Third Wave

The third wave in Canada is relentless. Where I live, the stories break my heart; I know that all of the other provinces, territories and Treaties have their own tragedies I haven’t heard. And probably never will, because it is all so overwhelming. The world is heavy right now.

I read one journalist’s article on how “the dead don’t feel dead, they feel disappeared” and it made me think about how one day we will look back on this and be horrified by what we lived through. How death—something western culture shields itself from—could not be escaped, for it became omnipresent. The nightly death counts on the news are strange enough; now, with India being devastated by COVID-19, we are updated with even more morbid visuals. Comprehending abstract numbers is one thing; actually seeing bodies piled in row upon row of pyres all alight is quite another.

As is putting a face to a statistic.

These are a few of the local stories that gave me pause this week. They are all from my area. Their stories deserve to be heard. The survivors need to be supported.

• 32-year-old father of two dies from COVID-19 eight days after being diagnosed. A GoFundMe is raising money for the children’s education.

• Father dies of COVID-19 days after couple’s third child born. His wife has also tested positive and remains in hospital. A GoFundMe is raising money to support the family.

• Well-known local chef loses his battle to COVID-19, leaving behind a wife and two children. A GoFundMe is raising money to support the family.

• Siblings lose both parents to COVID-19 within months of each other. A GoFundMe is raising money to support the family.

• Beloved teacher loses his battle to COVID-19. A GoFundMe is raising money to start a scholarship for Indigenous students in his name.

365

It’s been just over a year since the pandemic was officially announced. The last three hundred sixty five days have been a rollercoaster of panic, worry, depression, anxiety, boredom, solitude, hope … and now with misguided (or non-existent) lockdown procedures and a terribly mismanaged roll-out of vaccines in Canada combined with an increase of deadly variants of COVID-19, the cycle has started anew.

I still consider myself a lucky one; I’ve been working at home for the entirety of the past year, converting a sunroom with a westward view that I once used as a reading area into a cozy 9 to 5 space with lots of natural light. My active social circle has decreased to only one—my partner—but remains a source of elation. Being around someone 24/7 through sickness and in health, Doritos stress-binging and green smoothie regret, can lead to issues—and I predict an increase in divorce in the aftermath of the pandemic—but our companionship has been nothing but enriching. I haven’t tired of the conversation or silences in between.

I also don’t venture out much. With this newfound expansive pool of free time, I daydream, I read and I catch up on a long streaming list that I’m behind pop-culturally. I’m a natural introvert, so this hasn’t been hard. In some ways, this pause on life has been beneficial. But that statement is not universal; I have not lost someone. I have not been sick and am not experiencing long-term health issues as a result of it. I have not been economically devastated. I have not been undervalued for my contributions to society by being labelled “essential” and sent to the frontlines with no recognition beyond pacifying words. While this event has been a monumental provocation to our collective mental health, wellbeing and structure of community, it has also been a time to step back and reframe perspective. Things cannot - and should not - remain the same moving forward.

It is my hope that the blinding glow of unsatiated capitalism is dimmed through realization of the importance of community and a renewed respect for nature, and how having those work together in concert is the only way to navigate our current global crises. It is my hope that your family (by birth or by choice) has all of the supports they need to live a life safely unencumbered by the whims of those who choose chaos. I also hope we eventually understand that we make the world a little bit better (or worse) through our actions, however minimal.

It’s been my observation throughout life that people don’t like change, no matter what they say when there’s a colleague from HR in the room. The majority do not like altering their comfortable, familiar behaviours unless there is an immediate reward that they deem worthwhile. We’re at a crux in the pandemic where I still encounter those living in their own self-centred world of delusion including one in my own building that takes down mask signage and vandalizes supplied sanitizer, as well as politicians that could really make an impact on the disease with shorter, more restrictive lockdowns while providing business supports but choose instead to bury their heads in the sand at all costs. Including human life. How do you influence those that don’t see the forest for the trees? What type of reward works for them? Is it even worth considering?

I’m not sure on all the solutions. But I do have all the time in the world to contemplate them.

Winter City

I’m a four-season girl. I’ve grown up in a climate that had four distinct seasons and I definitely appreciate each of them, including winter. A recent polar vortex caused temperatures where I live to dip below -42 degrees Celsius (-55 degrees Celsius with the windchill!), so when it warmed up to a relatively “balmy” -14 (-24), we decided to take the opportunity to get some fresh air, go for a hike and explore life beyond the walls we’ve been surrounded by as a result of the pandemic.

Wanuskewin has been a gathering place for nomadic tribes for over six thousand years. Today, it is a designated heritage park showcasing Indigenous art and culture, as well as an active archaeological site providing context and connection to our history from present day Treaty 6 territory in Saskatchewan, Canada. It also offers a museum, restaurant featuring Indigenous cuisine, and numerous hiking trails to explore the Northern Plains.

Peripheral People

It is not natural for me to be this sedentary. The innate desire to wander and explore comes as natural to me as my sensitivity towards animals or my predisposition to foods heavily flavoured with garlic. But here I am, on my couch—the very same couch that I’ve been sitting on for nearly a year reading, writing, watching Netflix—and while I’m bored, it’s become the new normal of my life. The sun rises. The sun sets. My only escape is through a screen.

Another aspect of “the good ol’ days” I’ve recently come to miss are the peripheral people who’ve been in my life. People that I’ve never formally met or held conversation with but who played as background actors in the scenes of my day. There is the Somali man, slight in stature, who stood on the corner of my block each morning enjoying a cigarette while observing traffic through eyeglasses perched half-way down his nose. He’s performed this daybreak ritual for years. We’d occasionally nod our heads at each other in recognition of being neighbours of sorts but I don’t know his story and he doesn’t know mine.

There were the people employed at a coffee shop across the street from my office who crafted one of my favourite sandwiches (saskatoon berry-turkey with arugula and brie on toasted ancient grains). Within the past year, it has sadly shut its doors. I never got to know their names. Besides being a familiar face, they never got to know mine.

The time I’d walk up to the entrance of my condo at the end of each workday would occasionally be mirrored in commute from the opposite direction by a bearded man who lives on another floor in the building. We would make convivial small talk while checking our mailboxes. I learned he worked at the nearby hospital. He would learn that I was involved in the arts. But it was just a slight connection. Enough for acquaintance but not enough for anything more meaningful outside the confines of an elevator. I never learned his name. He never learned mine. I haven’t seen him in over a year.

While I lament their absence, these characters have been recast for the current season.

Most people in my building now work from home and while I have not met a lot of them, I do get a sense of their day through the sound filtering from the hallways and above. One of my neighbours plays an instrument. I can hear the muffled output from their amp every morning around eleven a.m.. They also have a small dog. I’ve never seen it and wouldn’t be able to identity breed but can hear the faint pitter-patter of its paws walking across the laminate floor. There’s a family at the other end of the hallway that moved in just before the start of the pandemic. Their child, perhaps feeling bored and caged, spends most of the day screaming in frustration at the top of her lungs. Her parents—and their immediate neighbours—are often in my thoughts. And then there’s the contractors I occasionally pass. I wouldn’t be able to recognize their faces but I do remember their masks.

As the pandemic forces us into a second year of distance and isolation, I’m starting to feel sadness at the loss of the seemingly unmemorable interactions I had with strangers in the past. Their presence was familiar where nothing in this current world is. They offered a form of stability to my days and I genuinely miss them … even though I didn’t know them.

The Wilds

The other night, I went to close my shades and became enraptured by the night sky. During a prairie winter, the sky is normally densely overcast and claustrophobic but on this night I stared out at the stars - albeit few, albeit faint - as well as some scattered, low-hanging cumulus clouds that reflected the crimson light of the city. During a time when I feel I’ve become completely disconnected to nature, I feel like my appreciation for it (and need to preserve it) is growing. When you’ve been stuck in your home for almost a year, the desire to explore the wilds is all-consuming. This pause has given me time to reflect though, on life and what really matters.

In late 2004, I left my job at an advertising agency to freelance. A lot of 2020 is reminding me of that time. I was working at home on a bondi blue iMac when the earthquake and tsunami struck countries bordered on the Indian Ocean. I recall non-stop footage of it playing on the television in the background as I tried to work. I’m an empathetic person, sometimes overly so, and the sadness of it all really affected me. With 230,000+ dead, it was the worst disaster I’d witnessed in my lifetime.

Sixteen years later, I’m once again working at home—again, on an iMac—but this time the disaster hits closer. I’m not watching the tragedy of a far-away land through the safety of a screen, I’m living it everyday. I’m connected to risk and reminded of it through the daily death count on the evening news. My empathy here serves me well. With over two million deaths worldwide, it’s important not to lose sight that these were human beings who lived and loved and deserve to be remembered. Regardless of age, health or any other factor used to discriminate, they are people.

And people are what really matter in life.

The most happiness and bliss I’ve felt have been in the presence of people I loved. The greatest memories of my youth are traveling the west in an old RV with my parents, visiting such legendary sites as Yellowstone National Park, the Rocky Mountains, Deadwood and Wall Drug (okay, that last one is legendary for a different reason but memorable all the same). I remember the fun of playing license plate bingo with my dad or having my mom wash my hair in a rest stop sink because that’s where we slept overnight in lieu of a campground. I didn’t grow up wealthy, so moments like this were currency towards future resolve. Some of the fondest memories of my twenties are just cruising around Winnipeg after-hours listening to music and being present with someone who values and understands me through shared experience.

The brief high one gets through a material purchase does not compare to receiving a message from an old friend who felt the need to check in and say “hello”. Having someone remember and acknowledge your existence is to feel seen. To feel human. These moments have been some of the most memorable during the pandemic.

I’m thankful to have someone to share this moment in time with. Another soul to bear witness to history and the real, raw emotions and fear we all felt while living it. Having someone to talk with, to play with, every day is helping me get through. I look forward to the day when we can one day explore the wilds again, together.

My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).

Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).

Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).

Christmas Past, Christmas Present

I always seemed to have a set agenda for the holiday season. As a child, the anticipation for Christmas would begin when my mother announced our annual shopping trip to downtown Winnipeg. This wasn’t just a day for her to run errands in commerce, this was THE day I would get a moment with Santa to implore how deserving I was to receive the fad toy of the day. This social contract I had with the man to not drive my parents crazy throughout the previous year was beneficial for everyone and even though I always stuck by it, my tiny heart would palpitate with excitement and nerves on the long bus ride over. Perhaps it was early-onset imposter syndrome but I seemed to always second-guess myself, without reason to. Occasionally still do.

And it wasn’t just a regular mall Santa; the Santa I visited at Eaton’s Department Store was held in his own enchanting world - a makeshift Victorian-era township for visitors to wind through where each storefront window provided glimpse into a magical fairytale vignette from Humpty Dumpty to Cinderella. I’m sure the animatronic characters are much better preserved in my memory than they were in reality, but as a child this day felt like visiting DisneyWorld and is a beloved shared experience amongst so many from my hometown. It definitely got me into the spirit of the season. After visiting ol’ St. Nick, the day would end with my mother hitting up her favourite bakery and buying a dozen Italian tri-colour cookies for us to indulge in. To this day, my favourite dessert.

The older I got, the more my holiday memories centered on family and food culminating in a grand feast at a relative’s house that occasionally veered Griswold-esque. Afterwards as we would crosstown back home, I would always ask my father to drive through the downtown core so that I could marvel at the colourful decorative lights glowing softly against the quiet, snowy streets. It was rare the occasion that we would be downtown after-hours; staring out the window, I would marvel at this festive world just frozen in time. I imagined the varied holiday rituals that were happening within the illuminated windows we passed. For those that were dark, I hoped the occupants felt some sense of belonging.

In recent years, that circle has become even smaller as I typically spend the return to Manitoba with just my mom and wee dog Monty, who provides her company as a sort of unlicensed therapy dog (a role he was born to do). It’s intimate and private. Our walks at the ebb of the day are a highlight. I like watching the gradient of pink to violet reflected on the snowbanks as the sun sets over the horizon. As an adult, it is the calm I covet. December 25 is still reserved for opening gifts and indulging in turkey, although I’m not concerned with what I get and more focused on seeing joy on my mother’s face. Her memory has been fading but she still misses her late husband (my father). A slight trigger can still turn this joyous occasion into one of pangs of heartbreak over the loss. I’m always glad to be there to provide presence on what was, what is and what will be.

While this holiday season certainly felt different, it was special in its own way. I wasn’t “adventuring” with my dog in the prairie fields surrounding my childhood home but I did take time to explore the quiet urban streets of my own neighbourhood and was met with the same solitude. I didn’t relish a turkey dinner my mom spent hours of time and love creating but I did hold a savoury fusion feast for my partner and I. Gifts weren’t exchanged but memories of time and touch and conversation shared. When I’m older and reflecting on this (thus far) nine month period of solitude of my life, I don’t think it will feel like a waste; rather, the cocooning will probably be appreciated for not only helping to stay healthy and safe through a global pandemic but also for allowing my perspective to shift even further in terms of simple pleasures and the social contract I acknowledge to live in a society in order to enjoy them.

2020

Back in January, I was excited to start a new decade. There’s always a sense of optimism and renewal that comes with a fresh slate and 2020 felt promising. Both personal and professional endeavours were hitting new highs and I wore the confidence and wisdom it brought as an armour. It felt like I was entering a stage in life where peace of mind wouldn’t be so fleeting.

Oh, how innocent we all were.

As I write this, Canada is in the thick of a second wave of Covid-19 that is proving far worse than the first. Tensions are running high as governments try to balance the pleas of health care experts with the needs of business owners (currently leaning to the opinion that loss of life is acceptable to maintain the economy) and despite ALL evidence to the contrary, anti-maskers & other self-centred idiots continue to confuse personal freedom with the responsibility of living as part of a society.

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Watching the numbers roll in from my home province every day causes an audible gasp (and occasional tears) as a wave of anxiety washes over me. There is my elderly, widowed mother that causes worry but also several other family members that work on the frontlines in health care. Being distanced from the people I love during such a tumultuous time is not easy (and I have it relatively easy; there are those in situations much worse than mine whose mental health and wellbeing I think of often).

I currently feel exhausted, depressed … and angry. I hope to once again tap into a well of inspiration for my art and writings, but in the meantime will be taking a break until 2021.

Until then, I’ve posted a list of resources that may be of help to you or your loved ones as we ride this rollercoaster of uncertainty for the near future.

Much blessings. Much love. Let’s all get through this together.

Crisis Services Canada
Phone: 1-833-456-4566
Text: 45645

Canadian Mental Health Association

First Nations and Inuit Hope for Wellness
Phone: 1-855-242-3310

Kids Help Phone
Phone: 1-800-668-6868

Domestic Violence services