January 15, 2017

Writing || The Power of Perfect Timing


Sometimes there's things the universe hands to you in such a way that it makes you sit back in wonder. Today that thing came in the form of two letters from two different parts of the world. 

Usually letters in my PO box are by people commenting on my poetry, and although I am very appreciative of this, I was ecstatic to discover upon opening the first letter that the writer was a reader of The Halfway Point, drawn to write a response to this post. The letter was so lovely I wanted to cry, a message of being able to relate, of feeling maybe a smidgen less alone because of it. My day was brightened with the reminder that we are not alone in our feelings or our experiences. I was overwhelmed.

But then I opened the second letter, and gasped in surprise at it's contents. All of a sudden I was filled with a rush of love for these writers, two girls sitting in two different rooms, in two different countries, unaware of each other's existence, at almost the exact same time had managed to write letters so similar that my heart swelled to see it. If the first letter was a gentle reminder of our connectedness the second was a giant, flashing, neon sign boasting the words YOU ARE NEVER ALONE.

Sophia and Admila; thankyou so much for the kind words and the time you took to send them to me in my favourite way. To say I am appreciative is hardly enough. I'll be sure to write you both back soon.

To everyone else, keep your eyes open for signs from the universe, they'll appear when they're most needed and least expected.

x Erin

January 1, 2017

Video || December 2016

This month's video marks two years worth of video-documenting my life. It's almost gone too quickly. I'll link all three December videos below, so if you wish you can see how things have changed and yet remained entirely the same. (Also, see if you can spot my darling Stella getting bigger with each year)

December 27, 2016

Writing || The Silence

These days I've gotten very good at finding the silence in the world. It follows me everywhere like a shadow. I spin around and catch it trailing me on sunny days and on rainy ones I can feel it in the way the air presses closer against my skin. Sometimes I stare into the mirror and see it reflected back at me; a friend I used to relish being with but now find nothing but discomfort in their companionship.

I play my music loud, I watch movies and go places that are filled with the noise of people living. I purposefully push my way into the centre of crowds in the hopes my shadow of silence will get disorientated, and I can exist swallowed in the sounds of everyone else.

Writing is too quiet.
Thinking is too quiet.
I tiptoe around my thoughts so as not to wake them up. It's easiest to exist off of primal instincts: wake now, eat now, sleep now, repeat.

I've never been one for noise; always preferring to exist in quiet corners, but where do you go when the silence becomes the most deafening sound of all?


December 5, 2016

Writing || A Truth

The truth can often be hard to face, even more so when it is one you have successfully convinced yourself is not real. It's just a bad day, a bad week, a bad month. You're okay, you're just lazy, procrastinating, you'll have the energy to do it tomorrow.

Before you know it four years have gone by and you can't remember yourself in any other state of mind. Were you ever truly enthusiastic about things before? Was there a time when you woke you up excited and wondering what the day may hold? How did you get here, how did you get here, how did you get here.

One day you wake up and the very idea of having to make it through the day crushes against your shoulders. All you can do is cry at the absolute exhaustion that simply existing places upon you. You can't sleep but someone has filled your bones with lead during the night and every step feels like a marathon you never signed up to run.

Then it's a doctor's waiting room. You've never been to a doctor's on your own before and you're obsessively rehearsing what you want to say. You've only told one person you're here because despite your rational self knowing better, your mind still tells you that this seems a lot like defeat. You weren't strong enough to keep fighting it on your own.

The doctor's kind, gentle, makes soft jokes that make you smile. She reminds you of your grade 12 maths teacher and that makes you calm down a little. She asks question after question and when she finds your heart rate is well over what it should be, whisks you away to another room where you're made to lie shirtless with wires on your chest, on your arms, on your legs. She wants to make sure your heart's working properly. You want to tell her that it isn't, but that it's not something any machine can detect.

The future starts to fill up with doctors and psychologists and the endless battles of the mind. You're scared, terrified, but with a little less intensity than that with which you just want to be okay. It's been far too long since you've been okay, but you're finally getting brave enough to admit it.

December 4, 2016

Video || November 2016


November was a strange month, I felt like I was drifting through all of it without existing inside any moment. Nature decided to put on quite the show though.

December 2, 2016

Writing || Through the Windows

In a house across the street from me there lives an elderly lady. Most mornings when I sit on the balcony while eating breakfast I see her gardening in her fuzzy dressing gown, seemingly in no rush for the day to truly begin. Her house has the kind of windows I one day dream of having on a home of my own; windows to push open and let the sun filter through, curtains dancing in the wind. 

I've never met this lady but over the past couple of months I seem to have invented my own version of a life for her. Whenever I'm feeling anxious I imagine the peace she emanates streaming throughout her house. Her front room must have a record player which is always on, the classical music it's playing following the breeze through every room. Maybe there's a big comfy arm chair there too, positioned in just the right spot to be bathed in morning sunlight, where one can curl up like a cat to read a book or watch the dust suspended in the sun beams. Her kitchen might look like it did in the 70's; the linoleum on the floor the shade of orange and yellow that everyone associates with that time. It would be the perfect kitchen for pulling up a rickety wooden chair and having a chat over tea and cake.

I know none of this is likely true, but that's not what matters. These imaginings aren't about the lady or her house, but instead are a place for my mind to go when it needs to calm down. When things get really noisy up there sometimes the only peace it's able to find is the peace of somebody else, and for now that will have to do.