Winter Sun

I've been thinking a lot lately about the winter sun. I live far enough south that we still get sun, about 8 hours at this point in the year (just under 7.5 at the solstice), but far enough north that the winter sun is distinct. It only rises partway into the sky, a maximum altitude of 16.0° today (compared to about 60° in late June). The light is blindingly bright, washing the world of colour, while also soft and diffuse. It is a sun that is insisting on rising and doing what it can, knowing that better times are ahead. 

Maybe I'm trying to hard with that last sentence. But I need to find inspiration somewhere. 2024 has not been kind, and we are only eighteen days in. Kyle started the year with the first signs of sickness. I was delayed by a few days, just long enough to have a ridiculous incident involving Violet, a Yorkie, snowy stairs, and a poor hapless delivery driver which led to a shoulder/bicep injury. When my symptoms set in, I did the test and confirmed what I had hoped would not be true: COVID had finally entered our house. Just in time for the polar vortex to expand south and bring us weather in the -30s (with wind chill bringing it to -40s). We hunkered down in self-imposed quarantine. I took an antiviral to reduce my already high risk from COVID, which I am grateful for but which made my mouth taste like bitter metal for five days. Violet suffered boredom and reduced walks. Kyle recovered first, meaning he took on the brunt of keeping us afloat. There is so much suffering in the world right now, and with that in perspective our suffering is tiny. But tiny suffering is still suffering. 

We are recovering, and we are trying. I am starting to do Violet walks again - short and cautious, holding her with my good arm and hoping with all I have to avoid other dogs. Yesterday I pushed my luck in the cold-but-relatively-warm -20 weather and my lungs reminded me that they are not recovered yet. My arm still twinges constantly with even small movements. Kyle is back at work, and I am back building up my mental health for an eventual return. I even find myself missing it a tiny bit. 

So I seek inspiration from the winter sun and it's insistence on rising and doing what it can. I remind myself that I, too, have brighter days ahead. And darker days, because life is about cycles and not straight lines. But I have survived all of the cycles so far, and I can survive this one too. 

Okay. Enough being overdramatic. Here is said winter sun - may it inspire something for you as well. 

Perspective

I have been taking pictures of the light. Mostly sunrise and sunset pictures, but sometimes just the morning or afternoon light playing in the clouds. I am taking them to send to a dear friend, who has said they bring her joy. But I am also taking them for me. To remind me that I can do beautiful things. 

I loved taking pictures when I was younger. I took roll after roll on cheap cameras as a kid and pre-teen. Back when I had to take them to the negatives to the local drugstore to be sent off and magically return as pictures. Most of which weren't great, but I treasured them. 

In high school I was incredibly lucky to have a graphic arts program. I used my dad's old SLR camera to capture black and white pictures. Only this time I got to develop the negatives and prints myself. It still felt like magic, standing in a tiny dark room lit only by red light and watching the picture slowly emerge. I even matted and framed a print as a gift for my Grandpa Rene, who had loved photography as well.

And then I went to University. I didn't have access to a dark room so my SLR got abandoned. I did have a cheap digital camera, and I was the friend who always took pictures but never appeared in them. At one point I started to worry that if I died, there would be no pictures for my funeral because I only experienced photography from behind the camera. 

I didn't let myself love photography. I met so many people who were passionate about it and had fancy cameras and were talented. I convinced myself that it is just something everyone likes but that you had to be amazing and special to dedicate time to it. I itched to get a better camera and take pictures, but instead I listened to the part of me that said it wasn't worth it. Only those special people deserved good cameras. I would never be one of them, so why bother trying? I took pictures when I traveled, using my cheapy camera or eventually my phone, but pretended I wasn't craving more. I told myself over and over that I didn't have anything to say. That I was just taking the same pictures everyone else took. That it was a waste of time.

I don't know what changed this summer. I don't know if it was watching Kyle buy the bike he had wanted for years. Or if the part of me that wants to create became desperate enough to be heard. Or maybe I just knew that I needed to find some source of joy because I was already struggling. But I listened to some spark of impulse and decided to buy a "proper" camera. I took my savings that were intended to eventually replace my phone (whenever it dies) and bought a basic DSLR. I broke it in in the badlands, getting pictures of sunsets over ancient rocks and abandoned farm structures under the noon sun. When we got home, I planned some day trips to take pictures in nearby parks. I learned how to play with the pictures after the fact - shift the tone slightly, pull a colour forward, make them shine. I stopped worrying that I was just taking the same picture that thousands of other people had probably taken. I realized it was still going to be unique, because it was capturing a specific moment that only I was there for. I started to find my visual voice that I had been ignoring. 

I can say things through my photos. And right now, by capturing the light of the winter sun over my odd little neighborhood, I'm telling myself a story of perspective and light and the resilience of a sun that keeps rising and setting. I'm not completely sure where the story will lead, but I'm enjoying telling it one photo at a time. 

Depression Thoughts

When the darkness comes, I can remember days it wasn't around. I know those days existed, but it feels like they may never come again. When I can't get out of bed because my body feels chained down by despair, it's hard to believe I'll someday climb a mountain again. When the question of what to eat feels like slogging through advanced thermodynamics, its hard to believe there will be a day when I revel in sticky problems to solve again. It's hard to believe that future me can ever be as good as past me has in their best moments. 

I also remember the days the darkness came before. In my secret heart, I almost miss when the darkness came with the violence of a storm. When it lashed me with pain that was sharp and cutting. When I could scream that hurt back at the cruel world. Now it comes with heaviness. Instead of cutting, it drowns. I am no longer withstanding a fearsome tempest, but trying to dig myself out from a heavy mire. At least then it was interesting. 

I know I can withstand the darkness. I don't always know how, but I've done it before. I just wish I didn't have to. 

Canada Day

I have complicated feelings about Canada Day. I have had many fun July 1sts, hanging out with friends in the sun, eating yummy food, and oohing over fireworks. They were good days of community, celebration, and love. 

Around 2017, also known as Canada 150, I (and many others) started to think more critically about Canada Day and what we celebrate. Over the last few years, I have been more likely to wear orange than red on Canada Day, to show solidarity for the Indigenous peoples who have experienced that 150+ years very differently. 

This year, I have been doing a lot of thinking about culture. Over the last month or so I have been reflecting a lot on the parts of me that I sometimes don't fully embrace. I have been thinking about how growing up in a resource town surrounded by bush shaped me, and the differences between that and the farm-style "small town Alberta" childhood I hear from others. 

Yes, I grew up in an environment where people held some really problematic views. And I am still unlearning that. But I also grew up with resourcefulness and the ability to make due with limited options available. I grew up with awareness of and respect for the forest and the critters in it. I knew more about bears as a ten year old than many adults in the city ever will. I learned that your name and reputation are important, and that you need to work hard to ensure they have value. I learned that you have to find ways to work with the people around you and be in community with them, because the next closest folks are down a long and isolated highway. And I learned that, at the end of the day, we can survive scary things. 

We have a dark history to explore, and there are folks who want to take us in a dark direction. But, today, I embrace that there are also things that I love about having grown up in this country. And I can both honour those things things and work to address the harm that Canada has caused. 

I leave you with a song that puts it well. The songwriter collaborated with Indigenous artists and is donating proceeds from streaming to an Indigenous not-for-profit working on cultural preservation. 

Goodbye, Monster

On Sunday, June 4th, 2023, I had to make one of the hardest choices in my life - to say goodbye to my beloved Monster Cat (or, her actual name, Quirk). 

I want to write this because I think it is important to capture the big moments of life, and her loss is a big moment for me. 

I have written this post a dozen times in my head over the last week. I could talk about the "why" - about diabetic ketoacidosis, missed signs, and the knowledge that leaving her at the emergency vet for days of emergency treatment, with no guarantees, would be cruel to a cat who couldn't handle two hours at the vet for our last attempt at a blood curve. 

I mentally wrote posts about "how" - about them bringing her in a little nest of a cat bed and blankets, about her trying to crawl out of said bed to get to Kyle, about moving her to his lap and being holding her face as her heart stopped. I could talk about the bone-deep knowledge that she had already left her body before the vet even lifted her stethoscope to confirm. Or about the dark comedy of the poor lab tech trying to bring us her carrier at the exact wrong moment*. 

I also mentally wrote posts about the grief since, the moments that made me break down and sob. This included keeping a list of things that brought deep, sobbing crashes of grief over this last week. For example: 

• Realizing I had left the bathroom door ajar for her 
• Her not being in the window as I left the house, and again when I returned 
• Remembering I have gamecation days booked later this month and won't have her for company 
• Laying on the loveseat and knowing she wouldn't be jumping up to lay down right beside my face 
• Seeing my office garbage can and the fact it wasn't knocked over 
• Receiving a very kind gift of a pin with a cat hiding in a plant (and thinking about how she would have knocked the plant over and killed it, not hidden in it) 

I started posts describing her life. But how do you describe the amazing life of a cat who lived on two continents, got lost in a Manchester hotel room, bit me on command, and was adored by many who had never actually met her (but heard her adventures through my gaming mic) in a single blog post? 

I think what I want to say, at the end of the day, is that losing a beloved companion hurts. And it's okay to grieve. It's okay to love them when they are gone, and to miss them in your bones. I will grow around this pain, as I have with other losses before. I will find peace knowing she is still here with me, just in a different way. Someday I will bring in a new furry companion (or two). And she, my little Monster, will be with me the whole time. 

Practicing Compassion

This week Alberta elected the United Conservative Party to power again. I wasn't surprised to see this result - I never truly got my hopes up for anything different - but I was still hurt. And angry. I've been thinking all week of writing about my feelings (despite my having fallen off from weekly posts), and debating what I could say. 

I'm not going to talk the politics themselves. I am a queer, nonbinary person who works in public sector, has multiple health conditions, and is passionate about taking care of those who our society rejects. I have had all those conversations and explored all those topics. 

Nor am I going to share a theory on why the results were what they were, what it means, or how people should change to try to have a different result in future. To be honest, that all bores me. 

What I care about is: what do I do now?  How do I keep going in a province that has just chosen this government? How do I protect myself and the people I care about? And how do I do so with hope and not anger or hatred? 

The word I keep circling is compassion. I am choosing to actively practice compassion (and practice is a good word, because it isn't always easy) for those who voted in this government. Not out of any naïve belief I can convince them to care for my wellbeing. This compassion is not about them. It also isn't about forgiving the harm they have caused. It is about me and how I can survive. 

I can understand why someone would want to live in a world where they believe that, surely,  Good People* will be taken care of and treated well by The State**, so it's okay to support politicians who want to make life harder for Others*** (who, by virtue of not being taken care of, must not be Good People). 

I can understand and give grace to people who have been taught that the thing between them and a Good Life**** is Others who are cutting in line or asking for too much or misbehaving. That explanation is so much easier to swallow than considering that the Good Life doesn't exist other than as a tool of State control. It makes sense that one would keep voting in politicians who will deal with those Others, in hopes that maybe they can stop the Good Life from always being just out of reach. 

The world is a horror show if we let ourselves look at it. And their vote will not shield them from the harm that this Government will do. People who have leaned into the UCP will be worse off in four years just like everyone else. Some of them may start to question and change their opinions. Many of them will just be angrier, more determined that the Other is to blame, and more set on taking the world down with them. 

There is no point me wasting my precious energy on hating them. I am much better off spending that energy on building community and care. I would rather turn that energy into what I want to see in the world. I want to see people taking care of each other. I want to see us embracing models of family and community that work for us. I want to see all the amazing kids I know and love turn into really cool humans who know they are loved and cared for. 

Therefore, I am offering compassion. We are all going to be hurt by this world, but it does me no good to join in acting from hate. 

Definitions for this post: 
*Good People meaning people who look, think, and act like them.
**The State in the sense of a polity that has monopolistic authority to use violence (such as police and armies) along with many other tools to maintain control. Not in terms of the country south of us and how they have divided their regions.
***Pretty much anyone who doesn't look, think, and act like them. 
****Also known as "the American/Canadian dream" - financial stability with space for endless consumption, not having to interact with anyone you don't want to, and a life without having to see any ugliness or experience conflict. 

Fluff Post - Pushups

I have fallen off blogging, and since this is a thing I'm doing entirely for my benefit I'm not going to give excuses or try to explain. 

My life is mostly still wonderfully boring, with a fun discovery of gallstones, my always strange job, and the worrying about that world-being-on-fire thing to add spice. 

But let's talk instead about today's gym visit, because that's what makes me feel good. 

When I showed up, my amazing trainer (and friend) asked if she could comment on something and pointed out that how I dress for the gym has changed. And she's right. I've down from things I could hide in to things I can move in, and I didn't really notice myself doing it. It goes along with progress we've been making. I'm not hiding because I feel strong and am showing up each week ready to have fun doing hard things. 

And I want to focus on one specific one of those hard things. Push ups. 

As a kid in gym class, I hated push ups. We were taught two ways to do them: "real" pushups were done with our legs straight but if we couldn't do that we could, with a nice side dose of shame, do them on our hands and knees. I couldn't do them with my legs straight, and the hands and knees version was awkward and didn't seem to work right. I just faked my way through each time. 

I did thirty push ups in my routine today. That may not sound like much to some, but ten of those I specifically chose to do and I enjoyed every single one. 

Because they were modified. I used a bar about four feet off the ground and did the push ups off that. I focused on form and feeling my muscles and keeping my body working as a unit. Each time I do modified push ups I marvel at how fun they are, and each time I'm a bit sad that I hadn't known. 

I share this story for two reasons:

-because it's a good reminder for me that we can all do hard things, and might even enjoy doing them, but we need to be shown that it's okay to do them in ways that work for us.

-because I felt badass after today's workout and want to share. 

And so, here's a sweaty, happy, strong mirror selfie. I like this person.