The last month has been a chaotic wrapping of my head around things as this lockdown and pandemic stretches on. It’s been difficult for me to think clearly, requiring time to step away.

And part of that stepping away was cutting back: news stories, social media and other emotional drains.

Then someone texts me a story about the remains of 215 children found buried under a former residential school.

My head is still shrieking and I haven’t been able to put it into words, but I’ll do my best.

I had no idea about the history of the native people of this country until my third year of University—and I started at twenty. I was twenty three years old before I heard about the systematic destruction of an entire culture through various means (or whatever means necessary, it seems).

Up until that point, my only experience were the slanderous jokes people told, a local news story about the killing of Dudley George and comments from adults about “freeloading,” “laziness,” and other such adjectives. The history of native people may have been briefly brushed upon (and we’re talking light strokes) during school.

To all of a sudden learn about a history of people who had their children forcibly removed from their homes and dragged vast distances to be physically, mentally and sexually abused by clergy… it didn’t sit right. How could it?

I was angry for a multitude of reasons.

How is it that I could know about the history of slavery in the US before ever knowing what happened here?

Seven generations of silence.

Then there’s the Church… and oh… I’ll save that for a later post. There’s too much that can be said and right now, it’s splintering from the fallout of indoctrinating two generations of people in partisan culture wars rather than kerygma. You reap what you sow.

Over the last fifteen years, I’ve kept my eyes wide open. I’ve had the privilege of working alongside some incredible people, especially young people, in the Indigenous community. To learn their stories, their teachings and their pleas. I’ve also had the chance to see a general population slowly learning about this horrid history, as we all come to terms with how can we move forward in reconciliation.

An extensive report was put together in 2015 with ninety-four calls to action.

And yet, here we are, six years later, finding the graves of children. A gravesite so buried, it was purposefully forgotten about to hide the actual number of deaths that occurred.

Residential school survivors, in hearing about this story, are reliving the trauma from when they attended.

There’s been a huge response, which is good. However, I wonder how many of these are simply performative before people move on to the next story. This is not a tragedy that happened. These were children who were purposefully killed.

So where do we go from here?

I’ve always been a big advocate of “talk less, listen more.”

But in this case: talk less, do more.

The continued state of lockdown is certainly not an adventure I’d choose for this extended period of time, but it’s hit a point where I’ve been able to reframe it.

Sure, the house is never going to get clean (or stay clean if it gets close), we’re not able to see anyone or go anywhere and I’m certainly not winning any work-related awards for my performance this year.

However, every day has given me an opportunity to do the one thing every parent wished they could do more of: spend time with the kids.

Just playing with them.

Finding new and imaginative ways to have fun, getting them to come up with their own version of Calvinball and just being there as they grow up. We’re no longer running from one event to another, but lazily getting ourselves ready in the morning and sauntering on our walks/scooter rides outside.

Given the limited options in the house, it’s also forced us to be outside way more often and the fresh air, plus exercise, has been a healthy reprieve from the usual.

While there’s been plenty of quantity time this past year, it took some realization that all of it was quality time as well. Once that realization set in, it’s been a joy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am impatiently waiting for the moment we can see everyone again and will be sprinting to everyone the moment it’s possible. In the meantime, we have a house full of love.

And that’s something I will always enjoy.

With the slowdown to everyone’s day, especially their mornings, there’s been a surge of interest in building better morning routines.

The typical wake-up, rush out the door and commute long distances has been replaced, in many cases, with a crawl-out-of-bed and spend half the day waking up. This is not necessarily a bad thing because the people of the world needed to slow down anyway.

However, what to do with the mornings?

Sleep? Exercise? Journal? Meditate?

All good ideas as it gets your mind in the right place for the rest of the day. I’m in awe of those who are up before 5am to get a workout in. I’ve been a big proponent of journaling and meditating upon wake up… as far as my kids will allow, anyway.

However, there’s a group of people who still set the standard for what can be accomplished in a day. They are up at (or before) the crack of dawn and get more done in their morning than most do in a full workday.

Our farmers, who have the critical task of growing our food.

Something tells me they don’t gather together in drawn-out video conference meetings. Perhaps chats and sharing of ideas on efficiency and ways to produce, but it’s certainly not a staple in their day… week… or even month.

They get up, do what needs to get done and call it in at the end. There’s nothing to think about—they just get to it. And when they’re done, they’re done.

It’s a work ethic many of us forget about and perhaps, should spend more time adopting.

The time I knew it was time to leave the magic world is when it felt more like work than fun.

While there were many facts of the magician life that required juggling, each one felt like a pleasure. Even the countless hours practicing and the endless nights problem-solving a way to do a trick—none of it felt like work.

For years, it always felt like play.

From the outside, it may have looked like a lot of work, but on the inside, never.

Until it did.

At which point, I knew something had changed and it was time to leave.

Writing, reading, studying religion, solving math problems, podcasting—these are not things that feel like work me. They can be difficult, but I never dread getting to them.

This sense of elation at doing something that brings you to life is what to strive for in all the “work” you do (ironing will never be a love of mine, unfortunately, and will always feel like work).

If it stops being that way, it’s time to stop, reflect and re-evaluate.

Almost everything.

The sooner we accept it, the more at peace we’ll be.

During my graduate work at Queen’s, a fellow student told me the goal of any good school of Religion (or philosophy) is to break you down and force you to rebuild again.

I marveled at the accuracy of that statement because of its applicability to all facets of life.

Every time we need to re-invent ourselves, we need to break the myths about who we are in order to build again.

If we want a more mature understanding of something, it requires a shattering of what we think we know about it. Case in point, the first thing I do at the beginning of every Religion course is break every myth about what students think the Bible is… by tearing apart the myths in (and around) it.

As a writer, getting new words on a page and getting them out there continuously requires you to break many myths about how writing works.

Some tact is required.

Breaking a deeply held belief can shatter a person if they don’t have the proper supports to rebuild.

However, its worth doing because what you come back with is always stronger.

When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone?

As in, you sat down with some pen & paper and wrote them something that you then put in the mail?

It’s something I had to really think about because many cards have been sent out on my behalf, but no letters. Digital communication has made things incredibly easier and faster, but the personal touch of a letter speaks volumes.

Perhaps it’s just from the time I grew up in, but the handwritten word shows something a digital representation cannot.

It feels like a personal giving (and receiving) of yourself.

A sliver of your soul for someone to see.

How do you find freedom in a world that is limited in its movement?

The promises of a globalized world are faltering and we are returning back to the local community. In my province, we’ve been ordered to stay home again.

There’s only so much entertainment you can consume, social media feeds to follow and ways to self medicate before you recognize none of it is helping.

So what to do?

I am reminded of the story of Christopher Knight, who found freedom as a hermit in Marine.

While he would occasionally read a book or play a video game, most of his time was spent just sitting and thinking. He never travelled aside from the occasional walk. For him, it was complete freedom for many years.

Understanding we still have responsibilities, becoming hermits isn’t the answer. But letting go, staying local and enjoying what’s around you… it reminds me of what my grandmother once told me:

“Growing up, we had so much less, but we were much happier.”

It’s pretty clear our governments have either lost control or swung the other way to take full control. We can no longer depend on them for our freedom.

What we can depend upon is the freedom we create in our own minds and the small communities of the people around us.

In fact, there’s never been a better time to do it.

A simple fedora.
Grey.
Built with high quality materials that still make it look new despite decades of ownership.

The one thing I inherited from my grandfather.

It sits on my wall to remind me of the many lessons he taught me in life. Lessons that were passed along through his actions as he was a man of very few words.

• He served his country and protected the people he loved during the war
• Despite being captured, he always remained true to himself, never once giving in to pressure to make things easier
• He was wary of authority (disdain for it might even be a better description)
• He took a chance and moved countries, submitting to hard labour at an age where many would back away from it
• He never complained
• Didn’t speak much
• Never learned how to read
• Grew his own food, made his own wine and loved his grandchildren

His only two direct pieces of advice for me:
1. Get that toothpick out of your mouth
2. Helping with the Church is fine, but never become a priest (his experiences with them, especially as a soldier, marked him on that one)

The fedora on my wall is a reminder of what he sacrificed so I can have the what I do right now.

And it’s a reminder to keep my mouth shut, keep it simple and enjoy the moments in life.

As we pass the year mark during this pandemic, there is a sentiment thrown around that the kids will be fine.

They’re resilient.

They’ll bounce back.

Everything will be okay.

And yet, no one stopped to ask how many adults they know that are still dealing with childhood trauma.

Or how much their childhood affected so much of their life until they dealt with it.

Or how they never dealt with it directly and it manifested in other ways.

I hope the kids will be fine, but even my most optimistic viewpoint cannot change the fact that we will be dealing with a wave of issues in the upcoming years. We better get ready for it.