Some seasons are for abundant growth, and some are for gentle preservation. Both are equally sacred.

The thing you create today has potential to inspire someone generations down the road. Art is legacy. Story is holy. If you’re called to share, don’t stop pushing until you are heard.

I work with authors every day who are second-guessing their work, walking that uncomfortable line of being really pleased with what they’ve created, but terrified that it’s not good enough. My response is always the same: creation is vulnerable work.

Maybe art is the vehicle through which we can be evangelists for our own message… That’s what we’re all doing—every artist, every writer, every poet—we’re all just trying to share our view of the world. Not to gain followers or bring people into our camp, but just to prove to ourselves that what we believe matters on a grander scale.

We cling to the thing we create because it is precious to us. To send it out into the world means we are trusting it to a system that may not care the way we care, and our feelings are far too fragile to handle damaged packaging, or, God forbid, abandoned deliveries.

In recognizing the greatness (the talent, the beauty) in others, we open the door to discovering our own.

It was upon my high school library bookshelves that I discovered Leonard Cohen. In the angst of my first real heartbreak, I felt seen by his words and he’s been etched into my life ever since.

I bought my first house when I was 24. It wasn’t because I was financially wise, it was because in 2004 there was a collective eagerness to help young people get into the market, and in a brief period where the down payment requirement was 0%, I dove in.

My neighbour’s property surrounds ours in a horseshoe—hay field to the east, soybean to the west, and a small forest to the south. They have invited us to use their horse trails and I take advantage of this in moments when work overwhelms me or I can’t focus on the task at hand. This fall, on a day when nothing came easy, I donned my rubber boots and went searching for the metaphor I needed for this letter.

As I write this I’m sitting beneath the massive pines of a campground that is two years away from its 100th anniversary. Year after year my husband and I are blessed to be invited back to this place to play music together through two consecutive weeks of Family Camp. There are five things we can count on:

Over the last few years, the book that has most informed my decision-making—both personally and in business—is Start With Why by Simon Sinek. It was recommended at a side-hustle seminar I attended and I immediately bought myself a copy: not because I want to be a great leader, but because I wanted to channel my passion in a way that championed others.

We did it. We have survived the first two months of 2022 even though survival feels a little bit like being stuck: stuck in the uncertainly of a world on the brink of wanting to return to normal but also terrified of what that means.

During a Thanksgiving mishap, I severely sprained my ankle and spent a full month off my feet. I fluctuated between grief and anger and self-pity; way too much Netflix and not enough productivity.

Back in 2016, frustrated by the state of publishing in Canada and how inaccessible it felt to newcomers, I started Blank Spaces. With nothing more than a vision to champion Canadians and a hastily constructed free website, I put out the call, looking for people like me: people who wanted to be heard. I recruited volunteers, I blocked haters, I accepted my first submission, and I released the inaugural issue in September of that same year.

I feel blessed by a constitution that allows me to embrace beauty even in the ugliest situation. Ontario’s lockdown has been extended. Again. And as our government limps along and people rage on social media, I don’t find it hard to swallow a sigh and say, ‘they're just doing their best,’ even if I don’t really believe it.

We’re ticking up to the one year mark of living beneath the direct shadow of a global pandemic. We were so naive, back in those early days of 2020, thinking it would pass us over in a week or two. There was a real sense of solidarity: people banging pots for healthcare workers, online concerts, handmade thank you posters. Gas dropped to a price I hadn’t seen since I was a child, everyone made bread, the world slowed down to try and heal itself.

Has 2020 left you feeling invisible? The heaviness of this year has been a lot to bear, and I’ve sadly seen it bring out the worst in some people. I’ve also seen the way it has called others to rise up and find their own potential. As I’ve navigated this—the good and the bad—I’ve been able to examine my own responses and redirect my path towards the positive. While it’s easy to wallow in the shadows, there’s small victories to be celebrated when you push through the fog and focus on the other side.

I don’t believe it’s accidental that cursor seems to be derived from the root word “curse”. As I sit here, overwhelmed with a to-do list (that includes writing this introduction to the December issue), the cursor blinks at me in witchy fashion, and I am empty.

When you’re a dreamer, uncertainty can throw a major wrench into your fantasies. In this season of social distancing and hyper awareness, it’s easy to become jaded to anything beyond living in your pyjamas and eating bonbons until your jeans are only good for the donation bin. I’ve had to forcibly practice positive thinking and healthy habits; and though none of us know what tomorrow will bring, I’m making myself rethink old goals and set new ones.

Thankfully, the function of Blank Spaces has been little affected by the restrictions of Covid-19. We exist mostly in an online space and will be able to maintain our regular volunteer positions for the foreseeable future. And though the dreams of a physical location are currently on hold, there are many other ideas stirring in the pot.