When I Woke Up

When I woke up, I didn’t know how to be, and I looked for something to do.

I followed the routine: take the dog out, put the kettle on, open a book. The choice to carry on settled a cognitive tension — what to do — and tuned me into a somatic one — how to be — and the tension around my heart.

I sat on the couch and read, Hospicing Modernity: Facing Humanity’s Wrongs and the Implications for Social Activism, by Vanessa Machado de Oliveira and ironically wished for an answer to rise from the page. In a way, it did, by extending an invitation to notice “my bus” (Machado’s language) or “my parts” (the language of IFS), the group of internal energies that carry my responses to stories, concepts, and situations. The driver, at that moment, was keeping me on the road, emphasizing my routine routes to comfort, but a group of passengers had gathered their energies into tension in my chest.

I closed my eyes, pulled the bus to the side of the road, and listened to the ones that were speaking up. They desperately wanted me to find a way to resolve the discomfort they were experiencing. I was reminded of the dangers of the elementary school playground, the way that these parts feared how the others would react if I didn’t have a “mission” to explain my actions. They weren’t ready to let me see the memories or lineage of their fear, but they showed me, in an image of a twelve-year-old’s purposeful stride, how they covered their discomfort with meaningful, well-intended actions.

They said, “go out” and walk with the community, but just as quickly another set of voices said, “stay home.”

I opened my eyes and kept reading, one chapter, then two more. Next, I went to my phone, briefly, and looked for guidance. I found lots, but a very simple reminder from Michi Sagig Anishinaabekwe (Sara Mai Chitty), a writer, auntie, and educator located near Deshkan Ziibing (Thames River/London, Ontario-ish), lingered:

“I can't believe I have to say this but today is not a "business as usual" day for your Indigenous pals and colleagues.”

There’s much to be taken from this reminder, but in short, it inspired a part of me to say, “be, don’t perform, walk with the possibility that your discomfort isn’t a problem.”

I cubed a butternut squash, letting my hands turn orange, then went next door to borrow a shovel. I walked to the compost bin, pulled it up by its stakes and inspected the collection of eggshells, pepper cores, and onion skins topping the thin layer of black earth. I noticed where I’d been less-than-committed in spring, the depression where the rodents or neighbourhood cats had dug an access point. I pushed the shovel downwards and moved the soil, not really knowing what I was doing but working towards something different (better?) than before. I built up the area around the compost heap, turned the mixture, loosened the soil at the base, then replaced the black plastic container, packing the soil tight around its edges.

I stepped back, preparing to be done, then walked to the shed for a green garden rake. I gathered leaves in a pile, separated the sticks and stones, then added a layer of browns to the bin. I made another pile and spread them around the base, covering the seam where the ground and the plastic meets. I uncovered a set of four flat stones, remnants of a path to something unclear, and marked a route to the composter, digging each stone down so that it won’t trip me in the dark.

I stepped back again, preparing to be done, and continued to rake, this time gathering the landscaping gravel that litters the soil. I dug out, with Ralph’s help, a set of roots, wove vines through the lattice of the decaying gazebo in our neighbour’s yard, and thought about what to do with the gravel. I shovelled it into a green bin for when I know more. (I sifted out the rocks, but didn’t have the right equipment, so left it for another day).

I felt done, but stayed out, pulling weeds from the bed of clover that I’d planted this spring. I dug my fingers into the dirt to get right to the roots, until I made a mistake, and harvested a fully formed stalk of clover. I re-buried the root and stopped, brushing the dirt off of my knees.

I put the rake and shovel away, locked the shed, and went inside.

I sat at the kitchen table and read about the role of sports in residential schools — what beliefs was the article advancing? Could we imagine others that could be advanced? I donated to a documentary film about Lila Bruyere, a Residential School Survivor and to the Eabametoong First Nation fund at Achieving the Dream Through Education.

My phone rang, I paused, but I didn’t stop — the insurance company about the broken driver’s side mirror on the car we rented in Iceland.

When I woke up, I did that too.