Winter. 1984. Our breath was visible in the still December air as we worked together to build an igloo. His skill level in this area was far more advanced from mine, the form and function of the snow blocks he constructed provided an actual foundation for our structure that wouldn’t collapse under its own weight, whereas mine weren’t even suitable as ornamentation. But that was okay. I was more of a supervisor anyway. And he had around thirty years of experience on me.

I hold a very vivid memory of four-year-old me building an igloo with my dad in the park next to my childhood home. I don’t know why this particular moment has stuck out all these years later but from the chill in the air to the periwinkle shade of my parka, I can close my eyes and feel the pieces of the night come together as though they happened yesterday. The sky, in particular, is something I regularly try to conjure. The opaque darkness, visible galaxies and illumination from the moon on the snow were too beautiful for words. As my childhood neighbourhood evolves, and reflected light from the growing city increases, it isn’t a moment I could ever recreate again. Being able to stargaze from my backyard isn’t the only thing lost though. So much of life is chasing a feeling we once had.

When the igloo was complete, I remember throwing a celebratory snowball up in the air. Missing where it fell, I led myself to believe that I flung it so high, it soared off into space reaching those very same stars. And my dad played along.

Fall. 2020. We are several months into a global pandemic that has society collectively nostalgic for international travel and sports & entertainment, not to mention warm proximity to other human beings rather than recoiling in horror as a stranger approaches too close (maybe that’s just me, thankfully my mask hides most facial expressions). While taking an annual vacation (or two) was always something I looked forward to, I honestly have no idea when that will occur again. I currently don’t feel comfortable taking a plane or staying in a hotel, not to mention visiting any busy tourist sites. My trip this year was returning to the place I grew up, Winnipeg, to spend time with my mom and dog and revisit my childhood home through the lens of time.

It should be noted that interprovincial travel was permitted and even encouraged by the government. As well, I took numerous precautions while making the drive which included my omnipresent mask, gloves for pumping fuel, hand sanitizer in every crevice of my vehicle and purse, and pretty much isolating myself to the company of just my mom and dog for several weeks. I did not quarantine as I wasn’t required to, but I socially distanced from anyone outside of the household. My partner is a scientist who has instilled the risks of cross-contamination into me (even before Covid) and I am beyond cautious, prepared and respectful of guidelines.

During my time off, I used the opportunity to try the Japanese art of shinrin-yoku or forest bathing. The ancient practice is a method of enhancing one’s sense of wellbeing through connection with nature, and involves a leisurely walk through the woods while being present and acquaintanced with everything going on around you. With my dog by my side, our daily adventures involved hiking through landscape of boreal, the calm of which was pierced only by a symphony of crickets and the occasional bushy-tailed squirrel scurrying in the underbrush. After feeling like the human equivalent of a flat tire for the past couple months, the peace and clarity this brought me was just what I needed. I’ve had a hard time creating of late–writing, designing, even cooking–and hopefully this was a reset.

Normally during a once-in-a-lifetime event like a global pandemic, I would document things by way of photography and prose. While I have done a bit of the latter, I regret that I didn’t capture some of the unique sights of the first wave such as my colleagues and I hurriedly filling boxes with office equipment after receiving a tight, unexpected deadline to pack up for remote working. Or how every single billboard in my city at one point featured the exact same PPE messaging on it. Driving down one of our main thoroughfares and seeing the repetitive image of a woman wearing a face shield was one of the first times I felt how dystopian things were becoming. Then there was the overall emptiness of a once lively mid-size city that became a ghost town devoid of visible human life virtually overnight. It’s one thing to process tragedy happening in a far away land but watching as the waves approach, shape and affect your own existence is quite another and something most in the West aren’t used to (or willing to accept, as evidenced by the current deadly follies of those believing this to be a hoax).

But in contrast to the stress of our times there were some positive insights as well, such as the realization that I share a home (and my heart) with an individual that is truly selfless and caring, and that in the decade since I moved away from Winnipeg I have created a wonderful new family of friends and neighbours that supplement all of my human needs for connection and belonging in the most trying of times.

Stargazing with my dad as a kid left an imprint on my life. Now I live in the land of living skies.

Somewhere between earth and sky, I’ve found my home.

All buckled in and ready for adventure (©2020).

Covid signage erected at civic parks in Winnipeg (©2020).

My favourite place to escape and connect with nature– La Barriere Park, south of Winnipeg (©2020).

My ham, Monty, and I on one of our daily hikes. Monty’s taco fiesta harness and matching leash from Canadian company Blue Paw Co. Support local (©2020).

Time capsule portrait for 2020. Mask handmade in Canada from Econica. Support local (©2020).