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Creater
Being a creator—how does one truly capture the essence of that? Unlike other professions, where a title might easily be defined by skills or qualifications, calling oneself a creator feels almost too vast, too elusive. You see, there are many ways to create—through words, through images, through sounds, and beyond. But the essence of creating isn’t about the medium or the label; it’s about the drive to bring something new into the world. I’ve been fortunate to learn from masters of their craft, those who have spent lifetimes honing their abilities and pushing boundaries. They’ve told me, "You are a creator." But I still wrestle with fully accepting it. Because when you think of creators, you envision the greats—the ones whose work resonates with people across generations. How could I dare to claim that title? But here's the truth: I create because I can’t do anything else. There’s something within me, something raw, waiting to be transformed into something tangible. Whether it’s a story, a design, or a new idea, creation isn't a choice for me—it’s a necessity. It's not a career, nor a hobby—it’s a calling. If I don’t bring these things to life, they haunt me. And that haunting, while sometimes relentless, is also beautiful because it’s a sign that there’s always more to create, more stories to tell, more ideas to share. And so, I create.
Founder
More about Carolyn
Writer
Publications
Writer! How does one describe oneself as a writer? Describing one’s career as a consultant, as a professor, as a gardener are straight forward tasks based on credentials and interests. But writer! Now that presents a challenge. I have been privileged in my life to study with some great writers. Edward Albee, Harry Crews, Ed McCourt. They told me I was a writer. I am still trying to believe them. You see, writer conjures images of Tennessee Williams, Carson McCullers, D.H. Lawrence. How could I be so bold as to say, “I am a writer!”? I love to tell stories. I tell pretty good ones. I write them down. And I make enough money doing it to buy the property that enabled me to include the section, “gardener”. So, in that sense, I am a writer - down - of - stories. I can do that. And I can teach others to do it, too. The writing down of stories isn’t a career. It isn’t a hobby or a habit. It is a thing you must do if the stories are in you. You must get them out, or like demons they haunt you. But it is an exquisite haunting. For as long as there are demons, there are more stories to tell
Publications
Teacher
I’d never wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to do something important. I wanted to make a difference in the world. I studied, I earned scholarships, I worked hard. I was going to go into the sciences, work with researchers, find a cure for cancer, the disease that had killed both of my maternal grandparents in their fifties. I had been with them during their slow and painful dying. I was determined.
My mother always supported me. A nurse who gave up her job to take care of her mother and then her father, she worked long hours as a housekeeper in a hotel belonging to my uncle. We all lived there. Money to go to school was not something we had enough of. When I won a Governor’s General scholarship to go to university, this practical woman encouraged me to go to Teacher’s College. “You can always get a job as a teacher and work yourself through night school and summer school.”
Off I went to Saskatoon to take a one year course in how to be a teacher. Surely I could handle one year of it. Classes came and went each day. I wrote reports, read curriculum guides, I didn’t really register anything. I was buying time. Waiting for the time when I could do something worthwhile.
One requirement of Teacher’s College was to complete three weeks of practice teaching in a real classroom. The regular teacher would be there, telling you what to do, how to do it, and then give feedback to your supervisor. I couldn’t imagine anything worse.
The first day of my practicum, the classroom teacher phoned in sick. Very sick. Perhaps needed to go to the hospital. I would be alone with 36 twelve year-olds. I was told to follow her lesson plan book.
The first day of my practicum, the classroom teacher phoned in sick. Very sick. Perhaps needed to go to the hospital. I would be alone with 36 twelve-year-olds. I was told to follow her lesson plan book.Her lesson plan book instructed me to teach long division at 9 am Monday morning, my first day of teaching. Long division! I never could figure out how to do it. In my head, I turned the numbers into divisions of ten and then, with a little adding or subtracting, I figured it out.
By the time we were half way through the lesson, I was so confused I couldn’t even find the answers at the back of the book. I’d ask the students how many had that answer and if the majority put up their hands, I’d say that was correct. I had no real idea.
A very attentive kid with red hair and no freckles put up his hand. His arms were long and the sweater he wore barely reached his wrist. “Yes?” I nodded more than spoke aloud.
A very attentive kid with red hair and no freckles put up his hand. His arms were long and the sweater he wore barely reached his wrist. “Yes?” I nodded more than spoke aloud.
He looked me square in the eye and asked, “You don’t know how to do long division, do you?” Now what? How could I deny what was so obvious. The class sat in silence, wide-eyed, watching, waiting for me to what? To lie? To yell? To tell the little red haired big mouth to sit down? To go to the principal’s office?
I did none of those things. Instead, I told the truth and invited him to help me. I have no idea where that idea came from; but I’ll be ever grateful it did. That decision influence my teaching for the rest of my life. “No, you’re right. I don’t. There was a silence in the room. That’s when instinct kicked in. “But I’ll bet you do.” I smiled. He nodded, signifying that he did know how to long divide! “Well, here’s the deal. You teach long division and I’ll teach you the things I know.”
It was the beginning of a relationship, a sharing, a commitment. I honored my students, valued what they knew. I shared the responsibility. We paid respectful attention to one another. I left that practicum knowing I had found the most exciting, challenging, rewarding profession in the world. I also felt it was the most important. Not teaching curriculum. Teaching people to feel good about themselves, to welcome challenge, to take responsibility.
I have spent every working day of my professional life hell bent on teaching. Teaching high school, teaching in a school for the mentally challenged, teaching in a school for wayward girls, teaching in a university, teaching in a board room, teaching in a hotel full of film makers. And now, teaching through a computer screen. I train, I learn, I teach, I am.
Gardener
Carolyn is delighted to invite you to writing courses and activities fostering imagination.
But what thrills her the most is when you actually visit Magic Horse Garden. When you walk through her flower gardens, enjoy a family picnic under the shelter of huge Cedars and enjoy a cup of tea and a cookie in the gazebo. She will in introduce you to the animals and birds. She loves to watch the joy you experience when you feed the llamas, rock a chicken to sleep in your arms.
She’ll delight in explaining how to grow this or that, how to create a garden that is like a signature, a biography of the gardener.
Carolyn has chosen every plant in the flower gardens. She prunes and weeds and talks to the plants. She is pretty sure she was born with a hoe in her hand.
Raised by her mother, Carolyn never knew any of her relatives on her father’s side. Never, until that is, a cousin arranged a family visit.
As her newfound family toured Carolyn around Cudworth, her first home and the home of most of her relatives, she remarked how gorgeous the little town was. “So full of parks!”
“Yes,” her cousin remarked, your grandfather would plant a tree, a bush, a bulb, in any empty spot. They became parks. You know, he was crazy for trees!”
Crazy for Trees is the title of her book on building a 3 acre garden in a rain forest. That was the building of Hyla Gardens. She had always wondered where that green thumb had come from. Mystery solved.
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