive — to have food on the table and shelter over my head. In the past two years, pursuing my art, there have been good times and not so good times, but through it all I’ve learned to keep the faith. Some days my faith is tested, yet when I hold on to faith, all that I need is supplied — not too much, not to little … but just enough.

Giving myself over to providence, I write every day. Rain, sleet, snow, or a bright sunshiny day, I write. Sometimes I park myself at my desk in my office area upstairs, other times I settle in at the kitchen table. When there are too many distractions around the house, I pack up and head to Le Tassé, the neighbourhood coffee shop.

Despite my successes — publication of my short stories and poetry, and now more recently my debut novel, Freestyle Love — there are days when I still doubt myself. Am I really a writer or am I just playing at it? My successes don’t seem to matter. Maybe I’m not the writer I thought I was after all …?

On days like these, when doubt swarms over my body, I am thankful for my godsends. My godsends are my friends, spread out across North America, who are friends to me and my writing. Like my friend Heather-Anne who, as I’m writing now, sends an e-mail to say how proud she is of me. Heather-Anne, like my other godsends, reaches out to me (without asking) at the time that I need encouragement the most. She is, as Julia Cameron puts it, a “believing mirror” whose support has been constant.

Messages from my godsends, like the one I received from Heather-Anne, get me back to the page, help me to stay focused. And in the age of Twitter, Facebook and a plethora of other social networking sites, staying focused is sometimes difficult.

As the day winds down, I am settling in for a quiet evening. It was a productive day. I stayed the course, putting in time at the page, the easel and the piano. Doubt still lingers, but I’m not discouraged, thankful for the god-sent blessings — in friendship, in life, in work — that keep flowing in my direction.