My Substacks, a Note

Personal pathways, findings, and God's generous imagination

Less than six months ago I began writing on Substack, and—truly—it has been a multifloral gift that coincides spiritually with another such revolution in my life, quite some years ago. When my first two children were quite young, just four and two years of age, I went on a silent retreat for two nights. Those were the first two nights I had been away from my babes since my inception as a mother; they were to be the last two nights away from my, eventually, four children for another seven years. The retreat was silent, which ought to have suited my introverted soul just dandy, but I was on a mission to communicate: a young mother, I needed to find a network of other Catholic moms who would plug me into the utopian ‘community’ that was surely out there and just beyond my lonely reach! And so I blatantly broke the rules, taking every opportunity to interrogate my fellow retreatants about their families, resources, haunts, and habits.

As is so often the style of the Holy Spirit, I got not what I asked for, but something that I had not imagined was an option: Within a half year, a women’s faith study began at my home parish, using the solid curriculum put out by Endow, and complete with frolicsome and merry childcare in a separate room. It was a grand success, fertile ground for mutual support, friendships among mothers and children, and instruction in the faith. There was a posse of amazing older women who took care of the many children. I will never forget hearing my two pre-schoolers gleefully sing, “London Bridges falling down,” and realizing they had learned it not from me, but from these wonderful pseudo-grandmas with whom they spent two hours twice a month. To this day, my children love those women. The relationships that came from the three sessions we were able to host before COVID put a wrench in the machine were far-reaching, effectively weaving deep connections within the generations at our parish. The work of the Holy Spirit—absolutely, with all the hallmarks!

Christ Blessing the Children, ca. 1545-50, by Lucas Cranach the Younger and Workshop, German, Metropolitan Museum of Art, USA.

Last year, my family moved across the continent to the state of Connecticut, leaving behind all the roots we had worked for over a decade to cultivate. In our new home, God has abundantly blessed us with friends and fellows—oh my, but He has outdone himself! Amidst the blessings, however, has been deep grief, a very natural sequence to a trans-continental move, to which anyone who has uprooted and moved in mid-life can attest. (Can I get an “Amen!”?) In the midst of my grief, which asserted itself most fiercely in the bleak cold of winter, God sent me another ‘silent retreat’ gift: Substack.

I have loved writing for as long as I can remember. It is when I am writing that I feel most alive and authentic. We are all flowers that must bloom in the form of the Father’s design.

I have held this truth about myself for decades, but always in potentiality. (What can I say—I come from a long line of procrastinators.) Imagine my surprise, then, when, in January of 2025, shortly before my 40^th birthday, I finally found (made?) time to ply my pen here on Substack. It seemed outrageous to me that it should be so, what with four young children, whom I homeschool, and every new adjustment imaginable in a new country, climate, and culture—but God is that good; He is forever outdoing the poor, plodding plans we ourselves propose, and presenting us with so much more. The past six months have given me more time to dream and write than the six years before. It is a mystery to me, for, I assure you, I have not been much at leisure.

That’s a bit of my story, friends, fellow sojourners. You are only too kind to accompany me here. I did not expect to find a community on Substack. And, had I considered the possibility, I could not have imagined a group of so many heartening, sunshine-chasing, gifted, and gallant writers. What an honour to be among you. It is all to God’s glory!

Inter artes et naturam (Between Art and Nature), ca. 1890-95, by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, French, Metropolitan Museum of Art, USA.

I have set up two Substacks, one with a expansive scope and no parameters apart from my limited prudence (I will not be discussing politics or technology, for I would only be either foolish or upset or both), and that one I called Mirabile Dictu, a phase I noted when I read Amor Towles marvellous novel “A Gentleman in Moscow” and meaning “wonderful to say / marvellous to relate”. I won’t go into the Latin, but it reverberates. At Mirabile Dictu, you will find something of my personal landscape, anecdotes, and ideas, usually connected with literature, especially poetry, and the lifestyle of a Christian (RC), homeschooling, stay-at-home Canadian mom living in the USA.

The Artist’s Paint Box and Moss Roses, 1898, by Edouard Vuillard, French, National Gallery of Art, USA.

My second Substack, A Poetic Home, I envision as an auxiliary resource for enjoying poetry with children, in the classroom or the home, but especially the latter. Many’s the time I have heard parents express feelings of intimidation in face of poetry. I want to help remove that obstacle and open the way to enjoyment and relish in an arguably neglected branch of literature. Poetry does not have to be esoteric or elite, but there are certain keys to unlocking the fullness of the treasure within, and these I hope to offer in bi-weekly lesson plans. You can read more about A Poetic Home in this post and in the Welcome Email that lands in your inbox when you subscribe. If you have the faintest idea you might like to, do come along, subscribe, and tell a friend! A Poetic Home will eventually be behind a paywall, but I would love to have a robust following grandfathered in before that date!

“Your hands hold roses always in a way that says, / They are not only yours” from “The Beautiful Changes” by Richard Wilbur

I will leave it at that, for I know all too well my proclivity for effusion and excess in words. Thank you for being here! For a final thought, a quote from the great American novelist, William Faulkner:

“It is his [the poet’s, the writer’s] privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.”

William Faulkner, 1897-1962, Speech upon receiving the Nobel Prize, Dec 10, 1950

Shalom, and pax Christi, my friends! God go with you today and ever…