This past spring the local British Columbia artisan community came together to create an art exhibit from recycled materials. I had so much fun participating! The exhibit was hosted at the Langley Centennial Museum and I was honoured to be able to capture these pieces during my visit. I hope you find this work as lovely and inspiring as I did.
I want to tell you a story. I call it a story because my knowledge of it is filled with holes, choice memories, and intentional biases. But it is the story of myself that I know. It goes like this:
My ancestors were Scottish settlers that came to Canada in the late 1800s. They were teachers, writers, engineers and at least one lawyer. Many of my female ancestors wrote poems, songs, novels, and letters. I even have several letters written to my great-great-grandmother, Florence Carmichael, from Nellie McClung and Lucy Maude Montgomery, giving her advice on breaking into the publishing industry. In one of the letters, Nellie McClung says to my great-great-grandmother that “publishers, as a class, are absolutely lacking in literary taste.” Mrs. McClung sounds firey!
Since the crossing, my Scottish ancestors married Danish, Irish, and French settlers and helped establish North Bay, Ontario. My story also includes a Metis woman among the shuffle of old photographs (now lost). My father sings songs and stretches canvas across the frames of hand-shaped cedar canoes. I look at my skin next to his sun-darkened hide, and I am as white as the northern snow. The rumours of a secret native ancestor, like many similar ‘Indian princess’ stories told by European settlers, are probably BS. I don’t know what to do with this bit of rumour.
The problem with my story is that, beyond whispers of a secret Metis ancestor, it says nothing about the aboriginal people that lived in the land where my family immigrated to. While my ancestors were busy building a new town, the Canadian government spun the line that it was the white man’s responsibility to force civilization upon the remaining aboriginal population. The means to do this was the implementation of the residential school system. The despicable man that implemented many of the horrific policies of the residential school system at the time was fond of saying, “kill the Indian, save the man.” (Duncan Campbell Scott)
Many white settlers in the late 1800s believed only enlightened Europeans knew what was truly best for the Canadian aboriginal population. My ancestors were sold a grand picture of the future, where through forced European education, the civilized aboriginal would walk, talk and believe as the white man, and in doing so, would find what it meant to be truly happy.
A stark example of this attitude can be found in a quote from a man named P. G. Anderson, the Indian Affairs Superintendent. In 1846, at the General Council of Indian Chiefs and Principle Men in Orillia, Ontario, he stated,
“... it is because you do not feel, or know the value of education; you would not give up your idle roving habits, to enable your children to receive instruction. Therefore you remain poor, ignorant and miserable. It is found you cannot govern yourselves. And if left to be guided by your own judgement, you will never be better off than you are at the present, and your children will ever remain in ignorance. It has therefore been determined, that your children shall be sent to Schools, where they will forget their Indian habits and be instructed in all the necessary arts of civilized life, and become one with your white brethren.”
However, the truth behind Canada’s forced reeducation policies had nothing to do with education. They were about repression and submission. The schools were designed not to elevate but to destroy First Nations children’s culture, language, and beliefs. Ironically, real education within the residential school system was actively discouraged. Only 3% of all First Nations children progressed in their education beyond grade 6. It was actually against the law for First Nations children to attend regular schools until 1945.
In the 1940s, at a residential school in northwestern Ontario, a Federal Inspector, in a letter to the school’s administrator, admonished him for encouraging Native students to go to grade 9 and beyond. “If we let the Indian go to grade 9, then they’ll want to go to grade 10, and then they’ll want to go to university, and that’s what we don’t want!”
I shake in shame. The abuse and murder of the First Nations people in Canada are a part of my story that was conveniently untold until now. The unpleasant truth was hidden from me; why? Because, for all their grand words, European policymakers and the people that supported them knew that what they were doing was wrong. Why hide it otherwise? Why bury the truth? Instead, I was taught that the land my people came to was wild and empty. I didn’t even know what a residential school was until my early twenties.
But I knew the slurs. I felt the mistrust and suspicion between the native and settler communities, yet I didn’t know why this tension existed.
Now I know where the tension comes from. I know of the pain of the dark secrets untold in the true story of my family history. My family continues to live in relative comfort and privilege in a land of wealth. Yes, there are also times of poverty and struggle within the stories of my settler family, yet I am white. I am insulated. When I ask for help and access to government services, I have little difficulty being heard and finding the support I need.
The Canadian government is responsive to my needs because white settlers created it to serve the Europeans who colonized Canada on behalf of the British. In other words, it was a white government built to serve white colonists.
I don’t know what my ancestors knew. I don’t know what they voted for or if their actions were malicious or criminally ignorant. But I know now what was done in their name. To turn a blind eye to what happened would only further the suffering of the victims.
Today, First Nations, new immigrants, refugees and the descendants of early settlers are all a part of the fabric of Canada. To build better, we must all share power. The government can no longer serve only one culture. Despite the sins of the past, I do remain hopeful. I believe that we can learn that with genuine compassion, respect, humility, and cooperation Canada can become a country we can all celebrate.
Whenever I plant a seed in my garden, I wonder if I will get to watch it bear fruit or if we will move. Honestly, I don’t know.
Happily, I’ve been reminded that I have a superpower to help me navigate uncertainty, burnout, and relationship conflict. You have it too.
It’s our emotions.
For generations, we’ve been taught to ignore and repress our emotions. Another school of thought suggests that giving in to your emotions by wild outbursts of expression is ‘healthy.’ I want to challenge you to think about your emotions differently. They are not bad or good. They are not to be repressed, nor do we have to surrender our will to emotional impulses. Instead, emotions are simply a source of information about our environment and our relationship to that environment.
I think of my feelings as a sixth sense, a way of gathering information that is often overlooked and undervalued. Ignoring my emotions is kind of like putting a piece of electrical tape over the ‘check engine light’ in my car and continuing to drive.
When I feel a strong emotional response to something, it’s essential to take the car to the shop and take a peek under the hood. I do this by first doing a body scan. Are my physical needs being met? Am I getting enough sleep, balanced nutrition, exercise? Have I done anything recently to throw my hormones off balance (medications, supplements)? What about withdrawal/ dependency symptoms (caffeine, alcohol)?
Now, I move outward. Sometimes, I know where the source of my strong emotional response lies, but sometimes it takes a little digging. Journaling helps with this process. I often find a difference between what I think I ‘should’ feel about a situation and what I actually feel.
Anger lets me know a personal boundary has been violated. Unease can expose the fact that a situation feels unsafe. It goes on… but honesty is critical. I swear and break the pencil lead on the paper. I have placed myself in a quiet, safe space. I can write how I really feel.
Once the problem is exposed, I brainstorm a way forward. What needs to change? What boundary needs to be expressed? I move forward in the direction of peace, lightness, and release. I chose to act, not in a manner controlled by my emotions but in a way that honours them. I will state what is needed with empathy, compassion, and a clear, firm understanding of my boundaries.
I am not a therapist, but I am a human. I think and feel, and like all of us, I get banged up on this walk of life. This is a process that I have developed over several years of practice with Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. Accessing the information passed to me through my emotions gives me a deeper understanding of myself and the world I live in. It allows me to live in a way that feels more balanced, peaceful, and productive.
A note about productivity. I often fight the need to decipher my emotions because I usually measure my value by how much I produce. I don’t want to stop and reflect. I want to check that next to-do off the list. A time of reflection feels like being lazy.
But the truth is the opposite. If I really want to get through that list of things I'd like to do… and do them well, I MUST stop and ‘check the engine.’ I can spend three days pushing my miserable self beyond the point of burnout to do the same amount of work a happy, well-adjusted me can accomplish in an afternoon.. ;) Time really is relative!
Not that productivity should be the way we measure worth, but especially as someone who creates regular online content, this measure of worth is something I struggle with. So understanding that self-care actually INCREASES my productivity motivates me to take the time to keep the engine oiled. Listening to the information given to me via my emotions makes me a better lover, parent, creative etc.
And hopefully… someday soon, I will internalize the truth that we are all inherently worthy of love and care. To exist is to be worthy of love. I am loved; I am worthy of care. I deserve health, security and peace of mind... simply because I am.
And so do you.
I'd heard on the news that things were getting bad in the hospitals. A third spike in COVID cases has hit us hard here in the lower mainland. I believed it, but now I get to see it.
I'm writing this while biding my time in a Lower Mainland emergency waiting room for a non-critical, non-life-threatening condition. I inhaled some harsh chemicals by accident and slightly damaged my airway. I've got a dry hack and no voice. Poison control told me to come in once the coughing refused to settle.
I probably need a prescription for an inhaler or something.
I've been here for 7 hours so far. And I blame no one. The elderly lady with the head wound has waited longer. One young guy is pretty sure he passed all his kidney stones while waiting and is ready to go home now.
Suspected COVID patients sit over to my right. They are supposed to be behind a screen, but there are too many. The hospital is beyond capacity. It's been crowded for hours. Only parents of sick kids can stay; other supportive relatives have to leave. Nurses are run off their feet.
Something brown and slick oozed out of a patient's shoe and across the floor. The trail followed him as he left the emergency room, his ankles swollen and inflamed. The fluid has been dragged around by shoes and wheelchairs.
The single patient washroom here has been wiped down once in the last six hours. I jumped on the chance and was the first one in after the clean.
I hack and cough while returning to my seat, and I get dirty looks from an older man hugging his catheter bag. I want to explain that I'm not contagious, but I can't talk.
I can't imagine how hard it would be to work here. And I know there are problems with funding and staffing that extend beyond the current pandemic. I'm just saying that the influx of patients is stressing a system that already needed help.
I'm also not writing this to judge or complain, but rather to write down a witness statement and add my own small touch of humanity to the numbers here in the lower mainland of BC:
Over 1000 new cases a day.
Stay home, stay safe, stay kind.
And love on our health care workers. No matter how short-tempered they may sound! ;) They are saving lives.
Thank you to all the staff working their butts off around here! And to the cleaning staff who I see running about constantly cleaning equipment and chairs. I’m sure they’ll get to that brown puddle as soon as they can. 😨😶
With love,
Charity
I'm writing this blog at 11:46 pm. And it's all Farley Mowatt's fault.
One of my favourite books as a child was "Never Cry Wolf" by Farley Mowatt. It's the story of a naturalist living among a pack of Arctic wolves. It's a haunting and beautifully written semi-autobiographical novel. If you've never read it, please do!
And it had an unusual and lasting effect on my young brain.
Did it give me a lifelong passion for wolves? Not really.
 |
| Photo by Thomas Bonometti on Unsplash |
Did it teach me that I can use urine to mark my campsite boundaries in the backcountry? Maybe.😝 (I have never tried, but it seemed like a trick that might be useful one day.)
What this book did do was inspire me to try and sleep like a wolf.
In the book, the author describes himself adopting the sleeping patterns of the wolves he is studying by sleeping in short naps around the clock. I think I was struggling with insomnia at the time, and somehow, to my young brain, this sleeping pattern made perfect sense.
And thus started sleeping patterns that I still can't shake. I stay up late, wake up early and nap a lot. Wherever and whenever. My naps can be ten minutes, they can be two hours. Regardless of the circumstance, this pattern has remained consistent since highschool.
I've slept on golf courses, beaches, park benches, private meadows, and in the tub. In the car, on couches, and on hard plastic chairs. I sleep on coffee breaks, lunch breaks, study periods and in the Costco parking lot before a big shop.
Basically, I sleep like a wolf: awake and asleep for short periods of time around the clock. I've tried to change this many times, but as my husband pointed out, I still get eight hours of sleep! And get everything done, so why fight it? Maybe it's mental, maybe it's a sleeping disorder, maybe it's biology. Personally, I blame Farley.
 |
| Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash |
🐺
