This morning I spoke at a local junior high school on a "Girl Revolution" panel. (With Meghan Swim, pictured on the left, and April Macleod, right.) I'm not going to sugarcoat it—this was a tough crowd. The 100 or so kids shuffled in their seats and talked over me and the other two speakers. When it was time for questions, there were none. My co-presenter April Macleod pointed out that we were the only thing coming between these kids and their lunch. While some in the room showed interest, it was cooler for others to horse around than engage with our message about following their dreams and how girls and the boys can be successful in whatever field they decide to pursue provided they work hard, seek help, and learn from their mistakes rather than become defeated by them.

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Dip, splash. Dip, splash.

Waves gently lapped against the boat.  The motion made me sleepy. Sitting in the bow, I followed the oars’ creaking trail through the water and up into the brisk morning air. Water droplets hopped over the black harbour and spread circular ripples in their wake. Pulling my focus closer I gazed up one oar over the shackle to George's bulging bicep and across his broad back.

I nodded off for a split second. When I snapped my head back up and opened my eyes, George turned toward me.

"This seems about as good a spot as any. What do you think, Doc Slayter?"

George had rowed far past Thrum Cap, the southernmost tip of McNab's Island, but I could still make out the distant speck of a girl watching us from the rocky shore.

"Little further George, please."

I sat opposite the crude pine coffin roped across the stern, protruding over the water. I wished it were a hallucination but I knew otherwise.

She knows how it feels to be struck by a snowflake.
She walks awake,
entering that rare place she inhabits so infrequently,
where synapses are firing and senses are attuned.
Each murmur a lion's roar.
Each breeze a whirling wind.
Each shade of white a kaleidoscope of colour.
And then it passes.
Because it always does. She is back living among us mortals,
trudging through the snowdrifts,
tired and vaguely numb.

Most of the time I journey through life in a semi-present state. Probably this is necessary so I don't become too overwhelmed by everything that is happening around me. Yet every now and then I receive the gift of hyper-alertness. Rare moments in which I see things so clearly, when ideas and inspiration flood my brain, when even my senses become more acute and I feel more . . . ALIVE.

Do you experience a similar phenomenon? I don't think I'm unique. I was discussing this idea with a professor and he said it reminded him of the Buddhist concept of dwelling at the foot of the mountain. You cannot stay continually at the enlightened peak but you should live a life close enough so that the journey back is not impossibly far.

I know I am in a really great place when I can stay on the top of the mountain a little longer, or get back up there quickly. Such moments often come to me when I catch a glimpse of humanity, or when I'm surrounded by nature, knowledge or art. They often fuel productive surges of writing.

Last night I went to my monthly meeting of the Voices Project, a women's writing collective at Mount Saint Vincent University. We were so fortunate so have E. Alex Pierce with us. Alex has published a book of poetry called Vox Humana with Brick Books and she is another of Nova Scotia's talented and generous poets, who has also worked as an editor, educator and in the performing arts.

She asked us to use the girl in each of us to draft something—anything—poetry or prose. She gave us the invocation from her book and asked us to choose a phrase as a launching pad. I chose "the one we have forgotten" and wrote the anaphora below. It inspired me to think of myself as the girl who is so different than the person I am now.

The one we have forgotten

The girl in me loved to slide down the bannister,
climb trees,
and swim until the skin on her fingertips looked like raisins.

The girl in me had a messy bedroom,
dirt on her face, even coming out of the bath,
and hair that got so tangled her mother cut it off rather than struggle with a comb

The girl in me ate a family-sized bag of salt-and-vinegar chips and drank a bullet of orange pop in one day,
sang in two choirs and played Hockey Night in Canada on her flute,
and doodled in the margins of every scribbler she owned.

The girl in me read every Enid Blyton and Trixie Beldon book,
reaching the end of each series, experiencing that mix of accomplishment and regret,
and quickly moving on to the next literary obsession.

The girl in me misplaced everything she ever owned,
lost wallets, school books, erasers and her Girl Guide hat,
and found them when the need for them had passed

That girl, the girl that was me,
is the one we have forgotten,
though she still lurks my DNA and rears herself on occasion

Next, we had to choose a phrase from another Voices member's poem and write for a few minutes about that. I chose the gorgeous phrase from Voices member Rosemary: "She knows how it feels to be struck by a snowflake" and wrote the piece you saw above. I was so inspired in that moment, so alive, so top-of-the-mountain, that I wrote about those brief moments of enlightenment.

I thanked Alex as I was leaving and she told me I write "like a demon." Perhaps she saw steam coming out of my ears as I was scribbling down that last piece, I'm not sure, but I'm choosing to regard it as a compliment.

I wish I knew where the path up the mountain lay hidden. It's elusive but when you find it, you ought to run, not walk, to the top.

Jacob DengJacob Deng was seven years old in 1987 when insurgents burnt down Duk Padiet, his village. Separated from his mother and sisters he fled, on foot, across scorching Africa. He was what became known as a "Lost Boy of Sudan." Displaced. Homeless. Orphaned. Vulnerable. Many died but Jacob survived threats of exposure, starvation, thirst, disease and wild animals, eventually arriving at a refuge camp in Ethiopia. Three years later, when it too was invaded, he fled on foot once more, this time to Kenya. "I was motivated by a desire to stay alive," Jacob told me.

Writing a thesis or a book is like a long, steady cardio workout. You might chat with a friend as you are completing it. You will sweat a little but not often profusely. You will take breaks for food, water and rest, and while you will make progress, there are times it feels like the end is beyond reach.

That's why writing bursts, like blogging or short writing exercises, are so important. They rapidly strengthen the writing muscle.